Chapter 5
HANNAH?
I jump up from behind my screen to find myself looking directly into Val’s eyes.
He’s wearing a navy blue suit, perfectly tailored to his body in all the right places.
His tie is a gold satin—an excellent colour pairing.
His dark hair is styled into a deliberate tousle, slightly shorter on the sides than it was yesterday.
Everyone was asked to dress up for the company’s New Year reception later today.
I opted for a deep green pencil-cut dress and pinned my hair into an elegant updo.
I’m wearing a thin gold chain around my neck with matching stud earrings.
I greet him with a Good morning!
Did you book those flights yet? he asks, getting straight to the point.
I raise my eyebrows, taken aback by the urgency in his voice. I sure did, I reply. Business class was full, so I booked economy seats.
Val looks at me like he just found out I turned his pet bunny into rabbit stew.
He narrows his eyes and gives me a calculating glare.
I’m struggling to maintain my poker face and there’s a quiver at the corners of my mouth.
Placing his hands on my desk, he leans in and I’m hit by the musky scent of his aftershave.
For the first time, I notice how unique his eyes are.
Sure, they’re so bright that you would spot them from a distance, but they’re also flecked with little green lines, and right around his pupils, his irises are dark green.
Hannah?
I’m startled out of my thoughts. Yes?
I truly hope you’re joking. Judging by his face, he’s not quite buying my story. You know I never travel economy.
Val almost never flies at all. Whenever possible, he’ll pick any available alternative.
It’s only an hour to London, I say.
Hannah, I’m serious. If you actually booked economy, we’re taking a boat instead. I’m sure you remember how well that went last time.
I do remember. Last time we went to London, we took the ferry from the Hook of Holland. The North Sea water was so rough that I spent three quarters of the journey with my head in the toilet, tears of agony streaming down my face.
Fine, fine. I was only kidding, I say. I booked business class. Got you a window seat.
Val lets out a relieved chuckle. That’s more like it. And the hotel?
Your usual.
Great, thank you. I’m heading into that meeting with Van Henegouwen. I’ll see you at the reception later.
I watch him walk to the conference room with ease in his step.
Michael’s eyes flip curiously between me and Val’s ass. He gets up from his chair to plant his behind on my desk. Wouters thanked you, he announces. He sounds like he just witnessed an alpaca dancing the Macarena.
That’s right. I was there.
Wouters never thanks anyone, he continues in an accusatory tone.
Maybe he finally took that etiquette workshop I gifted him for Christmas, I reply with a shrug.
Are you sleeping with him?
I blink a few times. I’m not sure I heard his question right. Excuse me?
Why else would he suddenly be so nice to you? Actually, come to think about it, he’s never been truly awful to you, has he? And then that two-week trip to London . . . It’s all very suspicious.
I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Sleeping with Val is the last thing I would ever do. I . . . I can’t even begin to describe how ridiculous you sound right now.
Michael’s lips squeeze into a flat line as he carefully studies me. You look a little tired today. Did you spend last night with him, too?
With a bang, I smack the documents I was organizing onto my desk.
After Dante’s little visit last night, I had a heartbreak relapse.
As a result, I was up sobbing until 2:30 a.m. while stuffing my face with his heart-shaped chocolates, my stereo blasting Celine Dion’s All by Myself—official theme song for the recently dumped.
How the hell did one little thank-you lead you to the conclusion that I’m sleeping with my boss? I ask, fully indignant.
Oh please, the sexual tension between you two is so thick you could cut it with a knife, he replies with a shrug.
My irritation is mounting by the second. We definitely have tension, but sexual is hardly the adjective I would use to describe it. Murderous is more like it.
Rosalie agrees that he doesn’t treat you the way he did his previous assistants.
Fucking Rosalie. That gossip-vending machine missed her calling as a tabloid reporter.
Do you think that might have anything to do with me being actually good at my job? And not playing Candy Crush during office hours?
Michael opens his mouth, about to protest.
Seriously, Michael. If you’re going to throw around wild accusations based on one micro-conversation, it’s a good thing you never got into that criminal investigation program at university.
He snaps his mouth shut. Getting rejected from his dream job obviously still hurts. I watch him trudge back to his desk like a scolded puppy while I let his words sink in.
