Chapter 6

6

ELLIE

C oming out of our suite and rejoining the conference doesn't even seem real. Our hotel room, the bed, the shower—it all felt like our own little world, and going back to reality feels impossible.

I don't want to do it. But I have to. Dammit.

It doesn't even feel like we're the same people, back in our professional clothing, ready to do our jobs. We almost didn't make it out of the room when Drake saw me in my slate gray pencil skirt—apparently his favorite item of clothing on the planet—but I retained enough of my professionalism to get us out the door.

Now we're backstage as Drake prepares for his speech. Being one of two keynote speakers, the crowd is enormous. None of us mention that Claude is speaking after him, technically the final speaker for the entire convention. Every time it's brought up, I remind Drake that it was simply done that way because of alphabetical order, but I can tell that doesn't help ease his anger at having to precede the climber he hates so much.

But he manages to put that out of his mind, and I straighten his tie, fighting the urge to kiss him. Drake didn't have time to shave this morning, and the stubble on his jaw is driving me wild. "I'm going to go find a seat. Good luck."

He gives me his trademark smirk, lopsided and dashing. "Luck has nothing to do with it. I've got this."

"Of course you do. Don't forget you've got the interview for the New York Times with Kenneth Hopper after this. You're meeting at the hotel cafe. I'll catch up with you afterward."

"Ellie…" His laugh is low and soft. "I know, baby. I know. We've been over this a million times."

"Fine. Fine." I give in to the urge to touch him one last time, resting my hand on his forearm and squeezing gently. Drake gives me a small smile and turns to chat with the stage manager, and I walk out into the crowded auditorium.

I've been to a lot of big meetings and conferences over the years, and I'm usually excited by the energy. There's something about being surrounded by a bunch of people who are all passionate about the same thing that just feels right.

But today, it just feels stifling. I'm hot and cramped in a chair in the middle of the auditorium, surrounded by climbers waiting for Drake's speech to begin. It's a huge crowd, and I'm starting to feel claustrophobic. I look around and try to figure out if there's an easy escape route, and then I catch sight of a familiar head of golden hair. Claude. Ugh.

I'll deal with feeling crowded. There's no way in hell I'm going to stand and risk him noticing me, especially after Drake knocked him senseless last night. I do glance back long enough to see the purple bruise on his jaw sloppily covered with makeup and allow myself a satisfied smile.

Introductions are finished, and it's finally time for Drake to go on. He wrote his own speech, which I went over and carefully edited for public appropriateness. One instance of 'fuck' in a speech is funny; five instances are bordering on insane. But despite my editing, the speech oozes Drake Evans, climber, CEO and unwilling heartthrob—confident, blindingly intelligent, and maybe just a little arrogant.

It's brilliant. He's brilliant. I love him.

Wait, what?

I'm so distracted by my own thoughts that I miss the entire first half of Drake's speech. I've seen it dozens of times, anyway. I know how it begins, a story about how he started climbing as a kid, and then progressed from there to the summit of Mount Everest. I know how it ends, too, with an inspirational quote about dreams and working hard.

It's the middle where he's really got the audience on edge. He's talking about climbing the Dawn Wall, a particularly difficult climb that earned him his reputation as a rockstar climber. I remember when he told me about this particular climb, about the difficulties he faced, and the determination he needed to make it to the top. I remember his enthusiasm and passion as he told the story.

Drake is in his element. He's passionate and bold, his eyes bright and his hands gesturing wildly as he tells the story. It's hard to believe that just a few hours ago, he was standing in our suite, completely naked, with me in his arms.

He finishes his speech, and everyone claps. There's a quick break, and the moderator takes the stage again. "Next, we'll hear from the star of the new documentary, ‘The Ecstasy of the Summit’, Claude Vanderhoven. That captivating speech will start in thirty minutes. Don't miss it!"

My eyes snap to where Claude is standing, and my stomach twists at the sight of him. He's in the middle of the room, just a few rows in front of me. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his suit immaculate. Luckily, the crowd is standing from their seats and moving, many of them desperate for a drink or a bathroom break between the speeches, and I figure I'll be able to slip out before I'm noticed.

What I don't anticipate is the absolute chaos of the crowd trying to leave through two small doors. I'm ready to tear my hair out ten minutes later when I finally manage to shove through the throngs of people and into the hotel lobby again. I can almost let out a breath of relief.

Except somehow, Claude has managed to catch up with me. He's leaning against the wall near the doors, casually scrolling through his phone. I turn to go in the opposite direction, hoping to flee unnoticed, but then he looks up and catches my eye.

"Ellie!" he shouts.

I grit my teeth. "Claude," I reply, trying to sound cheery. "How's your face?"

Fury flashes over his expression before he quickly controls it, smoothing down his suit jacket in a calming gesture. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. To apologize for how forward I was last night. Not that it excuses your … boss' abominable behavior, but I didn't know you two were sleeping together."

