30. Meg
30
MEG
W hen the door closed behind Byron, my breath involuntarily hitched. I waited for the rush of satisfaction to flood in, but all I had was the gnawing guilt of being a total bitch.
If only I could shake the urge to call him back and hear his side. But what was there to hear? The truth was pretty straightforward.
For a second, the laptop screen blurred, things slipping out of focus. Ugh. As if tears were my go-to thing now when life got a little tough.
This had to be the final nail in the coffin of my tiny crush. Any time now, it was going to shrivel up and fade into a sad, insignificant memory. Right?
The lies I told myself.
Facing the hard, cold facts, I recognized the strong possibility that I was stuck riding this crush out, watching it make a mockery of my feelings and strong will.
My first instinct was to immerse myself in work, and it was a good hour later before Nelson marched into my office, rubbing his hands together as if he had a crime scene to solve.
“I was just letting you know your lunch will be here soon,” he said merrily.
I wasn’t fooled. “Now that’s what I call full service… Did he send you? ”
An exaggerated look of surprise bloomed on Nelson’s face. “Did who send me?”
My eyes narrowed. “ Byron. Did he run to you to fight his battles?”
“Good grief, no one sent me,” Nelson quipped. “I’m here of my own volition. Besides, what battles are you talking about?”
I was not playing this game. “Fine. Thank you for letting me know about the food, then.”
But Nelson tarried and let loose a beleaguered sigh. “I feel it necessary to find out what changed between yesterday and today. It’s my job to make sure that everything runs smoothly in this house, and that includes temperaments not running amok.”
“Bang-up job so far,” I countered with a snarky tone. “Between Byron and Roman, you must be busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” Nelson chattered on. “For twenty years, this place was the epitome of quiet and calm, and now it’s like we’ve got a full-on Shakespearean drama going on in the south wing. I’ve never seen anything like it. And that’s saying something. Just last night, I watched two women yanking each other’s hair extensions out on national television.”
My jaw dropped. “Wait, you watch Real Housewives?”
Nelson casually inspected his perfectly manicured nails. “Of course I do. Doesn’t everybody? So deliciously tacky. But, in the name of cultural balance, I always follow it up with an episode of Downton Abbey or The Crown . Anyway…if you’re not going to tell me what’s going on with Byron, let me not waste your time.”
But funny how he lingered instead of leaving as his words kind of implied he would.
“That’s to say you don’t change your mind,” he added.
His words were not cold when Sophia rolled the silver food cart into my office, the mouthwatering aroma of my mom’s lasagna and Pops’ garlic bread wafting through the air.
“And what do you know, the food fairy arrives,” Nelson said.
Sophia contemplated me with a sympathetic smile. “Lasagna…food make everything good, si ?”
Normally, my stomach would have started growling at the delicious smell, but since I felt as if I’d been wrung out like a wet rag, food was the last thing on my mind. “Great, thank you, Sophia.”
“Why don’t you eat in kitchen with Mr. Belmont,” she asked innocently. “I take his food too. I can make nice table—”
Nelson gently cut her off. “I believe Meg wants to eat at her desk.”
Sophia reluctantly took this as her cue to leave. But not before playing matchmaker bingo. “Forget bastardo ,” she shot my way, then pointed her finger in the general direction of Byron’s office. “Mr. Belmont nice, very handsome, no ?”
This was charging down a slippery slope, and the last thing I wanted to do was diss the boss to Sophia. At the same time, I also didn’t miss the expectancy soaring in Nelson’s eyes.
My smile came out lopsided. “Maybe another time?”
Or rather, maybe NEVER.
The mood dipped, and Sophia dragged herself away, shaking her head as if I was a lost cause. All the while mumbling in Italian.
Nelson held my gaze for an agonizing few seconds before he headed for the door.
“Text me if you need anything…or if you decide to tell me what poor Byron has done.”
Poor Byron.
If that didn’t tell me whose side Nelson was really on.
When I finally attempted lunch, I barely managed a bite of the lasagna before my stomach staged a protest.
How could a failed crush strip me of my appetite so easily? Even the perfectly-plated tiramisu, all rich and tempting, couldn’t coax my taste buds back to life.
This was ridiculous.
I pushed the trolley to the kitchen. The last thing I needed was the smell reminding me of my pending defeat. Besides, a cappuccino might pluck me from this slump where I now seemed to dwell.
My timing couldn’t have been worse.
As I stepped into the kitchen, I caught Byron towering over the new espresso machine, staring at it as if trying to hypnotize the damn thing into making him a caffeinated drink.
And was that the bottle of Chianti he’d been swinging around earlier? Yes, it was, standing next to the espresso machine like a sentinel.
I should have left. I should have forgotten about the cappuccino and dashed back to the safety of my office. But for some reason, I couldn’t.
Not when Byron was standing there, tormenting the new, and very precious espresso machine.
Without his jacket.
Sweet mother of all things sacred, he was a sight to behold, sex appeal just oozing off him in delicious, tormenting waves. The hiss of the steam snapped me out of my daze. I glanced over, and he sure was messing with the wrong buttons.
Before I could stop them, the words left my mouth. “Do you need help?”
He looked at me. “I would appreciate it. But I would hate to put you out.”
