28. Jules
CHAPTER 28
Jules
I rush through my backpack, using everything at my disposal to look as least like myself as possible.
Dark glasses?
Check .
Hair in a high ponytail and baseball cap pulled low?
Check .
Dark red lipstick that Taylor keeps slipping into my purse?
Yeah, okay, fine. Check .
I find a new seat in the darkest back corner, the one farthest from the entrance, and try to steady my nerves.
With five minutes to go, my fingers drum on the table as I debate whether or not to order his drink. I mean, it’s pretty presumptuous of him to have me order a drink for him. Arrogance personified.
But this is Brian, and the man acts like food is optional. I know he needs to eat. He knows he needs to eat. Screw it. I order it anyway, throwing in some extra protein for good measure and a turkey gouda croissan’wich because, damn it, the man needs looking after.
The door chimes, and in he walks—the living, breathing definition of suit porn.
His tailored jacket is loose and unbuttoned, the crisp white shirt beneath hints at the rippling muscles I know all too well. The silk tie he asked me to select this morning is perfectly knotted at his throat and somehow manages to deepen the sharp blue of his eyes that scan the room before locking onto me.
He’s lethal in every way, owning every step, every move.
He spots me, and a slow, devastating grin spreads across his face. The closer he steps, the harder my heart slams against my ribcage.
His gaze sweeps over me from head to toe, analyzing me. Like any second now, he’ll zero in on who’s hiding beneath the disguise. Then, with deliberate slowness, he sits and straightens his tie.
“You got me lunch?” He sounds confused.
“I thought it was the least I could do.”
I open my mouth to speak, to apologize, to explain this whole mess. Hell, maybe even tell the truth. But before I can get a word out, he raises a hand, gently cutting me off.
“Let me cut to the chase, Ms. Sun.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not sure why you wrote that article, but here’s the bottom line. I don’t care what you say about me or what fresh hell it brings into my life. Just leave my family and my company out of it.” His ocean-blue eyes lock onto mine, a flicker of something deeper behind them. “ Please.”
“I can do that,” I manage to whisper.
He takes a sip of his drink, a tired half smile tugging at his lips. “The thing is, I have a wife. She’s been screwed over, and she deserves to be happy. And I won’t be the one to fuck that up. So, I’ll do whatever you want. An exclusive, a photo shoot. You name it. Just give me three months before you tear me apart.”
I’m stunned silent as he tears into his sandwich, devouring it in just a few bites. And everything he’s just said hits me. He’s willing to sacrifice his own privacy for me?
My chest tightens, and before I know it, tears are welling up. I sniffle to hold it in. Which he notices, pausing mid-bite to hand me a napkin. “Are you all right?”
“Allergies,” I lie, choking back the emotion. This is too much. I need to tell him the truth—at least that the article wasn’t mine.
Just as I’m about to speak, his phone pings. “Shit. I have to go.” He stands, holding out his hand. “Truce?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Truce.”
The moment my hand touches his, something ignites between us—static, electric, like a rush of champagne bubbling through my veins.
His grip is firm, commanding, and when his thumb brushes over my skin, goose bumps scatter up my arm. “I’d love to speak with you again, Sydney Sun,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost intimate.
Without thinking, I say, “I’d like that, too.”
He walks out, and all I can mutter is, “I’d like that too?” My head falls to my hands. Why the fuck did I say that?
I tear down the hallway, each step a thunderclap of fury.
“Everything okay?” Anabelle’s voice floats my way, all concern and wide eyes.
“Peachy,” I bite out, knuckles white from the death grip on my own rage.
Scoop hustles beside me, his steps quickening to match mine. “Hey, kid. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but barging in on Mr. Richards right now? Not the best idea.”
“Oh, I’m definitely barging in.”
“You’ll get fired.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Felix darts in front of me next, throwing up a hand. “Trust me, girl. Some things can’t be unseen.”
Huh?
I shoulder past him without so much as a second thought, and I don’t knock. I just burst through the door, full force, ready to lay down the law.
And then, like a car slamming into a brick wall, I come to a dead stop.
Roxana Voss is sprawled on the desk, wrapped in a trench coat that barely conceals what I’m certain is nothing but skin underneath.
And Wyld Richards? He’s buried in her chest like a dog sniffing for a treat.
Ugh. Thank God I skipped that croissant at the coffee shop, or I’d be decorating the floor with it.
Hastily, he straightens his tie, and helps her to sit. “Ms. Voss and I were just, uh, discussing your article.”
Horrified, I shake my head. The idea that any article of mine is their kink is just wrong. “Actually, that article is what I came in here to discuss.”
Roxana’s eyes narrow, her lips curling into a smirk. “You mean barged in.” Her gaze sweeps over me like I’m some lower life form she hasn’t yet classified. “You’re that waitress from Salvatore’s, aren’t you?”
Ex-waitress, thanks to you.
I ignore her and turn all my attention to Mr. Richards. “Can we talk? Privately?”
He leans back in his chair, the picture of nonchalance, despite his belt hanging loose. “Whatever you’ve got to say to me, you can say in front of Ms. Voss.”
His hand curls possessively around her waist, and it’s clear that their on-again, off-again romance is on again, like a bandage slapped over a festering wound.
“Fine. The article you published under my name.”
“You mean under Sydney Sun’s name,” he adds.
Yes. Me. Sydney Sun.
I’m not exactly sure what he means by that, so I keep trudging forth. “That article’s riddled with errors, bad grammar, and straight-up lies. I think my account was hacked, and someone used it to pass off their crappy works as mine.”
How it even made it past editing and into print is beyond me, but I’m not here to nitpick his job. All I want is for it to be retracted so I can move on.
Roxana stiffens, her lips curving into a smug, almost predatory smile. “I can spell, you know. ”
My eyes snap wide, and realization slaps me hard. “Oh, my God, you wrote that? Why the hell did you put my name on it?”
She shrugs, dripping with false innocence. “My name isn’t trending like it used to, so I borrowed yours. Sydney Sun—it really grabs attention, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Because it’s my name.”
“Your pen name, you mean. And just so you know, it now belongs to the Herald —along with your laptop and email. So, if you want to keep your job and very steady pay, deal with it. But if not, there’s the door. But anything that’s property of the Manhattan Herald stays right here.”
Her words land like an uppercut to the chin, knocking the wind out of me. Getting me fired was dirty, but this? This is toxic, one step below nuclear sewage.
I want to lash out, to wipe that smug smile off her face, but the bitter truth is, she’s got me.
My mind spins because she’s right. I did sign away the rights to my work the moment I walked through these doors, but my name?
Cold and indifferent, Richards piles on. “Read your contract, kid. If there’s an issue, have your lawyer call mine. Oh, but wait—you’re just a washed-up waitress with not one article to your name. Yeah, good luck with that. Now”—he straightens his tie—“get to work, or get out.”