Page 4 of One Little Mistake
“Thank you, Sam.”
He smiles kindly, and I’m on my way, not at all sure I’m ready to deal with the Westbrook Beast.
The elevator dings as it comes to a stop. Taking a deep breath, I exit the car and glance around, confused. The place is empty and dark. With tentative steps, I inch forward. Ever since Miles held me captive, I’ve struggled with dark, enclosed spaces, and I hate myself for it. I should be stronger, so I force myself forward.
“I’m safe. This place is safe. Leo is right behind me,” I silently chant.
“Ms. Heart?” Leo’s voice calls out from behind, causing my heart to stop.
With a fist on my chest, I turn. At least he appears to feel bad for startling me.
“You are safe, Ms. Heart. They locked this building down tighter than Fort Knox. I believe Mr. Westbrook’s office is to the left.”
“Th-Thank you, Leo.”
He smiles and ushers me forward. As I round the corner, light spills out into the hallway from a single door at the end. Stealing a breath, I force myself forward, not really sure why I’m so nervous. Reaching the open door, I raise my hand to knock when a deep masculine voice cuts me off.
“Glad to see timeliness is a priority. Come in.”
I can’t tell if he’s being an ass or genuinely complimenting me, so I keep the sass to myself. Entering the room, I realize he has yet to look up from his desk.How the hell did he know I was here?
“I have excellent hearing,” he states, finally lifting his gaze to mine, and it knocks the air from my lungs. Fighting to keep my face neutral, I swallow, forcing the trapped air to leave. His voice softens for the briefest moment when he says, “You are always safe here, Ms. Heart.”
“Thank you,” is all I say. I don’t need Easton Westbrook becoming some arrogant Prince Charming. Been there, done that.
He narrows his eyes as he considers me. Then, as quickly as it came, the warmth in his voice evaporates. “I expect a lot from my employees. I’m here every day at five-thirty a.m. working out in the gym because that’s when I work through most of my problems. HR told me I could no longer force my employees to be here that early, but I will require you here by seven a.m. Monday through Friday. We work long hours.”
The way he’s glaring at me, as if I’m a charity case, makes me insane. My inner bitch is rising, and the longer I stare at his stupid, scowling face, the more I want to set her free.
“I’m not afraid of hard work, Easton.” My indignation is showing, and I make no attempt to hide it.
I swear his lip twitches before he locks it down into the firm, straight line I’m thinking is forced.
“Right. I know we are in the precarious situation of having a connection outside of work, Lexi.” He says my name as if testing out a new hot sauce, and it makes me smile. “But Mr. Westbrook will suffice here in the office. I have a laptop and phone for you. A desk will be here in a couple of days, but you’ll sit in that general vicinity.” Easton gestures across the room.
Is he fucking kidding me with the Mr. Westbrook bullshit?He might be worse than Preston. I glance behind me to where he’s pointing, then back at him and take in his office for the first time. It’s not what you would expect from his surly demeanor. The room is almost warm. The colors, much like the rest of Westbrook Group, are a mix of navy and gray. The furniture is a rich brown with intricate detailing that can only come from a human hand. On the bookshelf are photos of him with his family and drawings made by small children.
Seeing the drawings and paintings, presumably made by Lanie’s new stepson, Tate, causes an ache deep in my chest. I tear my gaze away before I drown in my sorrow.
“Um, the furniture. They’re exquisite in the craftsmanship. Were they made locally?”
Easton stares at me curiously, then sinks into his chair. He never takes his eyes off of me, and it makes me uncomfortably warm. Having reactions like this is dangerous, and I know it, so I plead with my body to cut the shit. As if he can read my thoughts, he smiles.
“They can’t get much more local than this. I made them in my garage,” he states proudly.
My mouth gapes open as my fingers roam absentmindedly over the scrolling details on the armrest.
“Y-You made them?”
“I’m very good with my hands, Lexi.”
I work to swallow my reaction with a new determination and vow not to let this man get to me. Men are my enemy; they have to be. He, Easton Westbrook, has to remain an enemy.
“I’m sure you are, Mr. Westbrook,” I reply, barely avoiding the urge to roll my eyes. “Where is the desk for your last assistant? Surely that one’s fine.”
Chapter 3
Easton
