CHAPTER SEVEN
RAY
I pace outside the bathroom, too pissed-off to stand still.
Every time I stop moving, I see that prick leaning over her in the booth again, his hands braced around her, his mouth heading for hers while she tried to shrink away.
Vinn joins me a minute later, a whiskey in hand and amusement written all over his face.
“Interesting,” he murmurs.
I shoot him a look. “Is it?”
His mouth twitches. “She’s certainly got your attention.”
“Don’t you have a wife and newborn at home?” I remind him. “Shouldn’t you be there?”
He chuckles. “Deflection. Always a bad sign.”
I say nothing.
Vinn leans against the wall beside me, unbothered by my mood. “There’s no point fighting it, Ray. It’s too late.”
My jaw tightens. “She works for me.”
“But you want her to be a hell of a lot more than that.”
I turn my head slowly and stare at him. Vinn just grins.
We’ve done business long enough for him to know exactly when he’s right, and I hate that smug look he gets when he clocks something before I’ve admitted it to myself.
“It feels a lot better,” he says, “when you stop pretending you don’t need her.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
He laughs again. “Sure.”
The bathroom door opens and Wynter steps out looking pale, embarrassed, and far too fragile for the thoughts that hit me all at once.
I want to pull her against me and get her out of here. I want to ask if she’s okay. I want to drag her far away from every man in this building and lock the damn door behind us.
And, God help me, I want to kiss her until she forgets anyone else ever tried.
Instead, I look at her and all that comes out is anger.
Her eyes flick from me to Vinn and back again, uncertain. She shifts her weight, clearly wishing the floor would swallow her whole.
Vinn pushes off the wall and gives me a knowing clap on the shoulder as he passes. “Try not to terrorise the poor girl,” he says lightly.
I ignore him.
Wynter looks at me like she’s bracing for impact.
“Let’s go,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than I intended. I reach for her arm, then catch myself before I’m too harsh about it. My hand settles around her elbow instead, firm but controlled, and I guide her through the casino.
I can feel eyes on us as we walk. Staff pretending not to stare. Guests whispering and laughing.
Wynter keeps her head down, mortified. My anger shifts, there’s less fury now and it becomes something ugly and protective that sits heavy in my chest.
The elevator opens directly into my office. The second we step out, I lock it from this floor so no one can interrupt us. Then I turn on her.
“What the hell was that?”
Wynter flinches. Her makeup is smudged, her face pale beneath it, and she looks far too fragile standing there in the middle of my office, all wide eyes and unsteady limbs.
“You made a spectacle of yourself,” I snap. “You drank far more than you can handle, and you let yourself get into a vulnerable position with men you don’t know. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
She says nothing. Just keeps her eyes lowered while I pace two steps away, still too angry to stand still. “Answer me.”
Slowly, she lifts her gaze to mine. Her expression is dazed. Miserable. “I think I’m going to be sick again,” she whispers.
The anger drains out of me so fast it leaves me feeling hollow. I exhale sharply and point to the bathroom. “Go.”
She doesn’t argue. She just turns and rushes for it, slamming the door behind her. I stand there for a moment, scrubbing a hand over my face. Fucking hell. She’s a disaster.
A half-hour passes.
At first, I hear everything—retching, running water, the occasional muffled movement—then nothing. Ten minutes of nothing.
I cross to the bathroom and tap lightly on the door. “Wynter?” There’s no answer. I try again. “Wynter.”
Still nothing.
A knot tightens in my chest. I ease the door open and find her sprawled on the tiled floor, fast asleep, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath her, her hair fanned across the tiles.
For one terrifying second, I think something’s wrong. Then I see the slow rise and fall of her breathing.
I let out a quiet breath. “Jesus Christ,” I murmur.
I step inside and crouch beside her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. She doesn’t stir.
In sleep, she looks younger. Softer. All the fire and embarrassment gone, leaving behind something painfully innocent.
My heart swells with something unrecognisable.
She reminds me of Anika in the old days, after too much to drink, stubbornly pretending she was fine right up until she crashed wherever she landed. The memory hits hard enough to still me for a second.
Then I slide one arm beneath Wynter’s knees and the other around her back and lift her carefully into my arms. She lets out a sleepy little sound, then burrows against my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I go still, inhaling sharply as her cheek presses against me and her fingers curl weakly into my shirt. Something low and possessive shifts inside me.
