Chapter Eight

When I come into work the next morning—early, because I’m devoted to my job, and I like to get started before the whole place is brimming with people—Donovan’s walking out of his office.

He’s dressed in khakis and a Henley instead of his usual suit, but he’s still intimidating when he glares at me. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m headed up to the Hamptons with Sabrina for the weekend, maybe longer. I had some files at home I wanted to drop off.” He nods to my desk where he’s stacked a bunch of manilla folders. He was also in his office, though, so I suspect there’s something else he needed that he doesn’t want to share.

That’s Donovan for you. Secrets and secrets and more secrets.

I flip through the labels on the files. We’re mainly digital these days, and whatever is here will probably need to be uploaded. It gives me something to do with the day, at least. “I’ll get working on these.”

“Now you.”

I raise a brow.

“I thought you were taking personal days.”

Oh. Yeah. Back when I’d hoped that yesterday’s day date would turn into two. “Just one personal day.” I sit down behind my desk, throw my purse in the bottom drawer, and lock it. “Back to the grind today. My boss is a tyrant. Don’t want to get behind.”

“Complete tyrant.” He nods to his office door. “I’ll leave this open?”

“I’ll lock it up.” I wiggle my mouse to boot up the computer as he passes to leave and start making a mental list of tasks for the day.

1. Upload files

2. Don’t think about Steele

3. Reschedule Monday’s meetings

4. Don’t think about Steele

5. Lock up Donovan’s office

6. Don’t think about Steele

7. Don’t think about Steele

8. Don’t think about Steele

“What’s wrong?”

I look up to realize Donovan is still here, watching me with narrow eyes. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Don’t bullshit me. What’s wrong?”

That’s the other thing about Donovan. He always knows. Everything. Seriously, everything. I’m sure he even knows I steal his invites, has probably known since day one, but the advantage of working with a secret-keeper is that he lets me keep my secrets too.

Usually.

Apparently, not today.

Just because he’s trying to nose me out, doesn’t mean I have to open up. He has enough on his plate with his family emergency. “Oh, nothing new. I just hate everyone.”

He nods like he understands, and for half a second, I think he’s going to let that be the end of it.

But I’m wrong. “Is this about that Sebastian guy?”

“What? Who? Holt?” I’m not good at playing dumb. I just don’t want to talk about it, and I hope he takes the cue.

He levels his stare. “You know who I mean. Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

Told you he knows everything.

Fine then. I spin my chair in his direction to give him my full attention. “What’s up with you and his brother?”

“Holt?” Donovan isn’t the best at playing dumb either. But he’s very good at not saying what he doesn’t want to say, and I’m sure that’s where he’s headed now. “He wanted information from me that I didn’t want to give.”

“Oh.” I’m so surprised he answered, that’s all I have to say.

“I thought that your Steele character might be using you to get to me.”

I force a laugh, pretending I don’t have a pit in my stomach. I don’t want to think about this. Don’t want to hear my fears validated by a man I respect, so I turn my focus back to my computer screen. “That’s absurd. You don’t tell me anything.”

“Right. Absurd.”

“And he’s not my Steele.”

“Of course not. Because you hate everyone.”

“Exactly.” I start to key in my login and pause to glance up at my boss. “What did he say to you?”

“Steele? Yeah, that’s the thing.” He crosses over to my side of the desk and I tense as he sits/leans on the edge, invading my space. “He didn’t seem to have any idea what I was talking about when I accused him of using you to get info for his brother.”

“He didn’t?” I fucking hate how hopeful I sound. It’s embarrassing. “And you believe him?”

“Yeah, I think I do. Seemed much more interested in you owing him or something like that.” He stands now, his height towering above me. “Now if you’ve gotten yourself into some shit with this guy, and you need help getting out of it…”

Daddy Donovan out to fight the mighty Sebastians on my behalf.

I bite back a smile. “No. He’s…” Harmless , I suppose.

Except not at all harmless because whether or not he was spying for his brother, he has the power to make me feel like this—whatever this mood that I don’t want to examine too closely is—and that feels exactly the opposite of harmless. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I hate everyone.”

“Right, right.”

The lights down the hall flicker on. Nate’s assistant must be in. A too-cheery woman who turns on lights and opens blinds and hums wherever she goes.

I scowl. My chance for pre-workday alone time is gone.

“Anyway.” Donovan steps back to the other side of my desk (the side he belongs on). “Sabrina’s waiting for me.”

“Bye.” I go back to the mental task list:

1. It doesn’t matter about Steele

2. Don’t think about Steele

“The thing about saying you hate everyone, Simone…”

I throw my head back. “For fuck’s sake, are you going to actually leave?” Before he can continue on like I haven’t interrupted, I stare him down. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to lecture me on relationships. You might be happily married, but you know as well as I do, that you have never been a role model in human interaction.”

“No. Definitely not a role model. Doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about psychology.”

“So, let me guess—you’re going to tell me that I don’t really hate everybody, right? That that’s just something I say so I don’t have to put myself out there. So I don’t have to trust new people. And that this whole overly confident, detached persona of mine is just a ruse and really I’m soft and squishy and gross inside, with a fragile heart that I keep hidden so that it won’t get broken. Something like that?”

“You said it. Not me.” He smirks—he’s famous for his smirk. “I was just going to say that I hoped ‘everyone’ didn’t include me.”

I glare. “You’re the top of the list, Kincaid. Top of the list.”

He winks, and I still hate him. A little bit less, but still more than anyone else. “Hey, when you chill out in my office later to watch your soaps and, uh, whatever else you do in there—make sure you clean up after yourself this time, will you?”

My face goes red.

He really does know everything.

“It’s daytime television,” I yell after him since he’s (finally) leaving. “Not soaps.” I shudder at the thought.

Then blush again, wondering exactly what else he knows happened in that office, and ultimately resolve to put it out of my mind and never think about it again.

And then I start the day's tasks. I upload the physical files and consider calling Steele.

Then I file the physical files and remember I don’t have his direct line.

Then I reschedule half of Monday’s meetings and wonder if I should just call Claudette.

Then I reschedule the next half of Monday’s meetings and decide I wouldn’t know what to say.

Then I go into Donovan’s office and dust his shelves (I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m quite good at this, fuck you very much, Holt Sebastian ), and do a lot of sighing because even if I really am squishy on the insides, I don’t know how to live without my shell, and how can I expect that anyone—particularly, anyone like Steele—could find their way past the hard exterior and want to stay?

I don’t come to an answer, but it turns out the answer comes to me .

When I step out of Donovan’s office, I find an extremely hot and arrogant billionaire holding red roses and waiting for me.