Page 9 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
My lips kick up. Glad she hasn't lost her snark. I don't know why that pleases me as much.
"You'll be recompensed for all the work you've done so far, and for the lack of a three-week notice period. Additionally, you can keep the deposit."
She buttons her shirt, or what's left of it, and doesn't say another word. Probably can't afford to argue about the money. Almost certainly wants to. There are definite pluses about being wealthy, and being able to do and say what you want without worrying about the consequences is one of them. She headsto the door, letting herself out. I imagine she must be pretty embarrassed right now. Lucky for her, my office is pretty much soundproof, so no one will have heard anything. That said, her disheveled nature will definitely clue Carissa in on what just happened. If she's out there.
I sigh and run my hand through my hair, wondering what the fuck just happened. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I've always taken great pride in my level of control over my emotions. Most of all though, I am thinking to myself…
Why am I so damn sad to see her go?
CHAPTER 3
Jenna
Fuckity fuck.
Why the fuck did I just do that?
Of all the idiotic, brain-dead things for you to do, Jenna Marlowe, having sex with that arrogant ass certainly takes the cake.
I'm so furious with myself that I'm practically shaking as I take the long elevator ride down to the lobby and storm out of that bastard's office building, the wind slapping me hard in the face as I turn east towards the nearest subway. Perhaps not as hard as I deserve to be slapped, though, I think to myself. What the hell was that? Why the hell did I let it happen?
It was like once I walked into that room and he turned that dark gaze on me, his presence cut off the airflow to my brain or something. I was overtaken with some kind of animalistic need. That's the only way to explain how I transformed so quickly from a vengeful businesswoman who hates his gut, to letting him fuck me across his own oak desk.
God, what is wrong with me? And the worst thing about it is that I can't even blame this on alcohol. I can't pretend he was a guy who charmed his way into my pants on a hazy night when I was too drunk or too sad to know any better. Nope, I went inthere fully cognizant of who he is and why I should hate him, went in there knowing that he'd screwed me and my team over.
And he still had me screaming as I bounced on his cock.
"Oh God." The visual is stuck in my head even as I shut my eyes and press my hands over my face. I'm not gonna be able to live this down for a while. It's going to take a whole lot of alcohol and a fortune in counselling sessions to scrub this away. Just about my only reprieve is that Carissa wasn't at her desk when I came out, and I'm pretty sure no one heard us doing what we were doing. But I wince and close my eyes as I recall me actually saying sorry to him before begging him to fuck me.
I'd visited the bathroom on the top floor to get myself together and make myself look at least marginally presentable before I'd jumped in the elevator, so no one had reason to give me any funny looks, and I'd not received any knowing smirks as I'd walked as purposefully as I could manage across the lobby and exited the building. No amused eyes had raised a cynical eyebrow as if to say, "Admit it, you've just fucked the CEO of your most important client across their work desk, haven't you?"
All in all, I've gotten away with it. No one knows what we did, except for him and me, and the bastard that he is, he's probably forgotten all about it by now. He probably zipped up his trousers and gotten calmly on the phone to his stockbroker about buying more shares, or called his lawyer about a corporate merger, or something. I only wish I could forget it as easily. Oh well. At least now I can say that I've done it with the most eligible bachelor in New York. That'll make for a great story to tell one day… but not any time soon, that's for sure.
For now, I'm going to chalk it up to a bout of insanity and try my best to forget it ever happened. Now that we're no longer working together, I'll never have to see him again anyway. Or talk to that son-of-a-bitch secretary, Carissa. Every cloud has its silver lining.
Yes, I'll forget all about this incident. Focus on the positive. Go win some more clients. I've survived worse. Much as I'd have loved to have told him to take his money and shove it up his ass, the guy did at least have the decency to tell me I could submit a claim for expenditure up to this point, so yeah, things could be worse.
I sigh and head to my car. As annoying as it is, I am relieved to be putting this chapter behind me.
Sure, it's extremely disappointing to work so hard with nothing to show for it, but that's business. Especially in New York. No one said it was easy. If it was easy, everyone would be running their own company, instead of which only a few even try, and less than twenty percent of those ever succeed, according to the statistics.
Now, I just need to find my next big whale to replace the Wolfe Foundation, so I can get my goal back on track.
There are a few ways I can do this.
My mind is instantly occupied with a billion different plans, although at the back of it, there's a nagging worry that I might have forgotten something extremely important.
My anger carries me through the rest of the day. At the office, Iris and I have a very enjoyable rant session, where we talk about just how dumb and unfair this entire process has been. We call Grayson Wolfe every colorful name we know, and curse everything he and his Foundation stand for. Then, feeling somewhat better, we turn to more productive stuff.
I start by canceling the orders that we've placed for items no longer required, while Iris organizes returning whatever we can, apologizing to the artisans whose hard work will never see the light of day. I call and leave a message for the Events Director at the Ritz-Carlton as well, explaining that due to "differences in approach" between ourselves and the Wolfe Foundation, we are no longer handling the event management, and suggestingshe get in touch with Carissa at the Wolfe Foundation to find out who will be appointed in my place. "And good luck with that call," I mutter to myself as I put down my cellphone, glad that it won't be me having to get a straight answer out of Wolfe's irritatingly obtuse secretary.
When I get home, I immediately jump into the shower, then, wrapped in my warm, pink, cotton toweling bathrobe, I throw myself onto the couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry'sCherry Garciaice cream and a glass of Prosecco, idly watching reruns of old sitcoms. Anything to numb the brain.
When I run out of Prosecco, I go to bed.
It's only after a night's sleep that my anger cools off, and I'm finally able to take a more rational perspective on the events of the previous day.
That's when I start to consider what a huge mistake I've just made.
