Page 42 of Promise Me Forever

Our office has almost two hundred employees, and most of them seem to be milling around the bar, drinking the breakfast mimosas and chatting. The atmosphere is more like a high school reunion than a serious work event. We’re all getting split up into different groups, and I’m nervous about what might come later. I don’t enjoy public speaking or being the center ofattention. Maybe it’s not too late to pretend I’ve just come down with a mild case of the Bubonic plague.

Keeping to the edges of the crowd, I spot Jacob across the lobby and give him a cheery wave, then say hi to a couple women I recognize from the break room. I know there’s an active social life among the staff, but it’s not something I’ve ever thrown myself into, no matter where I worked. Lack of money, lack of time, and lack of inclination, I suppose. I prefer to hang out with Mom or meet up with Emily or Kimmy. Making new friends requires so much effort, but as I look at all the smiling faces around me, I wonder whether I should try harder. Everyone seems to be having a great time with one another.

Even at my temp jobs, I usually had a handful of friendly acquaintances that I could grab lunch with outside the office on occasion. Thanks to being so caught up in Drake, I haven’t even managed that.

As though I’ve conjured him up… “Miss Ryder,” he says, “fancy seeing you here.” I hate how his deep, rich voice still makes me melt no matter how mad I am at him. It is so unfair.

“Mr. James. I… I didn’t expect to see you,” I say after I turn to face him. I blocked his calendar for this but assumed he’d stay back in the office and catch up on work. I certainly didn’t anticipate him choosing to be anywhere near this—or me, for that matter. “Surely you don’t have to take part in this, this, um…”

“Vitally important morale-boosting corporate retreat?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Well, I do actually. As does Nathan. Though he’s brought his wife with him, so he’ll probably be having a much better time. It wouldn’t send a very good message if the named partners didn’t turn up to their own retreat, would it? I can tell from your face that you don’t have high expectations, but give it a chance. It can be fun.”

“Fun?” I repeat, staring up at him. He’s dressed in what is, for him, casual wear—a short-sleeved navy-blue shirt that makes his biceps pop and tailored black pants that hug his muscular thighs. He looks like sex would look if it had a body and walked around. “Since when have you been interested in fun?”

He lifts his eyebrows and points to his name badge. I’m surprised it only saysDrake Jamesand notGod.

“Remind you of anything?” he asks, his tone neutral.

“No,” I say firmly. “Nothing at all. What do you…Look, why are you talking to me like this? Is it part of a trust exercise? Because if it is, you’ve failed.”

A flicker of something crosses his face, but I can’t quite decipher it. Most likely anger. I probably shouldn’t have said any of that, but he caught me unaware, and my usual facade isn’t in place. Besides, according to the HR memos, one of the whole points of holding this event on neutral territory is that it leads to “open and transparent communication” across departments. If he doesn’t like me being open and transparent, he’ll have to take it up with Linda.

“You don’t trust me?” he says quietly, his eyes intense on mine. He’s standing way too close for comfort, and he has way too much skin on display. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans because I don’t want them to reach out and touch those powerful forearms. I don’t even want to be in the same room as them.

“Look, Mr. James?—”

“I’m Drake today, and you’re Amelia. Unless you want to be Scarlet again?”

Oh sweet lord, what is he doing? His gaze rakes over my body and lingers on my hair, which is tied up in a tidy ribbon on the top of my head. I erred on the side of caution in case I was forced to bungee jump or abseil down the side of a building to prove my loyalty to the firm.

“I have no intention ofeverbeing Scarlet again. At least not with you. You’re flirting with me, Mr. James, and it’s freaking me out. Because no, I don’t trust you, not anymore. You’ve spent the last two weeks freezing me out and shutting me down. You’ve barely spoken ten words to me in person outside of ‘that will be all, Miss Ryder.’” I lay down a real thick pompous accent for that part.

“Basically, you’ve been an asshole. And you know what? That’s okay. I understand your reasons, and if it’s possible for assholery to come from a good place, I get that yours is. I appreciate the fact that, as far as you’re concerned, you are being fair by letting me keep my job while you keep your distance. But you can’t suddenly expect me to not be confused when you go from that to this… Whatever the hellthisis.” I realize that my voice has gone up a few decibels and glance around nervously. Luckily, the noise level in here is similar to an airplane runway, so nobody seems to have noticed.

He grabs hold of my elbow and guides me, not especially gently, toward a quiet spot in the hallway. He pushes open a door and reveals a storage room containing stacks of fold-up chairs.

“I’m sorry,” I say hastily as he bundles me in front of him, his face like thunder. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

Being alone with him makes me feel suddenly vulnerable. He’s a big man, and his proximity has me scared and turned on at the same time, which is so screwed up. Why has he brought me here? What does he intend to do that he can’t do in public? Strangle me, perhaps? Kiss me? Kick me out of his life?

He closes the door behind him, and I back away as far as I can, only stopping when my ass hits the wall.

“No, you should have spoken to me like that,” he replies, looming over me, his eyes scanning my face like he’s trying to memorize it. “I deserved it, and I’m the one who’s sorry.”

He places a hand flat against the wall next to my head and stares at the topknot of my hair. He’s so close I can barely breathe, and it would be so easy to reach out, lay my palms on his hips, and pull him toward me. I can smell his cologne, and it goes straight to my core. Dammit, even when he’s harassing me in a storage closet, this man makes my panties wet.

“Stu Parker called,” he says, every touch of his eyes feeling intimate and erotic. “He told me what you said. And he told me what he thought of me. He was right. I’ve been acting like a dick to you, and I apologize. Nothing has changed—we still can’t…” His hand drifts to my hair, and his pupils dilate as he gently tugs on the ribbon I had it all tied up with. I gasp at the contact, and he groans as my hair tumbles down over my shoulders. His fingers run through a few strands, and I automatically lean into his touch. My hips rock forward as though they have a mind of their own, and my eyes go wide when I feel how hard he is.

He skims his fingers down my cheek to my jaw and tilts my face up. His almost-black eyes bore into me.

“I am sorry, Amelia. I’ve been a jackass. I… I’m a mess when I’m around you, and I’ve been so busy trying to hide it that I forgot your feelings. But like I said, nothing has changed. This is still wrong. This is still a bad idea.”

It might be a bad idea, but gosh do I want it. The feel of his erection pressing into me leaves me in no doubt that he does too. My nipples are ready to pop through my bra, my pussy is clenching and shaking, and my hands have somehow found their way to his ass. This doesn’t feel very professional at all. It feels absolutely delicious, and I know I’d let him strip me down right now if he tried. I clearly have a lot more lust than I have self-respect.

A knock comes on the door, jolting us both out of the moment. “Mr. James?” a voice calls. “Are you in there?”

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