Beauty and the Boss (Modern Fairytales #1)(52)

She tugged on a piece of hair. “I just—you can’t help me out of this. You can’t—it’s not something your money—”

He stiffened. “Money? What the hell does money have to do with—?” He broke off, the pieces of the puzzle forming into one giant ugly-ass picture. His mother had been right all along. He was broke, and she was jumping ship. That didn’t make any sense…and yet, it did. It really f*cking did. “My mother already told you, didn’t she?”

She blinked. “Wait, what? I—”

“Never mind, I don’t give a damn what the hell you have to say at this point.” He swept his hand, virtually shooing her away like an unwanted pest. “Get the f*ck out of here. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

“Benjamin.” Her face paled. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said softly. “But I have to—”

“—Go. Yeah. I got that loud and clear, Ms. Donovan.” He crossed his arms. “So, go, then. No one’s stopping you, least of all me. You want out? You’re out.”

She grabbed the doorknob, but didn’t turn it. Mumbling, she faced him again. “You’re angry with me. Let me explain—”

Angry? That didn’t even begin to cover what he was feeling.

Betrayed. Gutted. Hurt. Alone. Those words all applied to how he felt.

“I’m not angry. I’m just waiting for you to get the hell out.”

Still, she hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to give the proper two weeks’ notice,” she said, her voice low and hesitant. “I hope that won’t affect any references I might need from the company. And I’m sorry if I let you down.”

He was rocking from the pain of her leaving him, just as his mother predicted, because he’d lost his money, and she was worried about her references? Well, f*ck that. And f*ck her. This is what happened when you let someone in. They hurt you. She’d been right. Trust was a weapon, and she stabbed him in the back without a second thought. “I don’t give a damn about any of that. If you’re going, go. I don’t care.”

She nodded, her lower lip trembling. She bit down on it hard.

He walked back to his desk, not even looking back at her as she left. There was no point. It was over, and she didn’t give a damn. So neither would he. The door shut behind her, and he bent over his desk, gripping the edge so tightly it was amazing he didn’t break the wood. He wished he had, because damn it all to hell, he wanted to break shit.

Lots of it.

Shoving the papers off his desk, he picked up the hockey puck because it reminded him of her, and chucked that across the room, too. It bounced off the wall and fell to the floor without breaking anything. He couldn’t even do that right. “Son of a f*cking bitch.”

The door opened again, and he growled. What the hell was this, Grand Central Station? Elizabeth poked her blonde head in, looking scared of him.

Good. She should be.

“Is this a bad time?”

Yes. “No.”

She walked in and shut the door behind her, taking in the mess he’d made. “I gather your mother told you I’d be coming by.”

“Yeah.” He walked over to the scotch on the bar, opened the bottle, and raised it to his mouth. No point in even bothering with a glass. He’d need the whole bottle to get through this. “We’re supposed to get married and live happily ever after now, because my mother says we have to. That sound about right?”

She played with the leather straps on her pink purse. “Well…yeah. Basically.”

He put the bottle down hard, his muscles trembling with impotent rage. He didn’t want this. He wanted Maggie…but she obviously didn’t want him. She’d left without a sign of doubt or regret, and hadn’t even told him why.

But that was okay, because he knew why she left. He was broke.

“You want to marry me,” he said, glaring out the window.

She hesitated again. “Yes.”

“Why?” He turned on her, and she jumped, as if she was afraid he might bite. And yet she wanted to f*cking marry him. “Why the hell would you want to marry me? I’m apparently poor, as well as a jerk. We never really got along when we were dating, and the chemistry between us is pretty much nonexistent.”

She crossed the room and stared up at him, her intent clear. “That’s not true.” She clasped his suit jacket, holding on for dear life, and kissed him. He stiffened when her tongue touched his. She let out a soft moan and pressed more firmly against him, deepening the kiss, and he let her because he was desperate to feel something. Anything.

He felt nothing. Except sick.

Cursing inwardly, he ended the kiss, swiped a hand across his mouth, and downed more scotch. It was what he’d expected—she did nothing for him, and never would. The only person who’d been able to fill him with an undying need to touch and feel had left him. He was doomed to be the unfeeling beast they all thought he was.

“See?” she said, her chest rising and falling. She watched him like some sort of starved animal. “Electrifying.”

Gripping the bottle tightly, he tossed back more. “I can’t marry you.”

“Yes, you can.” She walked up behind him and rested her hands on his back. “And you will.”