Chapter 22

Daisy

I’m a wuss. A weakling. A weenie.

I never should’ve let Hart distract me in his office yesterday, but the moment he kissed me all my questions evaporated under the onslaught of his charisma.

If that’s what I’m calling scintillating sex these days.

It was so freaking hot doing it on his desk, our heightened emotions adding to the frantic edge.

I can’t let it happen again.

I allowed myself to be distracted once before, when the man I thought I loved captured my attention and ensured he controlled it, while I slowly but surely lost pieces of myself. Casper influenced my opinions, my likes, my goals, while making it sound like I wanted those things along the way. His subtle way of controlling me meant I lost sight of the important stuff, just like I lost sight of it yesterday thanks to Hart.

I hate making comparisons between the two men but Hart is also demanding and dismissed my opinions like they meant nothing. One minute I was smarting, the next he opened up about his past, and I was catapulted straight into a depth of feeling I’ve been avoiding ever since this fling started.

I wanted to confront him about it, to see if he’ll be honest about our deepening attraction, but he distracted me in the hottest of ways…

The sex might have been phenomenal, but it pulled my focus from where it had to be: seeing how far he was willing to go to admit we’ve moved beyond sex.

I don’t like that I allowed myself to slip back into old patterns of behaviour, to be distracted because of my feelings for a man. It doesn’t bode well for me and it makes me resent him for doing it.

We didn’t say much afterwards. I bolted, then had to take a call from Alf. While I was on that call, Hart texted, saying he had business to take care of for the rest of the day.

And he hasn’t contacted me since.

Not that I expect him to, but after the way he opened up to me I thought I might see him last night. In fact, I listened for a knock on my villa door for half the night before falling into a restless sleep.

The mature thing to do would be for me to contact him: a blasé text, a call, a drop-in at his office. Instead, I’ve buried myself in work all day, ensuring the adjustments Hart requested to the Gem Island campaign about to go live are the best they can be. I’m not exactly thrilled that I can’t feature him front and centre of his proposed vacation programme, but I’m pleased with how everything has turned out—my best work yet.

I was on the verge of emailing the changes to the mock-ups to Hart for final approval when Alf dumped a shitload of work on me. He’s punishing me for having Hart treat him like a subordinate. He has forwarded emails from five potential new clients, requesting quotes for their needs. This, on top of putting the finishing touches on Hart’s campaign.

I pulled up my resignation letter after his fourth email of the morning with its excessive demands. It’s ready to go, if and when I ever gather the courage to send it.

But every time I read it, I get a hollow feeling in my gut and I hear Dad’s voice: ‘Adlers don’t quit, honey.’

Dad will be disappointed, no matter how hard I try to explain I’m done with Alf treating me like an incompetent for little reward. He’s already shattered that I ended my engagement. While he didn’t use the Q word on me then, I know by the shared glances with Mum that they think I quit on my relationship rather than hanging on for the long haul.

That hurt, having my own parents not trust me enough to make a sound decision that affects my future. Wait until they hear I’m contemplating quitting my job too.

It’s demoralising when they don’t have faith in me, in my judgements as a grown woman. But not half as much as I hate not having complete confidence in myself.

Even after the stellar job I’ve done on this campaign and the positive feedback from Hart, I still doubt myself. Wondering if I’ll make it on my own. Reluctant to take the next step to professional independence.

I think some of that bitterness influenced the way I behaved with Hart yesterday, when he didn’t trust me enough to know what’s best for his island and his vacation programme.

I was so mad at his lack of faith in me, I’d been tempted to fire off a curt email outlining what he needs to do if he wants the Rochester brand to be successful, but I’m not done with him yet so I didn’t.

I’m not done with Hart.

Professionally, I am. The campaign will be ready to launch first thing tomorrow morning once he gives the final go-ahead. And he will, considering I acquiesced to his hare-brained idea to tack the foster kids programme onto it without using him to bring both campaigns together in a seamless transition.

But being done with Hart professionally is a far cry from being ready to walk away from him personally. Despite my determination to view us as island sex buddies only, the thought of flying back to the mainland in a day or two is making me feel like crap.

Crazy, considering I knew this had an end date when we started up. It’s exactly what I wanted. Short-term gain with none of the long-term pain.

Sorbet, remember?

But what if one or two scoops aren’t enough?

What if I want the whole damn sundae with a cherry on top?

Not going to happen, but for an indulgent moment I allow myself to fantasise about what it would be like to stay.

If I finally believe in myself enough to resign and start my own firm, I can work with clients around the world remotely. And if a job needs a face-to-face meeting, I can do that too. What I can’t ‘do’ is Hart if we’re not together, and the thought of not having him hold me or be inside me is enough to send me into withdrawals before I’ve even left.

