Page 30 of Taste Of You

Nine

“Read this,” Ana says, storming in. Marching over to my desk, she slams down some white printed sheets of papers while breathing hard. She’s fuming.

I really don’t care. Nothing matters to me at the moment.

The look in Millie’s eyes after I told her to never come around here again guts me. The sadness— the memory of her tears—has me ready to search her out. Apologize, even though I’m not the one in the wrong.

Maybe you should’ve heard her out. Maybe there’s a good reason for everything.

However, no matter what conclusion my mind comes up with, there’s still something that bothers me. Why lie?

Why not come to me and explain her predicament; I would’ve understood. Stood beside her. Pushed for the more I want, sooner.

Because even though I’m upset, my feelings won’t ebb. They burn. Push me toward getting out of this chair and seeking her out.

Spank that tight little ass while she apologizes, and then kiss it better. Make us better.

“Quit ignoring me, Jet. Read that!”

“Watch yourself,” I snap, slamming my hand over the papers she put there. A few scatter, but she’s quick to collect them. They must be something important. “You’re a wonderful employee, Ana, but don’t forget your place. I’m your boss, and I deserve—”

“Can you trust me on this? Read.” Her eyes plead with me. What the hell is so important? “You’ll thank me afterwards. Millie never—”

“Don’t bring her up.” It’s hell, but I fight my very instincts that demand I look down, that I find out what this has to do with my Camille.

A Camille I miss the fuck out of. That I want back.

“She’s innocent, Jet. That poor girl—”

“What do you mean innocent? Tell me?” I demand, already moving to stand from my desk, but before I do, she points to the papers in front of me.

“Read, Jet. Read, and go make it right.”

And I do. My eyes sweep across the article’s title, and foreboding churns within my core. What does Millie have to do with this?

“I remember this news story; it made national headlines due to the nature of the crash.” Looking away from the papers, I grab them and move toward the small window in my office. “Drunk driver of a huge retail chain was on his way home and crashed into a family of three. Because of who his employer was, and the fact he’d been drinking after work on their property with a few other guys, it was everywhere.”

“Continue, please.”

Closing my eyes, I rub a hand down my face, giving myself a moment to do as she has been asking me to. The more I read, the more my eyes mist over.

Jesus Christ.

My poor girl.

Husband, wife, and eldest daughter all died on impact.

Her family. This was her family.

Everyone dead. Gone.

She was left to care for an infant and deal with the aftermath.

Survived by their youngest, Camille Johnson, who’s days away from graduating high school, and their granddaughter, Lily Johnson, who’s only a few months old.

“I didn’t know,” I swear, my voice hoarse. The lump there is growing, my emotions bubbling to the surface.

No other living relatives.

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