THIRTY TWO

Ronan

I dump my wallet and phone on the counter as I trudge through the door of my apartment, then I slump on the sofa. I'm too tired to workout, even though it's been days. What with training my new assistants, making up for lost time and dealing with the board stressing over share prices I've been pulling some long hours. I even had to cancel the appointment with the specialist Justine booked for me. I'm just not ready to face that news yet.

If I've been allowing meetings to run over and getting up before dawn to check emails to stop myself thinking about her, that's no big deal. It's a healthy coping mechanism.

What's not healthy is the amount of times I catch myself imagining her scent on my pillow, or seeing her in the street, despite basically working myself into the ground.

She left the show. Just like that. Fucking cut me off!

Without even talking to me about it first.

I guess I deserved it, after the way things worked out. I should never have bullied her into coming on the show in the first place. Then I wouldn't have had to relocate her job and uproot her.

It still stung more than it should, given I had planned to end things when the show wrapped anyway. I can think about it rationally now, but the day she did it, I was seething. I was glad when the interviews started and I didn't have to speak to her. I'm not sure I could have continued pretending to be civil when I wanted to shout and break things and demand an explanation.

With a sigh, I peel myself off the sofa about an hour later to take a shower. Frankly I'm surprised my cock even gets hard as I flick listlessly through porn videos, unable to choose what to watch.

I try a video of a buxom redhead, but tire of it after a few minutes. She's not Justine. Her skin is too tanned, her breasts too perky and fake.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I've never been this hung up on a woman before. Yeah, it's been a while since I hooked up with anyone, but in the past when I did, it never felt like this.

It got so bad yesterday, I even considered signing up for Monstrous Deals, the escort agency for monsters famous for connecting monsters with human women who perfectly suit them. Only, who would they find for me? Whoever it is, it's not going to scratch the itch I feel.

It's almost as if—

No. Not possible. I've spent my whole adult life trying to avoid imprinting on a female the way a minotaur will with a mate. I don't need a mate; I just need a friend with benefits.

Switching off the shower, I towel off. Throwing myself on the bed, I bring up my email on my phone to avoid thinking about it anymore.

Joseph has outlined a whole new marketing strategy based on the initial testing he's done with the new celebrity version of Married for a Day. Justine was right. It looks like it'll be a hit. So much so my team of producers is currently working on adding the format into all our highest rating shows.

We're already getting calls from other media outlets looking for interviews and snippets. That's a good sign. Of course we'll air things first on Bullseye, but it's always good if other networks are asking.

Even that can't hold my attention for long, though.

The thought of interviews just makes me think of Justine all over again. I imagine her luscious curves in my hands.

In a late-night moment of weakness, I break my resolution not to find out the specifics of the job my people found for her. Before I can stop myself, I send the message:

Ronan: I need a contact for that employee you transferred for me a few weeks back. Justine Delany

It's a testament to the irregular hours I'm used to keeping that my head of HR gets back to me before 6 am.

Chester: we've got her over in Bullseye Press. Did you want a phone number

Ronan: thanks. No. Not necessary

It only takes twenty minutes before I crack.

Ronan: on second thought, send me that number

Chester sends it through in the next second and I lay on my bed staring at it, caught in indecision. I shouldn't call her. I promised myself I'd stay away.

If we're seen together once the show starts airing, there will be all sorts of speculation. That we already knew each other (true). That the whole show was staged (also true). Most damning of all, that we ended up together. God, why does that one sound so fucking tempting?

Still, there's a window.

Unable to decide what to do, I fetch my laptop and switch on the bedside lamp. Then I trawl through the footage production sent me to review after the first round of editing.

My cursor hovers over the exit interview they recorded with her right after she wrote no. I haven't watched it yet. Do I dare? Do I really want to know the real reason she wrote no? I told myself it was because she was doing the sensible thing. Just being pragmatic.

That's not her, though, is it?

I've stomped on her dream as well as treating her like she was expendable.

I double click and my heart lurches when her face appears on the screen. She looks sad. I hate how sad she looks.

I clench my hands into fists when she lets out a long sigh and begins talking. "I'm not sure anything could have been what I always pictured. It's just a fact that reality never lives up to the fantasy."

God damn it!

She wanted the fantasy. She wanted romance. And I went and crushed her dreams like a fucking bull in a china shop.

Unacceptable.

I open the text, determination drawing my brows into a frown as I type.

Ronan: It's Ronan. I know I said I wouldn't contact you after the show, but there's something I need to fix.

I'm not letting this go that easily.

When she hasn't texted back within ten minutes, I toss my phone onto the bed with a huff.

By 6:45 am, I'm pacing.

She's not a morning person. She's probably not awake yet.

I try to get ready for work. I must check my phone every five minutes.

At lunch time, an awful sinking feeling is settling into my guts.

By the time I leave for home, I'm mad. This isn't like her. This isn't like me! I'm not used to being denied something I want this badly.

I'm not going to let her leave it like this. A minotaur is nothing if not stubborn as hell.

Determination coursing through my veins, I strip off and switch into my gym gear. On the treadmill, the outline of a plan forms.

My brain is already whirling with ideas as I make the first phone call.

I'm half dreaming at my desk the whole next day. It's Friday. I've never looked forward to the weekend more than I do today. This weekend is full of plans.

When I text Harvey at 4:30 pm, he actually responds instead of just bringing the car around.

Harvey: sir, is everything alright?

I laugh to myself.

I'm still chuckling when I climb into the back seat. "I'm fine, Harvey. Or at least I will be when I set something right. Over to the Roland Street Building, please, I've got an appointment with someone from Bullseye Press."