Complete Me(101)

“All right,” I say. “I guess we have a deal.”

“Fabulous.” Her bright smile has returned, banishing the look of defeat. “I’ll pull some material together and give you a call. In the meantime,” she adds as she rises to her feet, “be sure and give Damien a kiss for me.”

She sweeps out of my office, and I watch her go, bemused. After a moment, I shrug it off. If she’s playing games, I’m not going to get drawn in. And if I’m imagining things—well, then I really need to get over it.

I spend another hour making notes for Blaine’s app, but then I can’t take it anymore. The sun is setting outside my window, and I still haven’t heard from Damien. I try his office, but Sylvia tells me that he’s still in meetings. “It’s been a crazy day,” she says. “Since he just got back, everyone wanted a piece of his time.”

I can’t help but smile. I understand the feeling.

“He should be done soon, though,” she says. “Shall I have him call you?”

I tell her not to bother, and then switch over to my messaging app to send him a text. To the CEO of Stark International from the CEO of Fairchild Development: Regarding my previous request for an appointment, does this evening fit on your calendar?

I don’t expect a quick reply and am surprised when my phone pings almost immediately. I think I can squeeze you in.

I practically trip over my fingers typing the reply. I’ll be right over.

No. I will. I have plans for your new office . . .

I smile in anticipation and wonder how I’ll survive the time between now and when he arrives.

Since I can’t concentrate on work with the prospect of Damien’s pending arrival hanging over my head, I abandon Evelyn’s art app in favor of going through my emails and clearing them out. I make the mistake of opening the one my mother sent while I was in Munich. The one that tells me that I really should work on my personal skills, because ignoring her calls and emails is simply rude and not the way she raised me. I see that your current fling got away with murder, she writes. Hopefully that means you’ll quit playing Florence Nightingale to his troubles. It’s simply a waste of time, and there are any number of men who are equally as eligible. Honestly, Nichole, once you pass the ten million dollar mark, one man is essentially the same as any other. Think about what I’ve said. And call me. Kisses, Mother

I want to delete it. Right at that moment, actually, I want to delete it even more than I want to breathe. I don’t want that woman in my head. She may not have ever taken a knife to my flesh, but I know without any doubt that she bears as much responsibility for the scars on my hips and thighs as I do. I want to delete that email and prove to myself that I’ve moved on.

I want to . . . but somehow I can’t quite manage.

Fuck.

I slam the top down on my laptop, not bothering to close any of my programs.

“Bad first day?”

I look up to find Damien leaning against the door frame. He’s dressed for the office in a tailored gray suit, white shirt, and a burgandy tie, and he looks for all the world like a long, tall drink of sin. “Not anymore,” I say. “How did you get in?”

“Apparently your receptionist reads the papers. She knows we’re together.”

I lean back in my desk chair and eye him. “Are we?”

He steps inside my office, then pulls my door shut behind him. He pauses, then very deliberately locks the door. “We are.”

“Well,” I say as I feel the temperature rise between us. “That’s very good to know.”