Page 146 of Sexting the Boss

“Oh. Well that’s comforting,” I say flatly, pulling the sheet up to my chest. “Glad someone gets a free pass.”

He exhales hard. “Sasha?—”

“No, it’s fine,” I cut in, shifting away just a little. “She shows up here, uninvited, just days after someone tries to kidnap me and an intruder breaks into your apartment, but sure, Nina’s totally above suspicion.”

“I’ve known her a long time,” he says, his tone tight.

“And you’ve known me for…what? A couple months?”

He sits up too, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “This isn’t about comparing you to her?—”

“Good,” I say, sliding off the bed and grabbing for the robe hanging on the chair. “Because you’d lose.”

That gets a reaction. His eyes flash, and for a second, I wonder if we’re about to dive into another one of our arguments where yelling somehow leads to sex.

But instead, he just watches me. Quiet. Brooding. Like he knows he said the wrong thing, but he doesn’t know how to take it back.

I tie the robe tighter than necessary and glance at him. “I’m not asking you to stop trusting people. I’m asking you not to be blind.”

Then I walk toward the bathroom door.

Because whether he follows me or not…

I need air.

And maybe, just maybe, I need him to choose who he trusts before it’s too late.

The suite is quiet when I step out of the bathroom, towel pressed to my face. I had hoped a splash of cold water would take the edge off the irritation bubbling inside me. Spoiler: it didn’t.

I walk back to the bedroom, heart still hammering a little from our fight—though I’m not sure what’s fueling it more—Damien’s refusal to consider Nina as a suspect, or the fact that I hate how much I care.

The bed is empty.

The space where Damien had been—warm, rumpled, filled with his scent—is now smooth and cold.

Seriously? He left?

Not a word? Not even a dramatic door slam to let me know he was pissed too?

“Great,” I mutter, tossing the towel onto the armchair and grabbing my phone from the nightstand. “That’s just perfect.”

I check the time. 8:20 PM.

My stomach drops.

I was supposed to meet Ryan over an hour ago.

Crap.

And to make it worse, there’s a text from him sitting politely unread.

Ryan: Hey, everything okay? I’m still here for a few more minutes if you’re coming.

Of course he is. Because Ryan is actuallyniceand normal and doesn’t live in a mansion with armed guards and ex-girlfriends that slink around like Bond villains.

I flop down on the edge of the bed, typing out a response.

Me: Hey, I’m really sorry. Something came up and I completely lost track of time. Hope you didn’t wait too long. Rain check?

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