14. CHAPTER 14
Livia
I’ve rewritten the speech four times, then practiced it in the mirror today while trying to look myself in the eye for its entirety.
I know exactly what I’m going to say, exactly how I’m going to say it, and exactly what tone I’m going to use. Professional. Measured. A delivery that leaves no room for interpretation.
I texted Locke after practicing my speech in the mirror one last time. My office. Ten a.m.
He replied with a single word. Fine.
This tells me nothing about where his head is, which is probably intentional.
I’m behind my desk when he arrives, letting it serve as a boundary. A physical reminder that last night was a moment of spectacularly poor judgment that will not be repeated.
He knocks once and comes in without waiting for an answer. He’s in training clothes, hair doing what it does, those pale eyes finding me immediately but giving nothing away. I ignore the leap in my pulse as he closes the door behind him.
“Locke.” I fold my hands on the desk. “Thank you for coming.”
One eyebrow moves a fraction. “You said ten.”
I motion to a chair. “Please… take a seat.”
“I’ll stand,” he replies, but rests one hand casually on the back of said chair. He does it intentionally to maintain the upper hand and honestly, it flusters me.
“Right.” I take a breath, because this is already going off the rails.
He’s assumed control of the situation, but I have to remind myself…
this is my show. “I’ll get right to it. What happened last night was completely inappropriate and I take full responsibility for it.
I want to be clear that it will not happen again.
My behavior was unprofessional and frankly inexcusable, given the nature of our working relationship and the position of trust Mr. Rowe has placed me in. ”
“It’s Mr. Rowe now,” he says blandly. “Not Patrick?”
I glare at him.
“Let me guess,” he says in a low rumble, moving to my desk and sitting on the edge of it. His powerful legs are now inches from me. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You practiced this little speech in the mirror this morning.”
I lift my chin, put on my most affronted voice. “I most certainly did not.” I scoot my chair back a fraction and he notices. “There’s nothing to practice when the words are true and heartfelt.”
His expression turns skeptical. “Mmm-hmm.”
I’m totally off balance. He’s not acting like Locke Donovan should act. He should be restrained, detached, but he seems like he’s… enjoying this.
I clear my throat, intent on getting through what I planned to say.
“I want to assure you that my professional judgment going forward will not be compromised and that our sessions will continue exactly as agreed with full adherence to appropriate professional boundaries. What happened last night was an aberration and I want you to know that I—”
Locke’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping behind my neck just like they did last night. I’m too stunned to react and by the time he’s bending my way, all the words in my head have disappeared. Instead, my gaze is locked onto his sinful mouth as it comes closer to mine.
I suck in a breath and when his lips touch mine, every rational thought obliterates. He kisses me with complete confidence, a man who is not second-guessing the decision.
I fall prey to the kiss—just as electric and consuming as it was last night standing outside his truck. It shamefully takes me several seconds where I want to roll over and submit before I put my hands on his chest and push against him.
He releases me immediately, casually leaning back but still perched on the edge of my desk.
“What are you—” I press my fingers to my mouth. “What are you doing?”
He looks at me with an expression that is completely level. “You were going on a while, and frankly, I didn’t feel like hearing it.”
“I was apologizing,” I snap. “The polite thing would be to listen and accept.”
“I know.” He rises, takes a step back, and puts his hands in his pockets, easy as anything. “I don’t need the apology.”
I stare at him. “Locke—”
“Here’s what I’ve figured out,” he says, like I haven’t spoken. “You kissed me first. Last night, outside your parents’ house, you kissed me.” He tilts his head slightly. “And you weren’t exactly pushing me away when I kissed you back.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Like a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen.
“So I’m trying to understand,” he continues, “why I’m sitting through a speech about professional boundaries when we both know what happened and we both know you didn’t hate it.”
“That’s…” I straighten. “That’s not the point. The point is that it was wrong and it can’t—”
“Did you hate it?”
“That is completely beside the—”
“Livia.” His voice drops just slightly, hypnotizing and mellow. “Did you hate it?”
I might be many things, but I try never to lie when asked an honest question. “No,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean—”
He reaches down, frames my face with his palms, and as if I were nothing more than a feather, he coaxes me to rise from the chair. I have no will of my own, and next thing I know, I’m standing toe to toe with him as he kisses me again.
This one is slower, more deliberate, if that’s possible, his fingertips gentle on my jaw.
My traitorous hands, which my brain specifically instructs to push him away, refuse to obey.
They find the front of his shirt instead and somewhere in the back of my mind the professional part of me that has been running this apology speech since seven this morning lowers its head in defeat.
What the hell is happening to me? Never in my life have I been rendered ineffectual in controlling my own destiny.
He lets me go and the mere fact I stumble tells me that I was completely in his thrall.
The expression on Locke’s face is one of pure male satisfaction and I’m deeply annoyed.
“See,” he says.
“Don’t,” I say.
“You wanted it.”
“Locke—”
“Same as me,” he says without arrogance. Just fact. Two people, same situation, same result. “So the professional boundary argument is getting harder to make.”
I take a breath. Smooth my shirt even though it doesn’t need it.
“It doesn’t matter what I want.” I meet his eyes and hold them because this part matters and I need him to hear it.
“I work for this organization. You’re a player on the roster.
What I want is completely irrelevant because as soon as this becomes personal, my professional credibility is gone and everything I’ve built to get here goes with it.
” I pause so that sinks in. “That matters to me. You might not understand why it matters to me, but it does.”
He’s quiet for a good while.
I can see him thinking, waiting to see if he even cares.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says.
I go still and I don’t want to hear what he has to say. The fact I would consider any arrangement that might allow me to kiss him again without consequence is too tempting.
And yet, I find myself asking, “What kind of deal?”
“You want to know about my family, where I came from… what it was like growing up in that environment.” He holds my gaze. “You want to try to figure me out and you’re smart enough to know, we’re all a product of our past. So, I’ll give you a single, devoted session on that.”
I don’t say anything, because I can’t. He’s offering a very tempting carrot.
“One real session,” he says. “You ask what you want about my family. I’ll answer honestly.”
My pulse skitters. He’s offering a window into what made Locke Donovan who he is before everything else happened, and that is more professionally valuable than anything I’ve gotten from him so far.
It’s exactly what I need to actually help him.
And he knows that, which means he’s offering it deliberately—but also means he’s got his terms.
“What do you get out of this?” I ask.
“Haven’t figured that out yet.”
I blink. “You haven’t figured that out?”
“I know what direction I’m headed.” Those blue eyes, not looking chilly at all, hold mine with a steadiness that interrupts my ability to think clearly. “Just haven’t landed on the specific terms.”
“That’s not how a deal works,” I snap. “You can’t offer something without knowing what you want in return.”
“Sure I can.” He moves toward the door, completely at ease and completely infuriating. “I’m offering. You’re considering.” He reaches the door and looks back at me over his shoulder. “Think about it.”
He walks out.
I stand behind my desk in the silence and stare at the door.
Then I sit down, put my elbows on the desk, and put my face in my hands.
I am in so much trouble.