Page 26 of Protégé King

I need to know what Damion knows.

I enter the building and my desire to surprise Damion, while actually being present in his lobby when he learns of my presence, fails. I’m forced to report to security to even get to an elevator. “Alana Blue,” I identify myself to the guard behind the desk. “The receptionist is expecting me. I have a real estate report to present.”

He eyes my attire with disapproval, and I add, “When Damion West wants something, you come at the snap of finger.”

Understanding lights his eyes, as if this statement makes perfect sense to him. He picks up the phone and calls upstairs. A moment later, I’m approved and on my way to the elevator. Approved perhaps a little too easily, I think. Damion was alerted to my impending arrival after my phone call, I decide. But I’m back to the sentiment of I don’t really care. I’m here with an agenda. I plan to achieve what I came for and more.

I enter the lobby, which is, of course, more of the black leather that was at the apartment. This is, just as was the apartment, the property of the West family empire. I think maybe Damion is as well. The receptionist desk is a black stone half circle, and I step to the front of it to find a pretty brunette staring up at me.

“You must be Alana Blue,” she greets, as if she knows me at all. “Damion’s waiting on you.” She stands. “Follow me, please.” She walks toward a half wall and with me on her heels, we step behind it and walk down a long hallway.

Nerves do a dance number in my belly, and I don’t like it. I miss the days when Damion was the person I was the most comfortable with in this world, even beyond my mother in some ways. But those days are gone, and I’d convinced myself my nerves with Damion could be a good thing. I’d convinced myself they represented an attraction I shared with Damion, but it’s not. On some level I must have felt those nerves, because I knew something was off with him and me, but was in denial.

Denial never does me, or anyone for that matter, any good, I’ve found.

Denial always leads to a slap of reality in the worst of ways as I’ve proven full well with Damion.

At the end of the hallway, the receptionist draws us to a halt at a heavy, wooden double door. A door that obviously leads to an executive office. It’s then that I realize just how present in this world Damion already has become. Not that I didn’t know. I did. He told me last night, but it’s real now. So very real. The receptionist steps aside and waves me to the door. “Go right in.” She then turns and walks back down the hallway toward the lobby.

I draw a breath and don’t give my racing heart a chance to send me the other direction. My hand finds the doorknob and I just go for it. I push open the door. My racing heart spins in my chest at the sight of Damion. He’s standing behind what would be an impressive walnut executive desk if not for the more impressive man behind it. Standing there, Damion looks like the king, not the protégé, with an air of dominance to him that is downright palpable.

He’s wearing a navy pinstriped suit, with a white silk tie to match his perfectly pressed shirt. He looks handsome and gloriously male. Every woman’s fantasy, without question.

You’d think this would make me gaga and struggle with words.

It doesn’t.

Because as far as I was concerned, until last night, he was still the boy next door and still my friend, who turned me into a Dear Jane letter, worthy of nothing more.

I shut the door and march toward his desk.

Chapter Twenty

Alana

By the time I’ve taken a few steps, he’s on this side of the desk, waiting on me. I stop a safe distance from him, but only because I halt dead in my tracks, still close. Too close for comfort, considering how last night ended. Seconds tick by, and we just stand there staring at each other and all the words I’d meant to yell at him evaporate from my tongue.

And not because of how big, broad, and good-looking he obviously is right this minute. Or how well he wears his custom suit. Or how blue his eyes are or even this new dimple in his chin I never noticed until last night. It’s not even about me loving him or hating him. It’s about me. I told myself that I went into last night eyes wide open, and yet, when sex was just sex, I was ready to push back,

He’s not the problem on the personal side of things.

I am.

And if I don’t remember that, I’m going to come off pathetic, and he will be as embarrassed as I am ashamed. We slept together. We were childhood friends. Both things are over and done with. There is no point in lingering on these things. Besides, he’s leaving. He’s going to Europe and right now, in this moment, is the first time I’ve let myself think about that part of his note.

He’s leaving.

That’s as big a goodbye as a girl can get. I’ll meltdown about that appropriately later. Or not. Maybe I will leave this office and I’ll be free. Or again, not.

For now, though, this all leaves me with only one next move.

I focus on the one part of this equation that he is responsible for—the part where he told me half the story about my father and not the whole story and expected me, of all people, to just let that go. “Tell me about my father.”

He draws in a long, deep breath, his chin lifting slightly before he presses his hands to his hips and levels me in a stare. “I should have known you’d show up here.”

“And yet, you didn’t,” I reply, and it’s hard to keep the bitterness from those words.

His eyes darken and narrow. “I knew, Alana. Why do you think I left a card and no phone number? There is nothing good that comes out of you getting involved in this.”

---