Sex with Val. I picture his beautiful face and the undoubtedly hot body that’s beneath his impeccably tailored suits.
His bright eyes. His hands, which he tends to drum on his desk impatiently.
What would it be like to feel those hands on my skin?
And then I interrupt my own thoughts. I cannot think about him like that.
Sure, he won the genetics jackpot, but he’s also a first-rate sourpuss.
And he’s my boss. Sex and Val are two things that should absolutely not be crossing my mind at the same time.
Lowering my face into my hands, I let out a deep groan.
Ugh. I hate Michael.
Our office cafeteria has been transformed into a banquet hall.
Servers in sparkly little dresses move around the room carrying big trays full of champagne glasses.
The bar tables are packed with tasty treats: from dates stuffed with local cheese to the kind of oliebollen—delicious Dutch doughnuts—you would buy from the best food truck at the market.
In the corner of the room, a cover band’s lead vocalist sings one classic hit song after the other.
Grabbing one of the oliebollen from the tray, I take a huge bite, instantly getting icing sugar all over my nose.
Minutes turn to hours as I chat and laugh along with all my coworkers.
Rosalie appears next to me. Did you spot that singer? she says with a nod at the stage. Break me off a piece of him!
I follow her gaze. The guy has mid-length blonde hair that’s a bit oily at the roots.
He keeps running a hand through it as he passionately sings into the microphone.
His jeans are ripped at the knees and he’s wearing a white tee paired with a leather jacket.
He’s definitely attractive. More or less the perfect candidate for a no-strings-attached rebound to help you get over a cheating ex.
It’s like he read my mind. He looks up, letting his brown eyes travel all over my body in approval. When his gaze locks onto mine, he sends me a wink.
Rosalie looks from me to the singer and back. Lucky you, she mumbles, swiping a glass of champagne from a server’s tray. Is Wouters still coming?
He should be. He did mention it earlier. I toss the last piece of my third doughnut into my mouth and chew it as sensually as possible, making flirty eye contact with Kurt Cobain reincarnate.
Hang on. I thought you had a boyfriend, Rosalie says. She’s watching the vocalist serenade me with a rendition of Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls.
Had. That’s right, I reply, before downing my champagne in one. I trade my empty glass for a full one from a server who happens to be passing by.
Casanova, right?
No, Dante.
Right. Dante. I’ve always thought that was such an odd name. One of those old-fashioned ones you wouldn’t wish on anyone.
He was named after a fourteenth-century philosopher.
Well, that explains that. But you stopped seeing him?
Yep, I reply, as I bounce impatiently. I don’t feel like having this conversation.
That’s a shame. I always thought you made such a cute couple.
I look over and notice a twinkle of intrigue in Rosalie’s eyes. She doesn’t think it’s a shame at all. She’s just happy to have something to chat to the receptionist about tomorrow morning.
What happened? she asks in a curious tone.
Just . . . life. Different interests and all that, I reply with a frown. If I tell her the truth, the whole building will find out every sordid detail in no time.
Let me guess: you wanted kids and he didn’t. You’re obviously closing in on thirty, so I get not wanting to waste your time on mismatched priorities.
Rosalie . . . I warn her.
And then on top of tha— She snaps her mouth shut when she sees who’s walking into the room.
I trail her line of sight to discover Val walking our way with a glass in one hand.
He clearly worked late—he’s looking tired, but good.
His eyes sparkle and the beard gracing his sharp jawline is a touch longer than usual.
A minuscule smile appears on his full lips and he nods at us as he sips his champagne.
I notice he has nice hands: big and manly, but nicely groomed.
What would it feel like to have those hands peel this now slightly too snug dress from my body?
I squeeze my eyes shut and swear at myself internally.
Dammit. If Michael hadn’t been speculating about me doing it with my grouchy, but super hot boss, I wouldn’t be having these absurd hallucinations right now.
Knocking back my fifth glass of champagne, I start to feel a little fuzzy.
Val is watching me with furrowed eyebrows and shoots Rosalie an inquisitive glance, hoping she might have an acceptable explanation for my boundless alcohol consumption.
She got dumped. Her boyfriend didn’t want to have kids, she offers in a conspiratorial voice.
Where does she get off, sharing this fake information with our boss?
Thanks for the breaking news, TMZ, I snap at her. That wasn’t the reason at all.
What was it, then?