Page 90 of Cruel Paradise

Serves you right for catching feelings, dummy.

“Idiot,” I mutter to myself. “Complete fucking idiot.”

I freeze the moment I hear his wingtips on the laminate flooring. His shadow falls across me and I’m seized with the very real fear that I’m about to lose my income.

Please God, no.

“Here.”

I stare at the glass of water he’s offering me. “Water?”

“It’s to drink. Or throw on yourself—whichever you need more. Can’t say I’ll complain either way.”

I accept the glass with a shaky hand. I end up guzzling most of it. Apparently, running a marathon in heels and then working yourself into a frenzied panic can really dehydrate a girl. “Thank you.”

He takes the glass from my hands when I’m done and then drags the chair next to mine forward so that it’s right in front of me. Sitting down, he pulls out a small face towel from who the hell knows where.

Just when I think he’s going to offer it to me, he reaches out to pat it gently against the side of my face himself. I flinch the moment he touches me. He’s not even really touching me; the washcloth is firmly between us. And yet it feels so intimate that a tiny gasp escapes my lips.

He must hear it, because he freezes, then drops his hand and hands me the towel instead. “You’re sweating.”

A few of the butterflies in my stomach go berserk. “Right. Thank you.”

He nods as I try to hide my embarrassment with the damp cloth. I pass it over my face twice before I feel brave enough to drop my arm and peek out at him again.

“I really am sorry—”

“Emma.”

His voice is firm, but surprisingly gentle.

Oh, God, is he being so nice because he’s trying to cushion the blow? Is this the end?

“You don’t have to apologize.”

Because I’m fired?

“You’ve been a stellar employee for a very long time. You’re allowed to be late to work once in a while.”

My mouth drops open. “I’m… what?”

He actually cracks a smile. And by “smile,” I mean one corner of his mouth twitches up and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“You have a lot going on. It stands to reason that you would be late once in a while. That being said, getting a second alarm wouldn’t hurt.”

I know I’m gaping at him, but I just can’t help it. This reaction is such a departure from what I was expecting.

I smile self-consciously. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He gestures towards the door. “Work awaits.”

It’s a more abrupt dismissal than I expected, especially considering the last few minutes of gut-churning tension, but I get up and leave all the same. He has a point: we’ve got a full day ahead and I need to catch up quickly.

I spend the rest of the morning sitting behind my desk doing exactly that. Ruslan doesn’t call me into his office once. Not to workorplay. When he needs me to do something, he either sends me a text or uses the intercom.

The relief I felt when I was in his office dwindles slowly throughout the rest of the afternoon and the blind panic starts to creep back in. Maybe he wasn’t as okay with my tardiness or my chaotic life as he let on. Maybe he isn’t interested in being that understanding all the time.

What if firing me still isn’t off the table? What if I lose this job and all the benefits? The income? It would be a devastating blow to lose all that money.

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