I carry her back to the elevator and unlock it, taking her up to the apartment.
The penthouse is quiet when we arrive.
As I pass Anika’s room, I glance in and find the agency nurse sitting beside the bed reading, whilst Anika sleeps soundly. She looks up. I nod once in greeting and keep going.
Wynter shifts in my arms again, mumbling something I can’t make out.
“Yeah,” I mutter quietly, more to myself than to her. “You’re a fucking disaster.”
I lay Wynter carefully on the bed and stand there for a moment, debating how far I can go in making her comfortable without crossing a line.
In the end, I crouch and slip off her shoes. Anything more than that feels inappropriate. I pull the blanket up over her and straighten slowly, letting my gaze drift around the room.
She’s already started making it her own.
Twinkling fairy lights glow softly against the wall, and polaroids hang between them on little pegs. I move closer, drawn in despite myself.
I study each photograph, trying to piece together the life she had before she walked into mine.
I know next to nothing about her. Not really.
These people clearly matter to her. I can see it in her smile from one picture to the next, in the way she leans into them, laughs with them, looks at them like they’re home.
Friends.
Family.
Her world.
I wonder where they are, and why they aren’t here with her. I pause at the last photograph. It’s Wynter with a man. His arms are wrapped around her, his chin resting on her shoulder, and the smile on her face is softer somehow. More intimate.
This is a picture of two people who are deeply in love. Something tight and unpleasant twists in my chest.
I stare at it for a second too long before forcing myself to step back. It shouldn’t matter. She’s my employee and her past is none of my business.
Her love life is none of my business.
But as I leave the room and quietly pull the door almost closed behind me, I can’t ignore the dull ache settling in my chest.
And I hate that I know exactly why it’s there.
“What’s got you so moody?” Anika asks as I spoon-feed her breakfast.
It still catches me sometimes, how much this matters. A few months ago, she had a feeding tube. Now, she can manage porridge, soggy cereal, yoghurt, mashed fruit. It shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it does.
“I’m not moody.”
She gives me a look. “You’ve hardly said a word.”
“Because you’re supposed to be concentrating on eating, not talking.”
“Dale said you got Holly to take Wynter out yesterday.”
I stiffen but keep my face blank. “Dale talks too much.”
Anika smiles faintly. “It’s okay to care about her, Ray. She’s a nice girl.”
“Exactly,” I say coolly. “She’s a girl.”
“Ten years isn’t that much.”
I let out a sharp breath through my nose. “A difference for what, exactly? I did her a favour. That’s all.”
“You forget I know you.”
I lift another spoonful to her mouth and wait until she swallows before answering.
“She’s attractive,” I say flatly. “I’m not blind.”
Anika grins. “There we go.”
“But being attractive and being worth the trouble are two very different things.”
Her smile fades slightly.
“She works here,” I continue. “There are rules for a reason.”
“Fuck off with excuses, Ray. And technically, I hired her.”
“Language,” I remind her, wiping a smear of porridge from the corner of her mouth. “And I don’t care about technicalities.”
She watches me too closely. “You like her.”
I laugh once, without humour. “She’s immature. Naive. And after last night, apparently incapable of holding her drink without making a spectacle of herself.”
Anika frowns. “That’s harsh.”
“It’s true.”
“She’s young.”
“Exactly.” I set the bowl down with more force than necessary. “She’s a child playing dress-up in a world she doesn’t understand. Pretty face, no sense, and absolutely no business getting involved in places like this with men like me.”
Anika’s voice softens. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” I snap. “She gets a few drinks in her and suddenly she’s draped across a booth with some suited idiot practically halfway on top of her. Then she throws up over one of my tables in front of half the room.”
Anika stares. “She what?”
I ignore the question, too far into this now to stop.
“I’m her boss,” I say coldly. “And if I have to choose between a woman and a girl, I’ll take the woman every time. Wynter is nowhere near what I want, and after last night’s stunt, she’s lucky she still has a job.”
My words are met with silence. Heavy and thick. When Anika’s eyes flick past me, I know before I turn, that she’s there. Wynter.
I glance back to find her standing in the doorway, rooted to the spot, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the floor.
She’s clutching one of the shopping bags so tightly the handles have gone white around her fingers.
For one second, guilt floods me. Then I kill it.
“Seems you’re just in time,” I say, my tone turning even colder. “Maybe you can explain to Anika why half my staff are talking about you this morning.”