His words, blunt and dripping with disdain, have me both embarrassed and pissed off at the same time. "How dare you assume?—"

"Is it a lie?"

"It's none of your damn business is what it is!"

Claude shrugs one large shoulder. "If Drake wants to pay someone to both be his assistant and warm his bed, who am I to judge? I just got the impression you weren't that kind of woman."

I see red, my anger flaring bright and hot. "Listen here, you smug bastard—" I start, ready to tear into him. A few other people in the lobby turn to look at us in alarm, and I inhale deeply, trying to center myself and find some control. "He is not paying me to sleep with him, okay? Again, not that it's any of your damned business, but any personal relationship I have with Drake is outside of our working relationship."

"Oh. So you don't mind that he's having brunch with another woman right this second?" Claude asks.

I open my mouth, then snap it shut again. What the hell did he just say? "Brunch? With another woman?"

Claude shrugs again, that insufferable grin still on his face. "Yes. My assistant was picking up a coffee for me and sent me this picture. After what happened last night, he thought I would find it very interesting."

Claude holds his phone up, and no matter how much I want to deny it, the proof is right here on the screen—Drake sitting across from a tall, dark-haired woman who is certainly not journalist Kenneth Hopper. She has her head tilted back, laughing, and Drake is relaxed and grinning. They look cozy, even from the distance of the photo.

A sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, and I swallow hard. "I see," I say quietly, my voice sounding strained to my own ears. "I'm sure it's just a business associate."

"Ah, Ellie, but wait. It's a video."

Before I can spare myself and turn away, he hits the play button on the screen and the video starts. Above the sounds of the crowded cafe, I can hear Drake's deep voice cutting through. I would recognize it anywhere.

"Ellie was just my assistant?—"

The video ends as abruptly as it began, but the damage is done. I swallow hard, pushing the bile rising up my throat back down. "You know what, Claude? Go to hell."

Claude's smirk only grows. "What's the matter, Ellie? Upset that Drake is fucking someone else?"

I want to slap that smug look right off his face, but I can feel tears building behind my eyes, and I refuse to let them fall in front of Claude. Instead, I whirl around, intent on finding Drake. I manage to hold them in until I'm at the door of the cafe, and then I see them, still entrenched in their meal and each other's company. He ditched an interview to be with this woman. He lied to me.

My chest heaves, and the tears fall, and I know I'm going to start ugly sobbing if I don't get out of here right now. I take off as fast as my legs can carry me. I don't stop, running as fast as I can until I'm back at our suite, shaking as I lock myself into our room.

All at once, I sob, ashamed that I didn't rush the happy couple and make a scene right in the middle of the cafe like Drake deserved and heartbroken that I was stupid enough to fall for him. I look at the bed where we spent so much time just hours ago, now freshly made by housekeeping, and want to puke.

But I can't fall to pieces. If I'm just an assistant to Drake, then that's all he'll ever get of me. I will never open myself up to be hurt by him again.

Actually, no. Fuck that. If he thinks he can sleep with me, take my virginity, and toss me to the curb, then he won't get assistant Ellie either. He will get none of me.

Heartsick and furious, I pack my bags as quickly as possible, intent on being out of here by the time he returns. If I'm lucky, I'll be on a plane back to Denver before he even realizes what happened.

Drake wants to abandon me? Fine. Two can play that game.

After paying an outrageous amount for an Uber, followed by a last-minute ticket back to Colorado, I don't start to feel any regrets until I'm seated on the airplane and the adrenaline of my escape from Drake starts to wear off.

I turned my phone off as soon as I left the hotel, knowing that if he called me and begged me to stay, I'd fold. Now, as the airplane starts to taxi down the runway, I hate realizing that I want to fold without him even speaking a word to me about staying. I want Drake that much. I love him, even if it makes me an idiot.

But that doesn't mean I have to hang around while he wines and dines other women. I might be an idiot, but at least I can be an independent one.

A few hours later, the plane lands, and I'm exhausted. I have a long drive ahead of me, and I'm not looking forward to spending more time in the car. But I've made my bed, and I have to lie in it. I take a deep breath and start the drive back home, grateful that at least I'm away from the man who broke my heart.

The entire drive is spent alternating between crying and anger. I should have known better than to let my heart get involved. Drake is my boss and nothing more. I'd been so careful to keep my feelings to myself, to keep everything professional, but in one night, all of that had gone up in smoke.

I've given Drake Evans my virginity, and he doesn't even want me. Now, I've lost my job, the man I love, and my pristine career reputation. Everything I've worked for is ruined.

I don't want to think about it anymore, but I can't escape it.

I yearn until I'm home, sinking onto my couch as I take out my phone. I switch it back on, dreading what I'll see. And immediately, my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

My heart sinks.

It's Drake. I can't deal with this. It might make me weak, but I can't.

Ignoring the call, I pull up his contact before he can dial again, and with my heart shattering inside me, I hit 'block'.