Page 28 of Resist

“What the fuck, Dad?” I stomp into the kitchen and decide that a glass of merlot at 12:01pm on a Sunday afternoon is okay. As long as it’s just one. Because I’m not a lush, I’m just trying to wash away thoughts of a beautiful man with a velvety, plummy glass of grape juice.

Could be worse, right?

I open the bottle with my fancy corkscrew.

In my defense I could be opening a bottle of tequila right now instead.

“Couldn’t you just have left the company to me without condition? Did you really need a son so badly that you couldn’t think beyond the dick? Like, oh, my daughter doesn’t have a dick but she’s a smart, capable, strong-headed woman who I’ve trained for this job for twenty fucking years, she doesn’t need a man by her side to run my legacy? No?”

By the time I reach the end of that sentence my glass is half empty, and my voice is pretty damn loud.

This is what my life has come to, day drinking and yelling at a dead guy in my apartment.

Fuck.

It’s probably not legal. In fact, I know it’s not. My father can’t legally order me, in his last will and testament, to marry a man to enable me to inherit a company. The board knows it too, which is why they’re throwing their weight around and telling me to honor his wishes or they’ll find someone else to run my family’s company.

I slam my now empty glass on the counter and pick up my phone.

Phoenix’s message from thirty minutes ago with Sterling’scontact information is still sitting unopened on my screen along with the message “Go get him, tiger.” She knows that we already swapped numbers, she’s just being annoying. For all I know, she’s already messaged him and told him to come over and service me.

Ha. That would save me from the awkward conversation I’m about to inflict upon myself.

I pick up my wineglass and hold it in front of my face like a mirror. “I’m a strong, independent, and capable woman. And it’s perfectly okay if I need to make a booty call to scratch an itch. Right?”

When the glass doesn’t answer me back, I take it as a yes and pick up my phone.

I pull up a browser and search, “How to booty call someone?”

When the internet tells me to start chatting with them in mid-late evening when they’re more likely to be free, I know I’ve already fucked up. It’s the middle of the goddamn day. When it then goes on to tell me to be flirty and fun, I’m beyond screwed.

Hi, Sterling. It’s Cecelia.

I swallow down the bitter taste at the back of my mouth that comes from lying to him about my name as I will my thumbs to keep typing. The first message is already marked as read, he seems to be waiting for my follow up before answering.

I have some time free this afternoon, and I was just wondering what you’re up to?

It’s not quite stating my intention, it’s definitely not fun and flirty, but I push send before I don’t write anything at all, and that feels like it would be worse than what I sent.

STERLING

I was just thinking about you.

His disclosure makes my skin heat, and my face breaks into a smile. What is it about this man that assaults my resting bitch face? Is it the fact that he says what he’s thinking? Even if it’s not something I’d say out loud? That he doesn’t care about being judged for what may be on his mind?

His willingness to be adorably vulnerable is endearing as hell.

All good, I hope?

STERLING

I was staring at your name on my screen wondering if it was too eager to message you today. I’d like to see you again.

I’d laugh, but he’s no keener than I am.

You would?

STERLING

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