Page 84 of Scandalous Secrets

“You can’t rush it, Troy. She’s a freaking romance writer. You can’t out-romance her. We have to think of something good. Really good.”

She was right. Monica wrote about love. How was I ever going to win her back when she had probably read it all, or wrote it herself?

Chapter 37

Monica

Ifinished my lunch in the breakroom alone, as usual. I wondered if anyone ever ate in here besides me, or if everyone went out to lunch. God knew they could afford it. I could too, but I found the solitude of the breakroom weirdly comforting. Plus, I hadn’t really made any friends with the others who worked here. My job as Troy’s assistant left little time for me to spend with anyone else, and a small part of me preferred it that way.

Others probably had their assumptions about me anyway, based on Troy’s reputation, which proved to be true as I stupidly fell for him, just as all the others had. It was a funny feeling being lumped into a category of his previous employees and trying to pretend I was different in some way. I had so badly wanted to mean something different to him, and felt foolish for it.

I felt even more foolish for allowing him to talk me into staying after I was so set on leaving. The resignation letter had been right there on his desk, and I meekly took it back simply because he asked me to. I realized I would probably do anything he asked if it came down to it. No matter how tough I acted, I was weak for him.

I sighed as I closed up my lunchbox and left the breakroom, my only reprieve from seeing Troy and having my feelings float around me like a fleet of butterflies. Now, it was back to pretending I didn’t care about him when it couldn’t be further from the truth. I hoped if I kept up the act, that eventually it would become the truth and my feelings for him would fade.

After seeing him today and hearing him plead with me, I knew those feelings were more vibrant than ever. But my fear was stronger. I was too scared to let him in again.

The rest of the week, my attempt at resigning never came up again. It was as if I had never stayed up until 4 a.m. typing it out, determined to leave. We worked alongside each other just as we had been for the past few weeks, but I noticed there was something different about Troy. Something softer.

It was in the way he looked at me. Not in the way he used to where his eyes were predatory and hungry to devour me any place he could. I used to feel completely naked sometimes, his stare stirring up sensations I tried to put out before I combusted. Now, he looked at me like I was made of glass, carefully taking in my face as if he might break me. I almost couldn’t bear it because he looked so sad sometimes.

At times, I had the urge to reach over and take his face in my hands and ask him what he was thinking. Ask him what he was feeling. I wanted to make things better for him, whatever internal battle he was facing, whether it was me or his father or his incessant ex-wife. But then I reminded myself how badly he had hurt me. Not once. Not twice. But three times.

By the end of the week, my feelings were all mixed up like someone had thrown them in a blender and pressed high speed. Every look from him, every word spoken, was breaking me down.

Friday afternoon, as we sat in his office, I listened to him practice his speech for a conference that afternoon. He was practicing a few new words I had thrown in his arsenal, trying them out on his tongue. I knew he wanted to impress his father who would be at the conference, so I offered to help him write his speech. Now, the day was here, and I could feel his nerves.

“You’re going to do just fine,” I said reassuringly.

“I feel like a baby deer trying to walk,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, no one would know.”

“What would I do without you?” he asked, shaking his head.

I swallowed the lump in my throat before gathering my things.

“We should probably go,” I said distractedly, even though his words were resounding in my head.

I wondered the same thing. What wouldIever do withouthim?

He nodded and grabbed his speech from his desk.

“Leave it,” I said. “You’ll look stronger without it. You already know it by heart.”

He hesitated, as if doubting himself, before putting the paper back down. With anyone else, he was so confident, like he was on top of the world. When his father was involved, he seemed like a child again, desperate for the approval of the man who raised him. It made me sad that he didn’t think he was good enough.

We took a cab to Tribeca to where the conference was being held at a rooftop event that was encased by snow-capped windows and overlooked the icy Hudson River. The podium was set at the very end of the room, with rows of chairs lined to the back of the room.

“Wow,” I whispered.

“And you wondered why I was nervous,” he whispered back.

“Troy,” a booming voice sounded.

I saw Troy’s father striding toward us, and noticed Troy immediately stand up straighter. More rigid. It was as if his father’s power was radiating around him because everyone’s eyes followed him with admiration and an ounce of fear.

“Father,” said Troy, nodding his head. “You remember my assistant, Monica.”

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