Page 32 of Brassy Bigwig

“And what kind of person are you, Mr.—”

“Dimitrios. Please, call me Dimitrios.”

“Which version of you is more accurate, Dimitrios?”

His eyes light up when his name rolls off of my lips.

“Are you the romantic gentleman who rescued me by the poolside? The generous lover whose bed I shared? Or the arrogant asshole who has been making my life a living hell the past month?”

Tension tics in his jaw as I spit those final words at him. Does he know who he is? Is he afraid to tell me? Afraid it will drive me away? I’m halfway gone already, so it might not matter anyhow.

“I guess you could say all of them are different parts of me.”

I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he’d try to excuse his way out of his behavior the past month.

“The reason for my brash behavior as your boss has nothing to do with you. Ever since… my mistake… I’ve kept my distance from my assistants. They only work out of this office, instead of with me in California. I only communicate through email so everything is in writing. I’m short with them so nothing I say will come off as flirtatious or anything other than professional.”

He takes a deep breath and runs his hand over his chin.

“And I don’t give out my real name because when people know who I am, they don’t see me. They see dollar signs. It’s really hard getting to know someone when you’re wondering if they’re with you for you or for your money.”

There’s a reason I don’t give my real name to people also. It was because of a guy I met at a bar once. Things started out great, but he got more and more clingy as the night went on. He ended up finding out where I lived and stalking me. Shelby and I had to move twice before he ended up getting arrested for something unrelated. I haven’t heard from him since, thankfully.

“Safety reasons.” I don’t want to delve into the details with him just yet, so that’s as much of a reason as he’s getting. “It's why I gave you the wrong name. And regardless of why you did the same thing, that still doesn’t give you the right to come in here and treat me like shit.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I’d like to start over, if you’ll let me.”

He places a hand gently on my knee, and I know I’m in trouble. Suddenly, all I can think about is climbing into his lap and telling him I forgive him.

But I can’t.

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