An email pings into my inbox. It’s him.

My pulse races as I open it. Read it.

‘What the fuck?’ I reread it, to make sure I’m not making a mistake.

I’m not. Hart has outlined succinctly what will happen once his precious bloody campaign goes live.

Absolutely nothing.

He’s saying goodbye and effectively ending us in a fucking email!

I won’t let him get away with this.

I fire back a polite response, asking him to meet me in the conference room in half an hour to discuss his email. I deliberately choose the venue, knowing that we can’t meet in an intimate place for fear of our rampant sexual attraction getting out of control again.

This time, not even his wicked mouth, his talented fingers, or his impressive appendage will derail me.

His response is quick, confirming the meeting. Good. I have thirty minutes to prepare myself for a confrontation I have every intention of winning.

I arrive at the conference room with three minutes to spare. Hart’s already there, looking surprisingly dishevelled with his pants creased, his shirtsleeves rolled up, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and dark shadows circling his eyes. Good to know he had a rotten night’s sleep too.

‘Hi.’ I breeze into the room, giving the door a little kick to shut it, before joining him at the table where he’s glaring at me like a foe.

‘You read my email?’ His monotone doesn’t bode well.

I nod, and his jaw clenches as he crossed his arms before taking a seat opposite me.

‘If you read it, what did you want to see me about considering I thought I made myself clear?’

No preamble, no small talk, no acknowledging the simmering tension buzzing between us even now.

‘I call bullshit.’

He places both his hands palm down on the table and leans forward, his glower formidable. ‘Don’t do this, Daisy. It’s easier this way.’

‘Easier for you, you mean?’ I try to scoff and it comes out an embarrassing snort. ‘As hard as you tried to dismiss us in that email as being nothing beyond a professional partnership, I think you need to confess.’

His lips thin as his frown deepens. ‘To what?’

‘Actually giving a damn.’ I point to his heart. ‘And feeling something rather than pretending you don’t.’

‘You don’t know the first thing about me.’ His upper lip curls in a snarl as he rears back like I’ve prodded him. ‘I don’t feel a thing—’

‘Oh, yeah? Then what’s this?’ I swipe my phone to bring up the amended campaign, featuring a sidebar with the foster kids camp. ‘You want to help these kids in a way you wished someone had helped you, and that proves you care—’

‘Maybe about the kids,’ he yells, crimson creeping up his neck. ‘But what’s that got to do with you?’

That hurts. A hell of a lot. I want to walk out of here and not look back, like he wants me to.

He’s trying to undermine me, like Casper undercut me every chance he got during our relationship. Having a guy I actually care about treat me the same way…it kills me.

So I go on the offensive.

‘Is this how you were with your grandfather? Pushing him away until he had no choice but to let you go? If so, I feel sorry for you. You like to blame everyone for your misfortune rather than face up to your past and your abandonment issues with your dad and—’

‘Stop!’ He bellows, his face a concentration in devastation.

He’s hurting, an unimaginable pain that makes my throat tighten. Maybe I’ve gone too far but I had to try to make him face the reality that he has a woman who hates quitting, a woman willing to stick around, a woman who’s crazy about him.

But by the way he’s staring at me, he’ll never forgive me for verbalising my pop psychology in an attempt to get him to open up about his feelings.

‘Hart, listen—’

‘Get the fuck out of here.’

His outburst echoes through the room and I try to hide my dismay.

‘You don’t mean that,’ I say, doing my best to stay calm. I lay my hands out, palm up. ‘I care about you—’

‘What we had is called fucking. Don’t mistake it for something it’s not.’

He’s staring at me with barely concealed dislike and a tiny part of my heart cracks at that moment.

He’s gone too far and there’s no coming back from this.

‘That’s a low blow.’ I stand and take a few steps back, willing my feet to step and not run like I want to. ‘I pegged you for many things, a coward wasn’t one of them.’

I turn my back on him and walk towards the door.

‘Launch the website as we previously agreed.’

It’s a barked order from a man who has retreated emotionally and is treating me like the hired subordinate I am.

It’s not his fault I feel cheap and used, because we both agreed to a fling. But I felt the same way when I walked out on Casper: like I’d given him a tiny piece of my soul that I’d never get back.

‘Okay.’ My voice is amazingly calm considering I’m a wreck inside.

I continue striding towards the door. I need him to stop me, to hold me, to comfort me. To admit he’s made a mistake. To tell me he feels the same way I do. To apologise for being a cold, heartless jerk.

I will him to do it.

When he doesn’t, I know we’re officially over.

I wait until I reach the shadows of the towering palms outside my villa to let my tears fall.