Page 26 of His Dark Vices

"Our app?" I repeat, looking up at him with confusion. "Are you?—"

By the look on Sam's face, I know I don't have to finish my question. He looks like he stepped in something. He clears his throat, indicating he's not comfortable answering the question, but speaks anyway.

"I'm one of the lead developers for Companion," he admits, not meeting my eyes.

"No way, really? Dude, I love this thing! It's hugely popular!" I slap him on the arm, unable to believe he's one of the guys behind the tracker.

"I know. I didn't think it'd get this big," he says shortly, looking uncomfortable. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"That's okay. It's not like we've been doing a lot of talking, anyway."

Then it hits me that I'm just about to leave after having an orgasm on the couch, right after he asked about us continuing. I sigh, feeling guilty, and rub at my face again. I don't know what to do. I want to stay and smooth things over, but at the same time, not making any progress on this article is driving me crazy.

"I'll see you later, then," Sam says, nodding toward the door. He gives a brief smile, then turns away, heading to the staircase.

"Oh, uh…" He's suddenly so cold that I don't know what to say. "M-maybe I could stay another hour or so," I offer, feeling defeated.

"Nah, you said you need to get some work done. I don't want to distract you. Sorry about that." He sounds detached and doesn't bother looking over his shoulder at me. "Text me when you can, I understand."

Does he? Is he mad about me snapping at him?

I feel helpless at the door, and I want to go after him, but he's already leaving the room.

I slip on my heels without another word, feeling confused. I want to call after him and apologize properly, but I get the feeling that it's too late. And why wouldn't I feel that way? It's not like we're officially dating. He's a developer for Companion. I bet he has girls lining up, waiting to have a chance at him.

We're no longer in the same room, so I don't say goodbye. I just slip out the front door and into the cold late afternoon.

Did I just fuck this up?

CHAPTER 10

Bree

The blinking cursor on the blank white document feels like an impatiently tapping foot. I watch it appear and disappear, my mind as empty as the page on my laptop. I don't know how long I've been sitting here, but I'm getting nowhere.

I'm sitting in the middle of my bed, willing my brain to cooperate and help me get some words out, but I just have the same thoughts I've had this entire time. In the past few days, there've been no developments on the pop princess story, and my editor expected me to deliver yesterday. My inquiries have all been ignored, and research into a potential loose-lipped hanger-on led to a dead end. Rumors abound, but repeating nonsense won't get me promoted anytime soon.

So my task remains the same—make something out of nothing.

Bullshitting in an entertaining way isn't too difficult for me. Or at least it wouldn't be, ordinarily. But Sam is taking up a significant amount of my mental energy.

He hasn't texted me since I left the loft. Sure, he told me to reach out to him, but the last time I left his place, he was checking on me instantly, wondering if I'd made it home safely.

No such luck this time.

Which makes me feel like he really is mad at me. Or that I scared him off.

I want to text him. I can't shake the guilt of snapping at him and practically blaming him for my shitty assignment. But I also don't have the time to chat. I'm afraid he'd invite me over and I'd have to decline.

I groan aloud and slam my back down onto the bed.

I'm lying to myself.

I don't want to text him because I'm afraid he won't respond. I'm afraid I royally fucked things up.

I'm afraid he's with another woman already.

This has been the norm since I got home to my apartment, which suddenly feels so unimpressive. The cozy vibe is now claustrophobic. It feels like there's no room for me and all my doubts, fears, anxiety, and frustration. If I'm not thinking about a different angle to tackle this baby drama from, I'm overanalyzing my last interaction with Sam or imagining him happily and enthusiastically forgetting about me.

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