One Bossy Offer (126)

“Simone.”

I repeat her name a few times until she stops struggling, sticking to the ground under me.

“Shut up and turn around,” I whisper.

I let her up, just enough so she can turn and sit up.

Then she sees Bradley and Louise standing outside my company car across the street from us with their phones out.

“Your people, they’re—recording?” Her jaw drops in disbelief.

I grin and nod.

“This time, I came prepared. Unlike the ways you’ve fucked with me over the years, if you stop now, I’ll let you crawl back to the wreckage of your life without slapping you with assault charges. Although, there are two separate witness records of you trying to hit me. I hope once you’ve stepped down from leadership, apologized to the public, and settled with the women whose lives you tried to ruin, you’ll turn over a new leaf. But that’s really up to you. It was never nice knowing you.”

She stares at me with her mouth hanging open, utterly dumbstruck.

“God, I should have given you a lethal dose that night,” she hisses. “This would have been so much easier.”

All I do is smile, grateful to know she really did drug my drinks on that trip and I cheated death.

I’m not sure why I even turn around and stare at this pitiful insect long enough to add, “It’s never too late to change. Until recently, I always thought that was fluff talk, but I’ve become a believer.”

She blinks a few times and steps away from me.

Fine with me.

The more space between us, the better.

“Miles, who... who the fuck are you?” she whispers.

Her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. More like a scared little girl’s than an executive who’s used to machine gunning orders and getting her wishes granted on demand.

“A better man than the one you knew.” I say over my shoulder.

Then I walk around her to my car without looking back.

In a few more strides, she’s behind me, right where she belongs.

Marooned in the past.

“Where are we going, sir?” Benson asks as soon as I’m in the back seat.

“Take me to Jennifer,” I say, feeling my gut twist.

If this showdown with Simone was nerve-racking, it’s nothing like what’s ahead.

There’s so much more at stake with my kitten, and so many ways it could all go catastrophically wrong.





27





No Forgetting You (Jenn)





My Facebook and Twitter feeds are blowing up.

Everywhere, there’s chatter about Simone Niehaus’ fall from grace and removal from leading Pacific-Resolute. The board acted swiftly to send her packing, but that’s not what keeps the stunned gossip going.

Ever since Ava and Jillian came forward about her blackmail, other people have piled in, revealing years of abuse at the hands of this heartless snake-woman.

I shake my head, reading a post from someone named Melissa who knew Simone in her college days.



Simone and I interned together at Cedarwell Media in Eugene. I made the mistake of telling her about my idea for a monthly home magazine piggybacking off the work we already did for their main publication.

I put together the pitch. I spent months outlining the content. I didn’t know I left my work printed out on my desk at lunch one day.

A few days later, Simone pitched a near-identical concept to the chief editor and CEO, and she was leading the company’s biggest publishing success three months later.



Dirty pool.

If anyone has a date with a mid-ass collision and the karma train, it’s definitely Simone.

She’s on track to be sued by practically everyone she’s ever worked with, and she totally deserves it.

I know it’s not my problem. I shouldn’t be grinning ear to ear, but I am.

And I hope Miles finds some peace watching her choke down a giant spoonful of justice.

It’s a blustery night at Bee Harbor with intense waves crashing against the rocks outside.

There aren’t many guests here and tourist season is basically over in Pinnacle Pointe, but I’m staying in the lobby for another half an hour or so just to make sure no one needs anything before I feed the dogs dinner and crash.

I close my social apps and open a few freelance sites.

While I’m waiting, I might as well cold pitch a couple potential marketing clients.

I’m typing a message to the owner of a San Diego based media company when a shadow falls over my laptop.

I put on my best customer service smile and look up.

“Can I help y—Miles?” My breath catches.

My stomach insta-knots.

What does he want?

He’s standing on the other side of my desk, all tallness and manly angles and so Miles it hurts. His scent engulfs me, pine and testosterone wedded in an unholy fusion that strokes my brain like a kitten.

I hope he can’t see me leaning against the edge of the desk. It’s the only thing that keeps me standing.

“Can we talk?” His silver-blue eyes are brighter than ever, twin meteors coming to wreck me again.

Can we? I wonder cynically.

Regardless, I swallow past the rock in my throat.

“Sure. What do you want?”