15. Drake #2
“I know you’re not the brightest, truly.
You’ve always been an infinite source of irritation.
It’s a wonder we keep you around! But more than that, you have no right to undermine my investigation as you’ve just done.
He was going to talk!” Rage seized me and I’d grabbed the front of Dougie’s shirt in a rapid surge before he saw it coming.
“Someone is targeting Helen, and if anyone hurts her because of your mistake today, I don’t care how many years we’ve been friends.
I’ll fucking kill you myself. Do you understand? ”
Douglas blanched, and he had the modesty to cower. A flicker of confusion danced in his eyes, mingling with his sensible fear. “But she’s Helen Montgomery. You hate her.”
Julian scoffed at the lack of sense. I hadn’t told them what happened at St. Henry’s, but at least one of them was clever enough to see through me.
My hands trembled, itching to strangle him right there on the spot.
“She’s going to be my wife. She’s everything. Do you understand?”
Douglas nodded, and it took Julian’s hand on my shoulder for my death grip to relent. I half shoved him away, not caring that he stumbled into the table. He was lucky I didn’t chase after him and slam my fist into his face.
“Get out of my sight,” I told Douglas. “A break from you would be a blessing, I think. Besides, Julian and I have more work to do now that you’ve fucked things up. Again.”
“Alright. Alright.” Douglas kept his hands up as he retreated up the stairs. Each breath sawed out of me, burning with my anger as I watched him flee with his tail tucked between his legs.
Only after several moments of silence did Julian insert a teasing smirk and say, “So, she’s everything, huh?”
“Shut up before I think about killing you too,” I bit out.
He only laughed.
I wanted a drink.
Not at all nervous and entirely put together, I sauntered down the hall to Helen’s office clutching the container of pasta primavera I slaved over specifically for her.
I overheard Monty mention it to her mother during a meeting about the wedding and spent the night studying the recipe before making it.
I briefly considered telling her I’d made it myself but dashed the idea.
She’d likely spit it out to spite me or ask comments about when and why I’d learned to cook.
As long as she ate something, the origin didn’t matter.
Besides, having a conversation with Helen that didn’t end in an argument or another layer of tension was nigh impossible.
Whatever wall she’d built against me in the past decade stood tall and impenetrable.
I didn’t blame her—I wouldn’t. It was a hell of my own making, and I’d shoulder the consequences.
Which meant slowly chipping away at her defenses until she accepted me again.
There had been moments outside of the distraction, where we fell into the effortless splendor of what made us great all those years ago.
Her unwavering genius fascinated me beyond all reason.
I spent years of my life in the past content to watch her dominate any obstacle in her path, and that hadn’t changed over time.
In fact, my past feelings for her possessed me anew, simmering in the core of my being and threatening to bubble over with each day we danced around one another.
Regardless of her obstinate refusal to work with me, I continued pestering her day in and day out.
Much as I had during our school days. Annoyance seemed to wear her out and made it easier for me to slip through her defenses.
That and I had, slightly unstable, proof that the physical chemistry remained alive.
Panic induced or not, Monty wouldn’t have begged me to touch her unless some part of her, even a small one, wanted me.
She wanted me, at least physically. Her fa?ade of disregard fractured in light moments that forced her to face my unwavering consideration.
The slow curve of her lips when I brought her coffee in the morning, and the pink coloring her cheeks she’d try to hide behind the first sip.
The way she huffed and argued when I set lunch down on her desk, insisting she take ten minutes from work and research to eat.
And the soft hums of delight when she took the first bite and enjoyed the meal, not questioning where it came from.
It gave me a thrill knowing she appreciated it, something I cooked and made by hand specifically for her, even without voicing it.
The tension went taut between us, straining day by day under the pressure of things unsaid.
Each time our fingers bumped together across her desk.
Each time she forgot who we were and excitedly shared information with me.
Each time I followed her from meeting to meeting like a loyal dog and her arm brushed against mine.
Or each time she looked up from her work and found me already watching her and those moments stretched, permitting me a rare second of eternity to drown in the captivating shades of blue.
It felt like a memory veiled in a dream.
