Page 49 of The Probability of Us

Eighteen

JUNE 7 YEARS AGO

Warren trudges back to his desk and I can practically see the steam blowing out of his ears. He drops his stuff on his desk with a loud crash and I hear his deep breaths from my cube. He’s pissed, and knowing where he just came from, that scares me.

“How was your performance review?” I ask, hesitantly.

He starts packing his things even though we usually don’t leave for another thirty minutes. “You ready to go home?” He avoids my question.

I quickly save all of my files and shut down my computer. Most of my stuff is packed already but I throw the last of my items in and grab my bag. “Yeah, let’s go.”

I keep quiet as we get into the elevator, unsure what’s wrong and desperately trying to figure out how I can make his day better. When the elevator starts moving, he reaches over, lacing our hands together, and some of the tension in my body dissipates. At least now I know for sure his mood isn’t about me. I squeeze his hand and smile. His face softens as he leans down to kiss my forehead.

The walk back to our apartment isn’t too long, but it feels like forever. We don’t talk and I can tell he needs the silence right now. He needs to know I’m here for him, but he wants to calm down before he talks about it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this angry before, though.

The second we get through the door his lips are on mine. They’re desperate, willing to take anything I’m willing to give, and for him, I’ll give everything—always. Our bags are dropped by the door, and we step out of our shoes as we move through the living room to the bedroom.

He pins me against the wall with his hips, his arms on either side of me, caging me in. His lips move down my neck as he whispers, “I love you, Analise. I love you so fucking much.”

We never make it to the bed. We claw and rip until every last bit of clothing is gone. He doesn’t waste a second before lifting me up and pressing my back against the wall. He kisses me relentlessly, until I’m gasping for breath, and he doesn’t stop until I’m crying out his name and his hands under my thighs are the only thing keeping me from collapsing to the ground.

When he sets me back down, most of the tension has left his body and his face is softer, happier than it was before. We’ve had some good sex since our first time—which was just as glorious as he promised it’d be—but that was by far the most passionate sex we’ve ever had. And that’s saying something because this man is all passion. It was wild and claiming like he had something to prove. Like he needed me to know he loved me. Like he needed to remind me I was his—or remind himself.

What the hell happened in that meeting?

My worries only grow as he takes a shower and I get cleaned up. I throw on one of his T-shirts that I love to sleep in, but it isn’t enough to calm me. I can’t sit still, so I clean up the clothes we left all over the apartment and grab two beers from the fridge. He’s just walking out of the bathroom, running a towel over his wet hair, when I enter the room with the beers. I freeze and almost drop them, my eyes trailing down his body that’s almost completely bare other than his boxers. I still don’t understand how someone this incredible wants to be with me.

We sit in bed, drinking our Blue Moon’s and put a show on the smaller TV in the bedroom. It’s silent for a while, but he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to the show at all. His mind isn’t here, so I reach over and grab his bottle and place both of them on the nightstand. He’s deep in concentration, face tight, but the movement shocks him out of his thoughts.

“Are you going to tell me what happened today?” I ask, reaching out to smooth the worry lines on the bridge of his nose.

He sighs and runs a hand through my hair but doesn’t look at me. “They said I’ve been doing great work, and they want to consider me for a promotion soon.”

“That’s incredible, Warren,” I say, confused why he was so upset when this is good news. “You definitely deserve it.”

There’s a sadness in his eyes when he finally looks over at me. “They said theywantto, but that they can’t.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the promotion would have me overseeing multiple teams.” He pauses, and I still don’t get what the issue is here. “Including yours.”

My stomach flips and I feel nauseous. Oh.

Oh.

“It’s against company policy for a manager to be involved with a subordinate, and since our relationship is known, I can’t get promoted as long as I’m with you.” His voice grows smaller the longer he talks.

My head is shaking, my eyes wide. I was wrong earlier. Itisabout me.

“There’s no position that won’t put you in charge of my team?”

He shakes his head. “Trust me, I asked.”

“I’m so sorry.” My voice is full of heartbreak and guilt. My lower lip shakes and my eyes burn. This is because of me. I’m holding him back. He’s four years older than me, he’s always been in a higher position than me, but he’s never been in charge of me. Everyone at Triniti knows we’re together, and it never seemed like it was a problem . . . until now.

“Hey,” he says, sternly, forcing my eyes back up to his. “This is not your fault.”

“But it is,” I squeak out.

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