Chapter Fifteen
Oliver
I toss the paper with three names on his desk.
Parker Porvacci is at the very top.
I stand there with my hands clasped, my jaw tight.
I feel like Sloane Pierce and I have not only brandished our gloves, but we are actively dueling. The problem is only one of us can emerge victorious, and though I want to submit to him, let him take this win, I can’t find it in me to do so.
It’s like something inside of me woke up, and it doesn’t want to go back to sleep.
Sloane glances at his watch.
“Right on the dot. Look at that.” He smiles sexily.
It pisses me off, but also…
That little voice inside of me feels proud of that smile.
“Do not ask me my preference. I do not know any of these people," I say carefully.
Sloane chews his bottom lip as he looks at the list.
“Do you like parties, Oliver?” he asks.
“Not particularly, Sir.” I make sure to enunciate the r as bitterly as I can.
“Neither do I," he says, tossing the paper down. “Looks like we have something else in common.”
“What are the odds?” I say, humor lacing my voice.
Sloane smiles and I feel my cheeks pinken, and damnit!
I’m supposed to be mad! Angry!
I’m not supposed to fold like a fucking metal chair at a high school graduation!
“This one," he says, pointing to Parker’s name.
“Parker Porvacci? Are you… friends?” I hope that sounded smoother to him than it did to me…
“No. But he at least will have top shelf liquor, and if I am to schmooze as Chickadee suggests, well… I will need better alcohol than these two—” He points to Harvey Fembroke and Rachel Corlano—the other two invites in his inbox. “Are willing to provide.”
“That’s Friday night…”
“Yes," he says plainly.
“Like three days.” I blink.
“Do you have plans?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good. Because now you do," he says.
“Mr. Pierce…”
“RSVP. Tell Parker we will be there.”
It is the way he says that word. We.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I’m just…
His.
I hate it. But I like it, too.
“Yes, Sir," I say as I head over to the table and pop open my Chromebook.
I get lost in emails. His inbox magically populates every time I think I have sorted through employees and services and journalists and reporters…
It is never-ending.
I only look up when I see his hand swiftly closing the lid, noting his gaze.
“I believe your shift is over," he says smoothly.
I look at my watch. It’s only four-fifteen.
“It’s barely four-thirty.”
“I think you have done enough today, don’t you?”
I shift in my seat as he looks down at me.
“Is that a trick question?” I ask. “Is it a test?”
“No,” he says, his fingers trailing over the lid absentmindedly.
“Then yes. I think I have done plenty," I say.
“Are you hungry?” he asks carefully.
I think about my answer, settling on the truth.
“Yes.”
Sloane nods for me to get up.
“Then perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone.” He smirks.
I get up, my eyebrows furrowing.
“What do you mean?”
Sloane turns around and walks away.
I sprint to catch up to him.
“Mr. Pierce, what—”
“I could go for a killer steak right now,” he mutters.
“Sir—”
“Glass of wine. Maybe some lobster.”
“Mr. Pierce!” I bite, loud enough I hear it echo.
Shit.
I freeze in the hallway and he turns to look at me with a grin that is downright sinful.
“Yes, Oliver?” he asks, his smile smug. He saunters closer to me. “Don’t pout," he says, his voice smooth as silk.
“What are we doing?” I ask, fear lacing me that someone will find us standing here in the hallway. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. Close enough I could kiss him.
“We are leaving," he says plainly.
“We?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“Yes, we. I drove you here, did I not?”
My blood chills. “Yes, but—”
“No buts.” He shakes his head. “I told you I would take care of you.”
It’s the way he says the words. Soft, reverent. Like he means it in ways he shouldn’t. I barely know him.
But I get the feeling Sloane Pierce knows me quite well, though we’ve only just met.
“I can take care of myself," I say, but my voice shakes, betraying me.
He narrows his eyes at me. “You did not think I was going to let you off the hook so easily, now did you?” He chuckles. “Especially after your little display earlier.”
Something inside me shifts and I feel a surge of guilt. Shame.
Anger and frustration.
Perhaps even a bit of remorse.
I let out a grunt.
“You mean when you were a dick to me?”
His eyes search mine, for what I’m not sure, but I note the darkness in them has disappeared.