Sooner rather than later, I’d need to hunker down and speak my piece, to give her the apology she deserved a decade ago. The time hadn’t come yet, despite the weeks of working in close quarters. If I attempted an apology now, she wouldn’t believe it.
Passing the break room on the topmost floor, her voice drifted through the open door. My heart twirled in my chest in a not at all embarrassing reaction to her mere presence. A smile pulled at my lips without my consent.
A male voice replied, and I stalled in the hall outside the breakroom.
From my vantage point, I could see Monty’s profile and the slightly older man towering in her personal space.
The sight thrummed at a cord of possession within me, the same string that, once plucked, caused a fight at a party so long ago.
“—I’ll admit the dress is lovely. I just wish it were under better circumstances,” she was saying.
“I understand. I’m sure you’ll look fantastic regardless of the groom,” the man chuckled lightly.
“Ugh, don’t even get me started on the groom.”
My jaw clenched as she leaned into the man, placing a hand on his arm. They shared a knowing smile that stirred thoughts in my head I didn’t need. Who was he? Why was she so close to him?
“Does your mother approve of the dress?” He asked, pulling me back to their conversation.
Monty rolled her eyes but remained smiling. “Of course she does. She’s orchestrating this entire thing with my father. I swore she even shed a tear at the last fitting of my dress.” She huffed. “It really is the perfect dress. I hate to admit it for a forced marriage.”
“You’ll be alright. Besides, these arranged marriages aren’t always the end of the world.” That either sounded flirty or I was going insane. “I look forward to seeing your dress at the wedding. You’ll look beautiful.”
“Thanks, Franklin.” Monty leaned closer, and my eyes narrowed on her fingers, squeezing his arm. More conversation and her tinkling laugh faded in my buzzing ears.
The plastic container, warm with her lunch, emitted an alarming noise as my fist nearly cracked it open.
Teeth grinding, breath huffing, I hauled myself down the corridor into her office.
I dropped her meal on her desk, glancing over her two half empty drinks and the missing water.
That must have been why she’d left her office and ran into the fuck-face, standing too close to her, whispering about how beautiful she’d look in her dress.
Of course, Helen would look beautiful, resplendent, ethereal.
Like a goddess, walking down the aisle toward me—she was for me.
I hadn’t spent my showers stroking off to thoughts of her at our upcoming wedding to get so enraged over a minor interaction.
I wasn’t worked up. No, it was nothing. Just a conversation between coworkers.
But the sense of familiarity in that interaction continued battering my mind.
I didn’t notice I was pacing her office until the door swung open again.
The soft hitch of her breath snapped me out of whatever had gotten hold of me.
My gaze cut to her standing in the doorway with a refilled water clutched in her hand, then dripped over the near black, emerald wrap dress clinging to her hips.
“Drake.” She glanced at the container on the desk, crossing the room to reach her chair. “Oh, lunch. Right, I suppose it’s that time?—”
“Who were you talking to in the break room?” The words bullied my tongue and escaped through the cage of my teeth.
Monty straightened up, drawing her fingers back. The pinch of her brows and slight purse of her lips warned of her incoming annoyance. “Who I talk to is none of your business.”
“You’re marrying me this weekend. Or have you forgotten?” I sure as shit hadn’t. It took most of my brain power to focus on anything else.
Somehow, we’d drifted closer together, circling one another like rival wolves with hackles raised, ready to fight over a kill. A magnetic pull seized us, drawing me toward Monty. It was an unavoidable, thrilling sensation that set my teeth on edge while making every fiber of my being hum.
The flurry of ominous gray storm clouds outside the window silhouetted her like a tempestuous deity. Sleek honeyed waves curled around her shoulders, and the angry spark in her eyes enticed me. She was never lovelier than when she was pissed off at me to a point beyond reason.
“You’re insufferable,” the edge in her voice morphed into something low and husky. The flicker of her pupils dilating and her gaze dropping to my mouth excited a primal reaction in me.
“Then suffer me.” An outside, otherworldly force sent us crashing into one another. Unnamable emotions flashed through me, taking control of all my rational functions. There was nothing more than those tumultuous urges and the mind-melting feeling of her lips pillowed against mine.