Page 33 of The Way You Hurt Me

"Sorry! I was trying to get upstairs after shoving my clothes in the dryer. There weren’t any towels or whatever in the laundry basket," she babbles. "Who puts away all their clean laundry? That's just weird."

I make myself open my mouth. "My housekeeper."

"Oh. That…makes sense."

My mind is completely blank of anything except the vision of that girl in her panties, all her creamy skin on display. Fuck. That fuckingass.

I'm on automatic pilot when I open the door of the office she ducked into and wordlessly hand her the clothes.

"With the compliments of apartment 42."Control. It's rather astounding that I manage to maintain it. "They should fit."

"Thank you."

My eyes are fixed on hers, ignoring anything lower than her nose."Feel free to make your way upstairs unperturbed.I will be in the lounge."

Because I need a fucking drink.

15

WILLOW

The weekend passes way too fast, although every moment seems to last a million years.

Dimitri looking down at me in my underwear, sounding bored as he hands me clothes? That was an eternity.

He left a few times in his suit, before changing back into his version of casual for the night. We take the dogs out one last time in the late evening—armed with gloves and waterproof outwear this time—and then he insists on letting Charles drive me home. The next day was much the same: a ride at seven, then pet sitting the fur babies while he does his thing.

After he came back from one of his meetings, he had to check over some documents, and I was horrified to discover that Dimitri Volkov has reading glasses, which somehow propelled his hotness level into the next galaxy. I'll forever harbor wet dreams of hot, long-haired dudes in rectangular nerd eyewear.

But finally, I'm heading home on Sunday. He's found a pet sitter, I guess. I wish I could just quit my job and make that my profession instead, but I kinda like making six figures. Although, given the fact that he offered to pay me two thousand for the weekend, I suppose watching pets for him is a six-figure per year job.

Shit. I forgot the cash.

I think on it for a moment, and decide I might as well decline it. I had a lot of fun, and I don't need money right now.

That weekend was, in a way, exactly what I needed and exactly the opposite. It confirmed what I suspected after the party: Dimitri and I are fine. I imagined all our issues, blowing them out of proportion in my head. So what if I had a crush and embarrassed myself a little? He doesn't care. I can spend time around him. And he's not going to go anywhere; he's in the periphery of my family. I'll absolutely be at the annual family dinner for lasagna next Christmas.

It was also bad because, well, I'm still me. Still humiliatingly attracted to the guy, with all my issues. The only difference is that now, I can be rational about it. Deal with the fact that all of it is one-sided. Hell, I was practically naked in his place and he barely blinked. I have to kiss that dream goodbye. And after all, they say the best way to get over one guy is to get under another one. Or two in my case.

I set up the shoot for Friday, live. My followers are super excited. I hired the two guys through the escort service I used last time, as that worked out—he was polite, and listened to my boundaries. I would have used him if I could, but he's already booked.

Towards the end of the week, I keep my mind fixed on Friday night to deal with everything at work. The project I'm working on is fine, if mind-blowingly boring, but Mr. Lloyd is seriously pushing it, showing up twice a day at the very least.

I'm in the copy room, bent down to retrieve a stack of files I just printed, when a hand pats my butt twice. "Keep up the good work, Willow dear."

Before I can straighten up, he's out of there.

I snap, slapping the stack of paper over the machine. "What thefuck?"

"Shh!" someone whispers urgently.

I turn to find Rose waiting at the next printer, her skin flushed.

"What?"

"Look, I know what he's like, but you're hardly the first that sort of thing’s happened to. Some make a fuss, and every time, they get sacked with some excuse, and he stays," she huffs at high speed. "He's a friend of a friend of someone high up."

I groan in frustration. "That's not okay, man."

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