I didn’t miss the sting in his tone, which only made mine sharper. “I’d rather be put out than risk having another espresso machine destroyed?”
Oh, and if this guy didn’t shoot me an exasperated look. I mean, really. Shouldn’t I be the one swinging from the end of a rope? After all, I was the one bamboozled by a ruthless beast.
“Allow me,” I said before I could reason myself out of it.
Moving closer, I reached for the machine, and my hand grazed his arm. And just like that, a heady rush morphed into a thrilling spark. Wild, exhilarating, and impossible to ignore.
Byron didn’t move. I wondered if he felt it, too. How could he not?
Because he’s a snake, and reptiles don’t have feelings, I reminded myself.
Not that he seemed to have any intention of getting out of my way.
“What are you after? An espresso?” I asked, quietly shooing away the butterflies who didn’t get the memo that this was all a dead end, with nowhere to go.
“No, a cappuccino I want to have with my tiramisu,” he said. “It would be perfect after that amazing lasagna of your mom’s.”
I felt his gaze on me, and all I had to do was look up and meet it. But it was a hard no to giving Byron a glimpse into the windows of my tortured soul.
I turned my back on him, and raking a clean coffee cup close, every bit of my focus was now dedicated to the machine. “Glad you liked it.”
“I didn’t like it,” he said. “I absolutely loved it. It’s the best lasagna I’ve ever had.”
“Well, you can have what’s left of mine…and the tiramisu. That’s to say you don’t mind that I already took a bite.”
“Thank you, I’ll take you up on that. But why on earth would I mind if you took a bite?”
Please note how I ignored his voice dripping with a lazy heat, like warm honey slipping over bare skin. And how it felt like he was still standing close behind me, and how it suddenly became very, very hot in the room.
I stared desperately at the espresso machine like I was searching for the Mayday button on a sinking ship.
“So, cappuccino,” I muttered, fingers fumbling as if I’d forgotten how it worked. “Just press this button…And then this one. Don’t mess with the steam button unless you want to flood the place with milk.”
When the machine finally sputtered to life like it was supposed to, my work here was done. I stepped back.
Straight into Byron.
Because why not put a gleaming red cherry on this melting cake of a day?
For what felt like a ridiculous amount of time, we stood there, two salt pillars, barely breathing. Then, his body shifted just enough, as if to let my curves fall naturally into his.
Like a piece of a puzzle snapping into place.
And oh my God, that was not a big gun I felt against my back because there were no guns I knew of that could start this kind of a scorching-hot tangle of a feeling stirring between my thighs.
Bear in mind how confusing all of this was. Why was Byron getting that excited when I was clearly just a pawn in his game?
But there wasn’t much time to contemplate this because suddenly heat and tension were taking up all the space, and it was an all-out Battle Royale between my two inner voices.
One was on a rampage, calling Byron every name in the book—bastard, scumbag, weasel, snake in the grass… The other? A ridiculously forgiving version of me, randomly tossing around what-ifs… like what if, for the sake of a few delicious orgasms, I just ignored the obvious red flags?
Every cell in my body screamed at me to get the hell out of there before I did something unforgivably stupid. Like, say, lock the kitchen door and let Byron turn me into his personal test subject for every filthy, sexy idea that had ever crossed his mind.
When I finally moved away, he looked mortified, like he’d just survived a near-death experience. As if it wasn’t me who should be traumatized after experiencing a close encounter of the epic phallus kind.
“Your cappuccino will be ready in ten seconds, and my lunch is all yours,” I heard myself say, my voice coming from some faraway place.
So, this was what an out-of-body experience felt like . Well then, that was one milestone I could check off my list.
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” he said awkwardly as if reciting something from a cue card.
With that, I traversed the space from where I was to the door, sweating like it was a wooden plank on a pirate ship and these were my final steps.
All the while feeling his gaze burn into my back.
Not that I needed to check. But of course, I did. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught him staring like he was anxiously trying to figure out what the hell just happened and if there was a magic button to turn back time.
As soon as I stepped into my office, it hit me, I never got my cappuccino.
Probably because I’d been too busy wallowing in my own melodramatic haze of questionable choices, and trying to wrap my mind around the delicious feeling coursing through me when I felt his very impressive hard-on against my back.
There was only one conclusion. I needed to get a grip and rein it the hell in.
From here on out, working from home was the only logical choice. Except for meetings. Like the one on Friday morning in Roman’s office.
Me zooming from the crappy couch in my small apartment would probably not instill the respect I needed while telling stodgy lawyers to get their shit together in the legal department of the Belmont Trust.
But yeah, no more coming to Belmont Manor. No more walking into this storm of desire, temptation, and far too many dangerous thoughts every day.
I texted Mimi.
Me: I need that fortune teller’s number pls.
Mimi: She doesn’t work in a circus. They call them psychics in the real world. Besides w hat’s the sudden rush?
Me: I need to know if and when Isabel is coming back.
Mimi: You mean like an actual date? I don’t think she can give you that.
Me: No, I just need a glimmer of hope. Of something. Just give me her number. And don’t tell Mom.
Ten minutes later, I had a cash-only appointment with Madame Gizalda at 7pm. Happy that I might soon have vague, optimistic answers to some questions I had, I carried on with work.