Chapter 4
LENA
Angry boss alert.
Scratch that.
Angry ex-boss alert.
I didn’t have to spend a moment wondering what he was thinking. Judging by the deep scowl lines across his forehead and the way his dark eyebrows pulled together, Weston was beyond pissed off. A look like that used to send the sirens sounding in my head.
Houston, we have a problem!
But it wasn’t my problem anymore, I reminded myself.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my tone making it clear he wasn’t welcome.
Weston’s hand curled around my doorframe, his fingers blanching as he tilted forward. “Well, apparently you’re too busy to answer a simple phone call,” he said, giving me an up and down look that made me shiver.
I suddenly felt horribly underdressed, goosebumps flushing across my body as his eyes took in my rolled sweatpants, the old, oversized T-shirt I’d gotten on my college semester abroad, and the lopsided bun on the top of my head.
This was a far cry from how put together I always tried to be at the office.
Weston’s eyebrow arched as if thinking the same, and I stiffened, indignant. What right did he have to judge what I wore in the comfort of my own home? It wasn’t like I’d invited him here, and if the sight of me was so offensive, he was more than welcome to leave.
“My ringer is off,” I lied.
“Why would it be off?” he snapped, dragging his eyes back to my face. “How does that help anyone? The PR team has been trying to set up a meeting, but I can’t even get my assistant to respond to my voicemail. So of course I had to trek out here to track you down at home!”
The words tumbled from his mouth in a vicious rush, his accent heavier than usual. That happened when he was either aggravated or on the phone with one of his friends back home. I hated to admit I usually found it attractive. Right now, though, those rolling Rs were doing nothing for me.
He inched forward again, but I stepped closer to the door, blocking his entry.
“I wasn’t worried about taking your calls because one, I no longer work for you.
And two, I thought you’d be on your way to Scotland by now.
” Everything had been arranged for his flight to take off in the early afternoon—hours ago.
He frowned, his chest rising and falling as he loomed above me. “I would have been,” he growled. “If you hadn’t lit the heather on fire here in Houston.”
“I think you lit your own heather on fire first,” I said as my hand tightened on the doorknob.
“I didn’t need you to fan the flames!”
I beat away a flash of guilt. Yesterday, I would have hunted down all of Narissa’s posts, forwarded them to IT and legal and PR. We would have shut down what we could, threatened to sue for defamation, and smoothed over the rest with some positive press for Kincaid Energy.
Maybe I’d have suggested that Arnie finally get that alpaca farm he was always going on about.
But tonight, I was no longer Lena Harp, Weston Kincaid’s personal assistant.
Tonight, I didn’t care what kind of damage Narissa was doing to his image or how many exotic STIs she claimed he had.
The timer on my oven beeped. I turned toward the kitchen on autopilot, then stumbled as Weston barged through without so much as an invitation.
“I didn’t say you could come in,” I huffed. But now that he was in, I knew there’d be no getting him out again until he’d said everything he came to say, so I threw in the towel and closed the door. No need to put on a show for the neighborhood, after all.
“Look at this!” he cried, phone in hand. “She’s absolutely lost the plot.” One of Narissa’s social media posts flashed across his screen: Watch out ladies, all the wining and dining is great, but one drink and things in the bedroom get boring real fast. #whiskydick!
He scowled at me. “That is not true!”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
“Lena!” he grumbled. “Oh, look, here’s another. Looks like he smells like top-shelf liquor and sandalwood. Actually smells like unresolved daddy issues.” He sneered at the screen. “We named his private jet Emotionally Unavailable. You read between the lines on that one!”
I fought the snicker threatening to make its way up. Okay, yeah, none of these were going to help him lock down a wife for a temporary marriage.
“There are half a dozen more just like this.”
And knowing Narissa, I’d bet on at least a dozen more in the next few hours.
“PSA,” he continued reading. “He got an exotic STI from a trip to the jungle! Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Unless you want to become his next victim.”
“Well, that one must be old news by now,” I said diplomatically.
“Lena!” Weston bellowed. “I’ve never even been to the jungle!”
I winced. Narissa was running with this. Hard and fast.
“Every available woman in our circle is going to be talking about this,” he said, pacing across my living room.
