Chapter Seven #2
I am too vain and too disciplined to let myself reach ‘disastrous’ while working in this building.
But terrible, yes.
My makeup is starting to feel like a mask. My hair is still pinned back, but not as neatly as it was this morning. My blouse feels wrinkled under my jacket. My feet hurt. My head hurts. My entire body feels like it has been left out in the cold.
I’ve been staring at numbers for so long that closing my eyes burns almost as much as having them open.
But my progress is undeniable.
I stack the final set of notes into one pile, label it with a sticky note, and slide it into my briefcase.
The access audit is not done, but it is close.
Close enough that I can leave before I start making stupid mistakes.
Close enough that tomorrow morning, after sleep and food and possibly an exorcism, I can finish the last comparison reports and send Benjamin and Ainsley their assignments for next week.
Sleep. Food.
They’re both important, but I am too tired to decide which matters more at the moment.
I glance at my watch.
Then blink.
Nearly 7:00.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
7:00.
It is nearly 7:00 in the evening.
The panino Lorenzo brought me was hours ago. Before that, I had half a protein bar and enough coffee to turn my blood into espresso, and the toast I grabbed on the way out the door this morning is a long-ago memory.
No wonder my hands are shaky.
I gather my briefcase, my coat, and the last scraps of my dignity, then step out into the hallway.
The floor feels deserted. Lights still glow behind glass doors, but most of the offices are empty. The building is almost eerily quiet. Somewhere farther down the corridor, a cleaning cart rolls, then stops.
I pass Lorenzo’s office.
Empty.
Diego’s door is closed.
Ricardo’s office is dark.
I can’t quite see Mario’s office from my door, and I won’t be passing it on the way to the elevator.
I suppose I could detour…
No. Get it together.
I have to stop thinking about him somehow and get some damn sleep, or I won’t make it to next week.
That is growth.
Or exhaustion.
At this point, either works as well as the other.
The elevator ride down feels like an eternity. I want to lean back on the wall and close my eyes, but I’m afraid to fall asleep. The last thing I need is to fall asleep standing up in a Conti elevator and be found by security, and of course, the information will quickly be relayed to the Contis.
The doors open into the lobby.
The night security staff nods as I cross toward the parking garage entrance. The lobby is colder now, less filled with movement, the dark stone floors reflecting the overhead lights.
“Good night, Ms. Murray,” one of the guards says.
“Good night.”
My voice sounds normal. I guess that could be considered an accomplishment.
The parking garage is colder than I expect.
The kind of damp, concrete cold that slips beneath a coat and scampers along the skin. My heels click against the floor, too loud in the open space. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Most of the spaces are empty, but there are still a few cars lingering.
Or maybe they’re company cars, and the place really is deserted.
I walk toward my car with my briefcase strap digging into my shoulder and my keys in hand.
My head pulses harder.
I stop beside the driver’s door and take one breath, then another.
Maybe driving right now is not my best idea.
It is not far. That is what I tell myself. It is a normal drive. I know the route. I have driven tired before.
Except my eyes feel gritty, my body feels loose and heavy, and my mind keeps slipping in and out of focus in a way that makes me deeply aware of how stupid pride can be.
Would it be completely unprofessional to take a twenty-minute nap in my car before driving home?
Yes. Obviously.
Humiliatingly unprofessional.
A managing partner does not curl up in the driver’s seat of her sensible sedan in the client’s parking garage and nap like a student catching a snooze between classes.
Then again, a managing partner also does not fantasize about her client’s mouth all over her, yet here we are.
I look around the garage.
It is pretty much empty.
Everyone else is probably gone. Even if someone sees me, I can pretend I dropped something. Or that I was checking my phone. Or that I briefly lost consciousness in some sort of dignified, professional way.
I unlock the car.
I open the driver’s door and lean in to put my briefcase onto the passenger seat.
Just twenty minutes.
Enough to get my eyes focused. Enough to make the drive safe. Enough to avoid becoming the lead story on a local news segment about a corporate attorney who drove herself into a lamppost because she was overworked and sleep deprived.
I am just about to slide into the seat when a voice comes from behind me.
“You should not be driving.”
I yelp. And it was definitely not a small, dignified sound.
Startled and mortified, I whirl around so fast my shoulder hits the open car door, keys clenched between my fingers like a weapon.
Mario Conti stands several feet away, one hand in the pocket of his coat, watching me with the kind of stillness that should be impossible.
