Chapter 16
SHAY
By the time I pull up to the small brownstone that houses Concept, I’m so on edge that I drop my keys twice on the way inside.
I set my coat and purse at my desk by the back window, then I hurry to the kitchen to brew coffee and plate the cookies I just had to buy where I had to run into Kolton.
Already, I’m wondering if I should’ve stopped.
Talked to him. Kissed him one last time?
Ugh.
His life is complicated, and I’m clearly not capable of being rational around him. Which means tonight I’ll be sliding under my sheets, my fingers rubbing, my thighs clenching, as I relive that stupid trip to Aspen for the buttzillionth time.
Damn him and his skilled hips.
I lean forward and peek over the saloon-style doors into the conference room. No sign as to who this new client is. No overt posters tipping me off.
The team is gathered in the glass-walled space, this old townhouse modernized by Hilary, our president. She sits at the head of the table, while Maeve (Curella) and Ramiro eyeball each other on either side of her.
A month ago, Hilary let it be known one of them would eventually be promoted to partner.
The potential advancement incited sharpened talons and passive-aggressive pecking, a cock match imminent.
Ramiro sits cross-legged now, his pointy shoes twitching with every narrowed gaze launched at Maeve.
Maeve taps her French-manicured fingernails on the marble table, her severe bangs and sleek bob framing the scowl she aims at Ramiro.
They can bicker all they want. He can smack the collagen from her lips. She can mess with his perfectly matched shirts and ties. There can only be one victor, and when one of them gets promoted, I will become Concept’s newest associate designer.
Helloooo, paycheck.
I gather the coffeepot and tray of cookies, but my hands are shaking.
Today’s run-in with Kolton has me jittery and off my game.
Visions of me stubbing my toe, sending coffee everywhere, haunt each inhale.
I slump forward, hands on the counter, trying to calm my racing heart, and I shiver.
The air conditioner must be on the fritz again.
Teeth clacking, I make a mental note to get the AC repaired, barely registering the front door opening and the greetings passed around.
“Shay,” Maeve calls, but it sounds more like Shy.
I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling. Nobody retains an English accent from one year living abroad…six years ago.
“The client’s here, Shy. Don’t dawdle.” She snaps her fingers—actually snaps—and I want to break each digit.
“Be right there,” I call as the glass door to the conference room screeches shut. The brutal sound lands like nails on a chalkboard. My growing to-do list now includes: Get the stupid door fixed.
I’m not sure why a big client has chosen our small firm for their design needs. Hilary has been vibrating with excitement the past few days, and by the looks of things around here, I’d say she needs the work.
Plate and coffee in hand, I push my back into the saloon doors and ease out of the kitchen without dropping anything.
Kolton Kolton Kolton. Don’t think about Kolton.
Eyes focused on the hardwood floor, I prepare to smile and nod and take notes during the meeting, like the consummate professional I am. I blow out a breath, ease my death grip on the coffeepot, and glance up to check out our new client.
But…
The man in the conference room looks a heck of a lot like Kolton.
I blink repeatedly, doing my best impersonation of the Blinker. No matter how many times I squeeze my eyes, that familiar back and stance look too familiar—legs apart, left foot turned out, hands probably tucked in his front pockets.
What the heck?
There’s no doubt to whom that ponytail and fine booty belongs, and he’s in the conference room talking to my superiors.
I strain my ears but can’t hear a word through the glass.
I stand like an idiot, blinking, unsure why he’s here.
Maeve diverts her gaze from Kolton to me, her missile glare making a direct hit.
Her collagen-filled lips thin.
Blink.
Her tweezed brows pucker.
Blink.
Her fisted hands shake.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Whatever Kolton’s saying has her fuming.
What kind of dick chases me to my place of work? To what? Explain the massive truths he omitted in Aspen? If I were that kid of his, I’d look up the word stalker and tattoo the definition on Kolton’s face. And where’s the client Maeve said arrived?
She’s on the verge of a stroke. Kolton is still talking, Ramiro and Hilary both nodding. I stand, apoplectic, while Maeve’s silent tantrum graduates to full hysterics. She’s waving and pointing and stamping her foot, all while glaring at me. The whole thing plays out like chimpanzee sign language.
When the Asshole finally turns, his mouth drops open, and I follow his gaze to the coffeepot in my hands, which is tipping sideways.
Hot liquid pools near my feet, and I barely budge. Crap.
Waking from my daze, I hurry back to the kitchen, deposit the tray and pot and grab a wad of paper towel.
I squeeze it and scream internally. What the hell is he saying in there?
Any minute, our important client will appear from wherever they disappeared to, and they’ll have to wait while I apologize for allowing my personal life to follow—stalk—me into work.
What if I get fired?
The conference door makes its ear-splitting sound, and Maeve’s heels clickety-clack furiously toward me.
“What. Was. That?” she demands. Her white skin has an orange tinge from whatever fake tanning spray she uses.
“All I asked, Shy, was that you pick up cookies, make coffee, and take notes during the meeting. Not spill coffee all over the floor. Hilary instructed me to guide you. Train you. When you misstep, it reflects on me, and I can’t have that.
Not when the owner of Moondog is in the conference room about to hire us to design their new space.
So clean up that mess and get it together. There’s too much riding on this.”
She stomps her foot sergeant-style, swivels, and marches back to the conference room. Not one fake-accented word was said about me needing to keep my personal life personal, and there was no mention of my ex–fuck buddy lingering in the conference room. But I didn’t hear much after she said Moondog.
Because that makes no sense.
Kolton is the only person in there aside from our team, and last I heard, he styles hair for a living. And my best friend Lily (soon to be ex-bestie) has never, not once, mentioned Kolton having anything to do with Moondog, the company she works for.
I chew my cheek, frowning. But she has mentioned she talks design with Sawyer.
The insurance guy. I sensed something was off there, but Lily never volunteered an explanation, and I never pushed.
Now Kolton, the apparent owner of Moondog, is standing in the conference room.
Steam builds between my ears, an explosion imminent.
My jittery nerves turn to steel, the lies of the past months unfurling in their eloquence.
The edges are fuzzy, the details and motivation unclear, but what is plain as day is the fact that Kolton has lied about having a kid and what he does for a living, and whoever that woman was with him earlier.
Okay, technically, he just lied about his job, but that blindsided feeling has only grown. He had to have known showing up here like this would shock me, throw me off.
Lily will be dealt with later. For the next hour, I have to find a way to be present in that room. Without killing Kolton.
Head held high, I march out to the hallway and don’t glance through the glass walls. I feel eyes on me, likely the brown stunners I stared into while having one of many mind-blowing orgasms, but I don’t look up. I wipe up the coffee and scrub the floor, practically taking off the top varnish.
How could he not have warned me about this ambush? Does he know he’s messing with my fragile livelihood?
I return to the kitchen, smooth my fitted red blouse, then I grab our premium java and gluten-free cookies, making sure the raw cane sugar is neatly on the plate.
Swaying my hips in my gray pencil skirt, I approach the glass door, attempting to build an armor of confidence with each step.
I will breathe the same air as Kolton, smile at my colleagues, and take notes. I’ll ignore the lump building in my throat at the thought of him planning this ruse, maybe laughing with his friends about it. I won’t look at Kolton or acknowledge him.
As of right now, the Asshole doesn’t exist.