I was being asked to make a deal with the devil.
Everyone knew that it was never worth it. It was always a trap. I should have run from those crossroads and taken my own luck with finding a new job within the next week or so before the eviction notices started coming. It wasn't going to end up well, shaking hands with Michael O'Sullivan.
But I was going to do it. I thought I was debating, but there was really no debate: I had responsibilities. I was willing to work for a pig; was it really so different to work for a snake?
As I sighed in defeat, I noticed that Michael's dangerous green eyes were studying me. He'd been watching me the whole time. He was clearly enjoying himself, toying with me, watching the struggle across my face, perhaps seeing those little flickers of attraction, perhaps seeing how terribly I fought against them. I met his calm, assured gaze and narrowed my eyes in frustration at having been beaten, thoroughly and soundly beaten.
"Didn't your mother tell you not to play with your food," I snapped, snatching up my purse.
I stood and stormed past him, our shoulders colliding like thunderstorms on the prairie.
"Ms Miller?" Michael called after me as I practically kicked open the door.
"I'll be there at eight," I barked back through clenched teeth.
Just before the door swung shut behind me, I heard Michael say, a smile obvious in his voice, "Better make it 7:15."
I raised my middle finger high over my head, sure he could see it through the glass front as I crossed into the parking lot of the rundown strip mall. Maybe it was my imagination, but I heard him laughing. For a second it sounded like the laughter of the Michael I knew once, for that brief time, like the shimmer of morning rays on a dew drop. But as I slammed my car door shut, I knew it must have been my imagination.
Because that Michael was gone.
Tomorrow I started work for the man who'd taken his place and left nothing but his eyes, those sharp green eyes.
Michael
I arrived at the office at 5:45 a.m. But for the next hour and a half I accomplished nothing. When the clock struck seven I couldn't sit still any longer. I pushed back my chair to stalk anxiously back and forth in front of my desk. At the tiniest hint of a noise, I would flinch, stiffen, and my heart would start to race. I would hurry to the door and check the hallway leading to my office to see if it was her. Every time I would see some intern or mailman or secretary, I would sigh, pinch the bridge of my nose, and chastise myself for behaving like a child. I would force myself to return to my desk, sit, and read through this court document or that.
But that would only last for a few moments before I could no longer bear to remain still, the whole process starting all over again.
Let’s be clear. I was not excited for Abbi to work for me, to be near me, to be close to me. It was simply that I'd wasted a lot of time without the aid of a personal assistant over the past week, and I was eager to catch up on my work. That was the only reason that I checked my wristwatch, my office clock, and the digital display on my computer to make sure I had the right time as 7:15 came and went.
Assured that it was indeed 7:15 I poked my head out of my office and checked the desk intended for her just outside: empty. I frowned and once more checked my wristwatch. Seven sixteen. So she was late by a minute. That didn't mean anything.
But as one minute turned into five and five turned into ten, I grew more and more frustrated, more and more angry. My pacing became less anxious and more enraged. I mumbled curses at her under my breath. It was definitely not fear that drove my anger. Fear that she changed her mind. That she wasn't coming. What if she was never coming? What would I do if I never saw her again?
It was far easier to attribute my anger to my wasted productivity. I was here in the states to do a job and Abbi Miller was interfering with my ability to do that job. I stalked up and down my office till sweat shined on my brow and my nails left indentation on my palms from clenching my fists so tightly.
At 8:25 I flew off in a fury, storming out of my office and slamming the door shut behind me. I barrelled down the hallway toward the lobby where I startled the receptionist with my red, huffing face.
"I need you to call Ms Miller immediately and tell her that wherever she is, there is no reason for her to come in," I growled. "There's no job for her here."
It had been a mistake going after Abbi. I had been weak. I had let my judgement be clouded by lingering attraction, sentimentalities I had failed to properly crush even after nine years.
"But Mr O'Sullivan," the receptionist said timidly as she reached for the phone, "Ms Miller is here."
I barely heard her through the blood rushing in my ears.
"Did you still want me to call her?" the receptionist asked hesitantly, frowning in confusion.
"What?"
"Ms Miller," the receptionist repeated, "she's here."
"In the office?" I asked, confusion of my own dulling a bit of my anger.
The receptionist nodded.
I frowned. "Since when?"
The receptionist glanced at the clock on her computer and shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "I'd
