Page 4 of Devilish Bully
“I’ll be back this evening,” I say.
“You mean midnight…” she mutters.
I don’t have a rebuttal for that, so I lock the door and lift up my umbrella.
Walking down the steps, I slip in my headphones and head for the subway station. Between this walk and the ride to Pearson International, this is the only time I get to myself—the moment when I try not to think about how I went from being a business school graduate with no worries to working a terrible job under Satan just to care for my sister’s daughter.
Block it out, Kendall. Block it out.
I turn on my favorite playlist and make it onto the F train right before its doors slide shut.
For thirty-nine minutes and eight seconds, my favorite bands carry me back to my college years, back to parties that never ended, and to a world where the word “responsibilities” was a mere notion.
“Now approaching 34th Street–Herald Station.” The screen ahead flashes my stop, summoning me into reality.
I rush off the train and up the steps, emerging into Manhattan.
Speed walking toward the monstrous sleek black building ahead, I take several deep breaths.
My phone vibrates in my pocket when I’m halfway there. Pulling it out, I glance at the screen and see it’s a call from my favorite coworker and confidant, Mindy.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Oh my god! I’ve been trying to reach you all morning!” she screams. “Where the hell are you?”
“Down the street. Why?”
“Try to teleport the rest of the way. Okay, bye!”
She hangs up without any further explanation and I pick up my pace.
When I arrive to the building, I make a beeline for our department, but it’s eerily quiet. No Mindy humming eighties songs. No Craig recitingJeopardy!trivia.
“Hello?” I call out. “Why did I need to teleport here?”
No answer.
“Is today ‘Abandon Kendall at Work Day’ and nobody told me?”
“Hello, Miss Clarke.” A deep voice startles me from behind. “How nice of you to finally show up to work.”
The words cut straight through the eerie silence, sliding over my skin before my brain can catch up.
I turn slowly, pulse kicking hard, and find myself face to face with Lucian Pearson.
He’s sitting in my chair, his Italian leather shoes propped up on my desk like he owns it. Well, I guess he technically does…
I’ve never seen him in person before now, never this close. His perfectly cut face is usually plastered on a BS marketing brochure—or safe behind the glow of a digital meeting. And it’s clear those don’t do him justice.
Up close, he’s even more dangerous—sharper features, hotter in a way that unsettles me, every angle of his jaw designed to make women lose their place in conversation, every curve of his mouth hinting at things I have no business imagining. The attraction hits all at once, low in my stomach, curling there before I can push it away.
His eyes roam over me, slow and deliberate, as if he’s cataloging every detail one unhurried glance at a time. Heat slides across my skin in response, and for a split second it feels like he’s already undressing me right here in the office, even if I know that has to be in my head.
“How long have you been working under me, Miss Clarke?” he asks. His tone is calm, but it lands like a challenge.
“Far too long.”
“Excuse me?”