“I’m still mad, you know," I say with all the ferocity of a kitten in protest.
“I know," he says carefully. “As you should be. I was a dick. To you.”
My mouth falls open as I realize his admittance. I get the feeling Sloane Pierce is not a man who apologizes to many people, if ever.
That truth makes my heart skip a beat.
“I don’t n-need—”
“Oliver…” he breathes as I suck in a heavy breath. Suddenly the weight of the world feels heavy on my shoulders.
Because I’ve never wanted anyone to take care of me before.
But as I say those words, I feel the ache. The longing.
The desire to be cared for.
He doesn’t mean it in the sense I wish he did. I know he’s just trying to be a good boss, despite his asshole moment earlier, and in his own way he thought he was teaching me, and it doesn’t make it right, but…
I have a hard time focusing on those feelings when he looks at me like this. When his voice gets soft like this.
“I don’t need you to cart me around like a toddler,” I bite. “Or to reprimand me by being a fucking asshole when all I’m doing is what you ask. What you want me to do.” The words fall out of my mouth of their own accord.
He sighs. “Is that what you think I’m doing, hmmm? Bossing you around like I own you?”
“Maybe,” I nip.
He reaches out and carefully, swiftly brushes some hair behind my ear. His touch is smooth. Warm.
I like it. I like it a lot, actually.
The urge to lean into it is prevalent.
He’s my boss. I have a fucking boyfriend, for God’s sake, one who I am doing all this for.
But the desire to kiss him is so damn overwhelming.
I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me.
“I assure you, Oliver, though you may be young—” He smirks.
“Much younger than me, I know you are not a child. You do not belong to me.” His thumb brushes my cheek softly, and then he drops his hand.
“I know you are capable of taking care of yourself.” His voice is barely a whisper.
“I might be wrong, but… I think you have been doing that a long time. Taking care of yourself.”
I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. It’s like Sloane Pierce knows just how to stir up parts of me I didn’t know existed, parts I thought I’d buried.
Sloan breathes deeply, “But you don’t have to.”
He traces his thumb down my cheek faintly, almost delicately, and then he drops his hand.
“Submission doesn’t have to mean surrender, Oliver.”
I hear the sounds of keys, the ghost of a cough from a cubicle, reminding me we are not alone. Anyone could walk down this hall and see us. See how close we are.
And yet I don’t walk away.
I stay still as a statue.
His words make my heart ache, my stomach twist, and my eyes fill with tears.
“Let me buy you dinner," he says. “You’ve more than earned it today.”
I hang my head as a rush of emotion hits me.
“Dealing with your dick boss, after all.” His voice is tinged in humor.
“Just dinner?” I ask with a sniffle. Suddenly all the ache, the anger, and the frustration from earlier fades away. “Not counting the breakfast for the whole building, I guess?”
Sloane smiles, and it warms my heart.
“Perhaps if you play your cards right, I will let you buy dessert.”
I let out a strained, relieved laugh.
“How fucking noble of you," I say, looking up at him through tear-stained eyes.
“I told you, Oliver, I’m not a monster.”
He stands taller, and instantly I see the shift. In his eyes, his stature. His voice returns to that dark tone that makes my insides twist and my heart long for his praise.
“Unless you want me to be a monster, that is.” His voice deepens.
Part of me wants to say yes.
I want to know what he’s capable of. But the other part of me knows that the real monster between us is me. And I can’t let him see those poisoned parts of me, ever.
Even if I want to.
“Now come. I am starving.”
“Yes, Sir," I say as I wipe my eyes and follow him through the office, down into the parking garage.
He opens the door for me, and I can’t help but feel the warmth spreading within me.
“Thank you," I say softly.
He doesn’t speak until he is in the driver’s seat, until the silence is palpable and it is just us.
In this space, alone, in the silence.
“Please tell me your dinner selections do not include chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese.”
I laugh. Really laugh. It feels good, almost cathartic. My eyes fill with tears again, but it’s not sadness.
It’s almost like freedom.
“Chicken nuggets are delicious,” I say through a laugh. “Don’t come for my nuggz.”
“Fucking hell, Oliver. We must expand your taste buds.”
“Yes, Sir," I say, leaning back in the seat. I turn to look at him, noting the smirk on his face as he turns the car on.