More like every available woman in Houston, I thought—but I kept that to myself.
Weston snapped his head up. “What’s burning?”
My dinner! My eyes widened, and I dashed into the kitchen and pulled the chicken Kiev from the oven. It was a little more well-done than I would have liked, and some of the cheese had bubbled out, but it would probably still taste okay.
I placed the pan down on the stove top next to my pasta, trying to keep my cool as Weston walked into the kitchen.
All I’d wanted was a nice meal and some time to appreciate my sexy, kilt-wearing Highland warriors.
I picked up my rosé, taking a sip as I turned back to him. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
He started pacing the length of my counter. “Turning down my proposal was fair,” he said.
I arched an eyebrow. While I wanted to be impressed that he’d come to that conclusion, I had a feeling he wasn’t done yet.
“Quitting your job, with absolutely no notice, in violation of the terms of your employment contract,” he continued, “was less fair.”
I winced, trying not to dwell on those terms and conditions.
“Still, I could have lived with that. Going to Narissa, though?” He stopped pacing and glared at me. “Aiming her against me? I never would have expected that of you. I didn’t think you were capable of being so vindictive.”
I put my wine down and crossed my arms. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” I said, doing my best not to throw Tess under the bus.
“I was at Let It Dough, feeding my frustration with beignets.” He rolled his eyes at that.
“And I was…venting. I think I was entitled to a little of that after our less-than-stellar conversation.”
“You were venting to Narissa?” he said through his teeth.
“Of course not! I was on the phone with a friend, and that woman has the hearing of an owl or an elephant, whichever one has the best hearing. I didn’t even realize she was there until she crashed my conversation.”
“You should have known better than to be having that conversation in public.”
I wanted to defend myself, but the truth was, he had a point. About Narissa and about me being in violation of my employment contract—for quitting without notice…and for more.
Nerves fluttered in my gut.
I’d been fueled by anger earlier today when I’d quit and told Weston to sue me.
But the truth was, Narissa had made it clear in her posts that I was her source, which could open me up to accusations of defamation or discrediting Weston.
That was also a big no-no according to my contract.
If Weston felt like being vindictive, I’d handed him the ammunition to blow my life apart.
I rubbed my forehead, my thoughts spinning. I couldn’t handle this tonight. I needed to sleep off my poor decisions and the wine and figure out what the hell to do about it all tomorrow. “You should go,” I said again, softer this time. “We can sort this out in the—”
“We can sort it out over dinner,” he said, sitting down at my kitchen table.
I blinked at him, shocked into silence for a moment.
“What are we eating?” he asked.
“We?” My earlier frustration flared back to life, hotter than ever.
Contract violations be damned! This was typical Weston, taking me for granted and assuming he was entitled to anything he wanted from me—my leisure hours, my dinner, my hand in marriage.
“We are eating nothing because you are going home.” I tried to wave him out of the chair. He didn’t budge.
“You’re the one who’s always getting on my case about not skipping meals,” he said, shrugging out of his suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. I swallowed hard. Damn him, maybe he had noticed what they did to me.
Marshaling my willpower, I tried to focus on my anger. “Because you get hangry,” I insisted. “And your Scottish hangry-ness is a force to be reckoned with.”
“I do not get hangry.”
“You do. And then you’re impossible to deal with. I was trying to preserve my own sanity by forcing you to eat. But that doesn’t mean you should help yourself to my dinner now.”
Weston simply stared at me, calmly waiting for the world to rearrange itself to his preferences—as it usually did.
Part of me wanted to hold the line just as a matter of principle.
But on the other hand, I was pretty certain he had no intention of leaving until he’d gotten his way.
So if I wanted to eat my dinner sometime tonight, I was apparently going to have to share.
I turned away from him, grumbling as I dished us both up a serving of pasta and chicken Kiev.
I dropped the plate down in front of him, taking my seat. “You eat and then you leave.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Good,” I muttered, stabbing my fork into my chicken.
As I stuffed the food into my mouth, I realized I was starving.
Considering I was running off nothing more than iced coffee and beignets since breakfast, that wasn’t surprising.
Weston ate just as quickly. He barely stopped for meals on a good day, and today obviously hadn’t been a good day.