Chapter 9
Roxy
Ihate Liam Stone.
I despise the way his forehead creases when he is thinking, forming an attractive line between his eyebrows.
I can’t stand how effortlessly unstyled his perfect hair is. Or how his muscles bulge under the luxurious cotton of his expensive shirts.
He isn’t kind by any stretch of the imagination, but he commands the room with such effortless authority.
I hate how attractive he is. And I despise myself for having noticed all these little details about him. My pulse annoyingly agrees, most of the time.
And I hate him the most right now.
Liam fucking Stone wraps up his presentation, and one thing is clear.
It’s better than mine.
A small, petty part of me wishes it weren’t. The honest part knows it is.
He accounted for contingencies I didn’t even realize existed. He outlined a scenario that addresses all the issues I couldn’t possibly have anticipated.
And his presentation style?
Fuck.
My stomach drops, like my body is agreeing before my brain can protest.
A man who is as dry as the Sahara Desert, and repels the world with his bored expression, changes completely when he stands in front of a crowd.
Said crowd consists of Cal, Corm, and a few senior managers. I’m not even there, and I know they are impressed.
I am impressed, goddammit.
And regretting that I eavesdropped. The spying was easy, since Declan dialed in from London and I simply joined the line.
It also looked like a great idea, but now I’m not so sure. Tapping my headset, I disconnect from the meeting.
I swirl in my chair, letting out a breath that doesn’t relax me. Maybe I bit off more than I can chew.
I let myself wallow for a beat. The feeling of failure spreads through me like a slow-acting poison. It’s unfair that I’m up against someone who’s been managing companies for years.
Someone who’s been groomed to excel at these things.
Me? I was groomed to keep my head down and pretend that throwing a tea party is an achievement.
Maybe I’m just a note-taker. Too inexperienced to become a partner. But I’m already in the running. Am I really going to give up this early on?
Unfortunately, I don’t like my current options.
I either walk into that boardroom and present a decent, but definitely not a winning plan.
Or I walk in there and ask for an extension. But it’s not like I can improve my presentation. Not without stealing Liam’s ideas.
I would rather present my version than become a copycat.
The infuriating part is that whatever I pick, he wins. And that’s what adds insult to injury.
It’s been two weeks since he barreled into my life and almost kissed me.
The worst part? I still think about that almost-kiss. And I don’t even know why.
My body has been acting weird since that night at the sex club. It makes no sense, and it’s absolutely infuriating.
It’s like having sex—arguably the best sex of my life—infused my body with horny hormones. My vibrator might soon file abuse charges.
In the past two weeks, when I needed to be on top of my game, I found myself spacing out, my mind drifting away.
Many times, replaying the night at the sex club. I wish I had taken Romeo’s number. Having a fuck buddy on the side would solve my current lust issue.
Because I might think about the sex club night more than I care to admit, but my stupid mind wanders to that not-kiss even more often.
What is wrong with me?
I groan and almost jump from my chair when my phone vibrates inside my desk. Fuck. My skin goes cold even before I see the name.
Pulling the top drawer open, I decline the call. Only three people call my private number.
Somehow, my brothers haven’t discovered I have another phone. I guess they didn’t think of looking.
The last thing I need is to deal with my family right now. No fucking way. The phone buzzes immediately. They won’t stop until I answer. I know that.
I also know that focusing on my future will get me much further from my past. So I turn the phone off, staring at it as if I could make the people on the other side of the line stop interfering with my life.
“Are you okay?” The velvety baritone startles me. And why must he sound so similar to Romeo?
I groan and lift my gaze.
Oh, my God.
Liam leans against my door frame, looking like the king he is—owning the air, the space, the entire zip code, and not even trying to.
He makes my office feel too small, like the walls shrink around him. He must have sucked in all the air, because I can’t fully fill my lungs.
I listened to his presentation, but I didn’t see him today.
He pulled out all the stops for his few minutes of fame. He never wears ties and leaves his suit jacket haphazardly thrown over his chair most of the time.
Today, he dressed the part.
He is wearing a three-piece striped suit. Definitely tailored, because in no universe would an off-the-rack jacket hug his silhouette with such perfection.
His tie is a steel color, matching his eyes. They pop out more, making that penetrating gaze of his slightly more dangerous.
For the briefest, tiniest, almost nonexistent moment, I see in my mind how he strips down for me, and then orders me to bend over.
Who knew that’s what I love? Thank you very much, Romeo. God.
