Page 14 of Dead Set on You
“While I’d love nothing more than to have a staring contest before I’ve had my coffee, I’ll pass,” I say. “You knew the rules, and you broke them. That was completely unprofessional!” I pause as more of the night comes back. Him and Cyril bro-bonding. Me trying to keep up. Him breaking the rules and me having to pay for it. Rage makes me want to tackle him.
Rafael doesn’t respond. He’s so still I wonder if he’s about to give in to whatever ailment has got him looking like he’s seen a ghost. Before he does, I need to say my part, get my purse, and maybe (if he doesn’t piss me off some more) call an ambulance.
“Here’s the deal,” I start. “Tell Dana you don’t want the promotion, and I won’t say a peep to her about last night. I won’t even tell Gemma about it. It’ll be our little secret.”
His brow furrows like he’s not fully on board.
I thrust out my hand, ready to shake on it.
He looks from it to me.
The furrow deepens with an emotion I can’t fully pinpoint. Doubt? Confusion? Indigestion? All three?
Or maybe he doesn’t trust me.
The feeling is mutual.
Sighing with impatience, I add, “Do you want to sign on it? I can understand if you might be reluctant to trust me. We can draft a pseudo-NDA and seal the deal.”
I glance over my shoulder, scanning the table for a pen and paper.
A mountain of books, magazines, and a half-full tequila bottle stare back at me. My stomach churns at the sight of the bottle, but I silently thank it for giving me the leverage I need against Rafael.
Inwardly, I celebrate with a little victory dance before deciding pen and paper are pointless amid the chaos that is his dining room table. So maybe we type one up instead.
When I turn to Rafael, his brow is still furrowed with confusion. It makes me want to roll my eyes and smooth the stupid crease between his brows.As if.
“You can pretend this is baffling all you want, but the rules about client meetings are crystal clear.” I wag a finger in his direction. “And no exceptions.”
“You’re not real.” His voice is raspy and low.
I swallow the urge to groan. “Unfortunately for you, I’m very real.”
To prove my point, I step forward, closing the sliver of space between us, and jab his shoulder.
Only I don’t.
My finger moves through—through!—him, emerging on the other side, like cutting through warm honey.
With a sharp gasp, I yank my hand back as if I’ve touched a live wire. I cradle it against my chest, staring at my fingers as panic sweeps in, sharp and furious.
Rafael makes a soft noise, and I snap my gaze to his face.
His eyes are wide with shock, but his lips are pressed tight, his jaw set.
“What the hell?” I breathe, shocked and unmoored—like someone’s shattered my autographed ABBA vinyls.
Rafael sucks in an uneven breath. “I told you,” he murmurs. “You’re a figment of my imagination.”
“You wish,” I say, a little too breathlessly.
The panic tightens around my chest, unrelenting, as my mind replays the moment over and over, needing an explanation and logic.
I stare at my hands.
This doesn’t make any sense.
“There’s—” My voice wavers. I force steel into it. “Whatever you’ve done … fix it.”
