Page 11 of Her Reclusive Beast

“I don’t like not having my own income. My independence, such as it is, is important to me.” And then there are my dreams of being a world famous editor. Do I really have to give those uptoo? But then, Diana pretty much ended any hope of that with her demands that went far beyond commas. She really does have extensive influence in the publishing world — possibly driven by fear, but it probably doesn’t matter the reason.

If anything, Max relaxes at my words. “I’ll hire you.”

I laugh until I see that he’s serious, then I sober abruptly. “How is that okay, but me working for Rudnam isn’t?”

“Because I know I’ll adhere to our own rules. And you already know how to say no to me very effectively.”

I snort. I don’t think I’ve won an argument with him yet.

“Let’s tackle one thing at a time. Maybe you’re too ornery to live with.”

He nods in agreement. “Go take care of the paperwork, baby, while I fix breakfast. Then we can spend the rest of the day answering your questions.”

I sigh and head into the bathroom. I’m hungry now. But the look of intensity in his eyes tells me I don’t want to miss what he’s planning once I’m technically free.

“I’ll need coffee right away,” I call after him, his steps already echoing on the stairs. His laugh is probably the only acknowledgment I‘m going to get.

I hop into the shower and try to decide which question is the most important to get answered first while I shampoo my hair. Why he glows? Why he’s alone in the woods? What he sees in me? So many questions! I scrub quickly as my brain turns over all the possibilities. As I dry off, I decide to go with whichever one pops into my head at the time. Then a fleeting memory teases my brain. Max talking about questions and orgasms? That can’t be right.

6

Ipackage up the files, write a professional summary, and send that all off to Diana. She won’t see it for a few more hours. She’s adamant that she’s not to be disturbed and certainly not to be expected to read email before nine. Then I send an equally professional and very brief notice to the HR department informing them of my resignation. This is really my insurance in case Diana tries to tell them that she fired me for something horrible and I don’t deserve my last paycheck.

The email informing Diana that I won’t be coming back takes longer to compose. I’m angry and hurt and yet she would see any of that as a sign of weakness. In the end I decide leaving her wondering will cause her more pain than anything else. That will have to suffice as my revenge.

I send that email too. Max appears in the doorway, his scruffy chin catching my attention. I frown. “We need to fix that. Whether you’re growing it out or not, it’s uneven.”

His eyes widen in surprise, and then a slow twitch of his lips precedes his next words. “Careful, Jenna. That sounded both possessive and domestic. Do you need help with your email?”

I shake my head. “No, already sent.”

He growls, “Show me.”

It’s not an invitation. With a sigh, I bring up the email from my sent folder. Max reads over my shoulder. “You should have been more assertive.”

“No. This will put her on the defensive, wondering.”

“I told you I wanted to see it before you sent it.” He almost sounds accusing.

I shrug. “And I’m a grownup and this is my decision to make. Not yours.”

His hands land heavy on my shoulders. He hmphhs in irritation. “And you don’t think you win any arguments? Come and eat and then you can make your insubordination up to me.”

I risk a peek up at his face as he practically lifts me out of the chair. Good, he’s not angry with me. He’s impatient and possibly a little anxious, though.

Breakfast is pancakes. With real maple syrup. I savor the nutty flavors while the sugar hits my bloodstream like a drug. After all the stress and the still unanswered questions, I welcome the rush. I’ll probably crash hard in a few hours, I acknowledge to myself. But right now, I don’t care. I stuff another syrup-soaked pancake quarter into my greedy mouth.

When we’re both done eating, I snag Max’s plate and mine off the table, set them on the counter, and then grab his hand. “We’re fixing that chin,” I announce, pulling him behind me.

I think Max is too surprised to argue. There’s a small unused bench in the corner of the bathroom. I tug it over by the sink and then point. “Sit.”

“Why?” He sounds almost amused.

“Because I don’t want to hurt you, and it’s considerably less likely if I can see what I’m doing,” I point out acerbically.

Thank God he doesn’t use a straight razor. It takes me a while to find the normal kind, though. I’m not sure what he used to hack off his beard in the middle of the night. But whatever itwas is long gone. And I’m not admitting to a soul that I’ve never shaved a man in my life before.

I have watched TV so how hard can it be?

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