“Jesus,” I snap, pressing a hand to my chest. “Do not do that.”
His gaze drops to my keys.
Then back to my face, and I’m not too tired to notice the slight amusement.
“Were you planning to stab me?”
“Yes,” I say incredulously because, apparently, my professionalism has gone all the way out the window. “That’s what happens when you creep up on a woman in a parking garage.”
“I did not creep.”
“You appeared eerily silently behind me. That is creeping.”
Do I see a small smile on his lips?
I hate that I notice. And that it’ll probably play a role in whatever dream is torturing me tonight.
“You were not paying attention,” he says.
“I was alone.”
“Apparently not.”
I decide to ignore that and ask, “What are you doing down here?”
“Leaving.” His mouth stays in that small smile, and it does really dangerous things to my insides. I guess I’m not too tired for that. “That is generally what people do in parking garages. And what are you doing?”
“I am also leaving,” I say. “I thought we established that’s what people do in parking garages.”
“No, you are not.”
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“You are exhausted.”
I straighten automatically. “I’m fine.”
His eyes move over me.
Not in the same way they have before. Not the slow, dark assessment that sets my pulse off.
This is purely observational.
“You are not.”
“I am perfectly capable of driving myself home.”
“You’re barely capable of standing,” he says.
I scoff, but then I realize that I’m fully leaning against my car door and flush.
There’s no dignity left to be had.
“Mr. Conti—”
“Mario.” His voice is quiet.
Like in my dreams.
Due to that, I’m a bit more irritated when I say, “I’m perfectly capable of making decisions for myself, and I don’t need anyone… bossing me around.”
“I am not bossing you around,” he says simply.
“You just told me I’m not allowed to drive my own car.”
“You are not allowed to drive when you are this tired.”
“That sounds remarkably like bossing me around.”
“It is common sense.”
“It is condescending.”
“It would be condescending if you were capable of driving safely and I told you not to for another reason.” He takes one step closer. “You are exhausted and incapable of focusing or reacting properly.”
My mouth closes.
I hate that. I hate that he is being so reasonable right now. It makes arguing harder, and frankly, stupid.
I also hate that he looks like this at 7:00 at night after what I know was probably a brutal workday. Dark coat over his suit. White shirt open at the throat. Hair still perfect because apparently stress, time, and basic human fatigue do not apply to him like it does the rest of us mere mortals.
I, meanwhile, am leaning heavily against my car, still clutching my keys like a raccoon with a knife.
“I was going to rest before I drove,” I mutter.
His expression changes.
“What?”
“I was going to sit in my car for twenty minutes.”
“And sleep?”
“Maybe.”
“In the parking garage.”
I lift my chin. “No one was around when I made the decision, and it seemed the smart thing to do,” I say a bit indignantly.
“The smart thing to do would be not to drive at all.”
“I won’t risk walking at this time with my work equipment.” I gesture to the briefcase in my car. “And I’m not shelling out that much money to rideshare a few blocks.”
“Then you stop at reception and tell them you need a car,” he says tightly.
“And leave my car sitting here all weekend? Plus, that means I’ll need another ride back at some point.”
“Then you arrange that as well,” he says.
I stare at him. “I can’t just request a car and rides from reception like office supplies.”
“You are working late in my building, on my company’s business, because of a timeline I set.” His jaw tightens.
That sounds dangerously reasonable again.
I hate it.
“I didn’t know that was an option.”
“Now you do.”
“Great. Very helpful. I’ll keep that in mind next time.”
“Victoria.”
My name in his voice wipes out the rest of my sarcasm.
I look at him.
His expression is serious now. No amusement. No faint smile. No slow, devastating assessment.
“You do not sleep in your car,” he says. “Not here. Not anywhere.”
Though he’s being firm, and well, a bit controlling, the words strike something in me.
They obviously came from anger, but there’s more to it than that.
Something I do not have the energy to examine at the moment.
I simply nod.
Then he pulls his phone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Telling Armando to pull around.”
“I don’t need a ride home,” I say, mortified.
“Are we doomed to repeat the same conversation?” he asks.
“I’ll call someone,” I say, trying to hide the desperation.
I definitely need a ride home, but I can’t be in the same car with him. I can’t. Not today. Not now. I’ll never sleep again.
“Then call someone.”
I blink.
Again, I am not prepared for him to be reasonable.
“That is not the point.”