Page 34 of Like a Boss

“Baylee, I’m warning you…”

“Oh, fuck you,” I snap, cutting him off. “You know what… I quit. You’re nothing but a narcissistic, lying asshole who clearly needs a hug. I?—”

I don’t get to finish my rant because he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, where he then storms his way through the sea of people who move out of the way quickly.

“Put me down!” I yell, kicking my legs, but to no avail.

The moment we’re outside, he puts me down, only for me to slap his cheek.

“Don’t you ever do that again! I am done with you, Dylan! I am done with your mixed signals! I am done with your games!”

He rubs his cheek and I see I’ve left a handprint behind.

“I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry.”

“Don’t you dare—” But stop dead in my tracks when I realize he just apologized and sounded genuine.

“I fucked up.”

Again, I’m robbed of words because is he really admitting fault?

“I saw the duck. Well, I saw what’s left of it. Can I please explain?”

I fold my arms across my chest, indicating I’m listening.

“Not here. My apartment is a few blocks away. Will you come with me?”

I should tell him no, but I know I’ll forever regret it if I don’t find out why. So I nod and follow as he leads the way. He doesn’t make small talk, which I appreciate.

The moment we enter his building, I realize he just willingly invited me into his home. This means something because this is his personal sanctuary. But I don’t get caught up in that and rather focus on the fact that this bastard used me for his own fucked up reasons.

It doesn’t surprise me when we ride the elevator to the top floor and when the doors open, I see the entire level belongs to Dylan. Most would be impressed. I’m not.

He swipes a keycard over the panel, and when the doors open, I’m greeted with the most stunning view of the skyline. But this is all materialistic bullshit. What’s the point of having riches if you can’t enjoy it with the people you love?

I’m looking out the window when he appears with a bottle of water. “Take it,” he gently orders when I eye it angrily.

Why is he being so nice?

I do, only because I want to wash down all the tequila I just drank. I wait for him to talk, but he seems nervous. So I decide to break the ice.

“What was I? Some game to you? A score to settle because your huge ego got bruised?”

He flinches, running a hand down his face. But I don’t feel sorry for him. He didn’t feel sorry for me when he treated me like dirt.

“At first, yes,” he confesses, and I narrow my eyes, ready to break that expensive vase on the mantle over his head.

“So you knew who I was when you hired me?”

“Yes.”

“And you hired me with the intent to fuck me to get back at your wife? She fucked my boyfriend, so you wanted to fuck his girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

I respect he has been honest, but it still fucking stings. “How could you be so cruel?”

“I’m not proud of my actions, and if I could take it back, I would.”

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