I wipe the image from my brain and jump up. My knee collides with the open drawer. A metallic clang and a flash of white pain explode behind my eyes.
I collapse back into my chair, my eyes watering. “Motherfucker,” I grit out.
“Jesus,” Liam murmurs.
While I fight the fierce pain zapping through my nerves, he rushes toward me and kneels down.
I blink away the tears that haven’t yet fully formed, ready to throw him out. The man has been the bane of my existence; I don’t need him witnessing my low moment.
And I’m properly down right now. My presentation sucks. My family is calling. My knee is… Fuck, my knee is bleeding.
Liam wraps his hand around my ankle and lifts my leg. His gentleness startles me. So does my involuntary reaction.
His palm is warm and rough, the contrast against my skin sending a traitorous shiver up my thigh.
“What spooked you, Little Thunder?”
You. “Don’t call me Thunder.”
He smirks. “You only objected to sweetheart if I recall. For which I apologize. Where do I find a first-aid kit?”
He lowers my leg with care and stands up. I gape at him.
Towering over me, he looks extra delicious. His tie shifts with the movement, the silver catching the light like a blade.
But that’s only a partial reason for my inability to breathe, talk, or form a coherent thought.
He apologized for calling me sweetheart. He remembers my threat from two weeks ago. And now he wants to tend my wound.
“I can take care of myself,” I snap. Mostly to deal with the onslaught of emotions that come from nowhere and claim my ability to… to be myself.
“I’m well-aware. Where is that first aid kit?”
“Reception.” I swallow around the word, still considering if limping there myself isn’t more dignified than letting him help me.
“Don’t move,” he commands, and leaves.
The order is like molten lava, heating my entire body. Something is seriously wrong with me.
I’m well-aware.
I shiver, remembering the same words from Romeo. Different man. Same effect. I hate that my body doesn’t care.
That assured credit got me an unforgettable one-night stand. I can’t let it affect me again.
Craving male recognition of my independence is messed up. I should be able to award myself that confidence, but here we are. Yet another thing I have my father to thank for.
I need to book an emergency session with a therapist, to unravel the past few weeks and my out-of-character behavior.
Is it stress? I let out a whimper to channel my exasperation.
“Does it hurt so much?” Liam shuts the door behind him.
Closing my eyes, I whimper again. Because what else am I going to do? I’ll let him patch me up, throw him out, and then search for my dignity and fortitude.
The moment of resigning myself to my current situation doesn’t last long, because Liam rips off my tights.
“What the hell, Stone?”
“I need to clean the wound. They were torn anyway.” He scoops my leg and turns it slowly toward the window, inspecting the cut. “It’s superficial. I don’t think you need stitches, but it’s going to be a bitch to heal because it might open every time you bend your knee.”
He takes out an antiseptic spray and covers the wound. I swallow a hiss. He saw enough of my vulnerability today.
Cleaning the cut with expert moves, like he’s done it many times, he crouches in front of me like this is normal. Like this situation makes sense.
It doesn’t.
His hands are calloused. Like he’s been used to manual labor instead of boardrooms. These are not rich-boy hands. These are fighter’s hands—broad, calloused, knuckles nicked like they’ve seen bone.
His nails are cropped to nothing, dark grit hiding at the edges, and my curiosity snaps awake.
Then I my eyes land on the scar. A thin, angry slash from his thumb to his wrist. Fresh enough to still matter. Old enough to carry weight.
“Are you plotting my murder, Thunder?” The humor in his voice should annoy me. It doesn’t. Have I hit my head as well?
“I’ve already plotted a few scenarios.”
He looks up from beneath his eyelashes, and the line between his eyebrows deepens. And I’m pretty sure the gravity shifts.
“A few?” His rasp carries a hint of approval. Or awe.
I must have hit my head.
He slips the cap of the liquid bandage between his lips, and I actually forget how to swallow.
His mouth shapes around the plastic, and suddenly, my entire body is a bad idea.
The chemical scent of the bandage hits my nose as he leans in, steadying my knee with one strong hand. His thumb brushes the inside of my leg.
Accident. Probably.
Still devastating as heat rolls through me. Hot. Sudden. Humiliating.
He must feel it. Of course he feels it.
But he doesn’t look up. He just blows lightly on the drying bandage, and my breath hitches loud enough to embarrass me.
His mouth is inches from my skin. His breath is warm. And for one dizzying second, I wonder if he’s about to kiss my knee.
Stupid. Impossible. Craved.