Page 108 of Hard to Resist

“She wants to talk with Mr. Ross.” Her eyes slide to me. “Alone.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

VERITY

My feet tap anxiously as I keep eyeing the clock in the lower right-hand corner of my desktop. Just a few more minutes until five thirty.

“Did you send those new logos over to Sally?” Anne rests her hand on the wall separating our cubicles, referencing the UX designer on our team.

“Yeah, I just did. She’ll get the website mocks done for you in the morning so we can put them in the deck.”

“Will she have time to do all that before we meet with Frankie? Couldn’t you have sent them earlier?”

I swivel in my chair, raising a brow at her. “Frankie sent over a whole new color palette at three. It took me an hour to render everything again and download the files.”

This project is becoming a pain in the ass and is cementing my belief that working with celebrities and influencers is rarely worth the effort. The only positive is that working with Anne isn’t as awful as I’d initially imagined. She is so stressed from the project that she doesn’t really have the time to gloat in my face like she usually does. However, because she is so stressed, she keeps bugging me about the smallest details. Anne as a micromanager sucks, and Jenna isn’t doing much to rein her in.

“Could you maybe—”

“Sorry, it’s five thirty, I’m clocking out.”

I reach forward and turn off my two monitors before unplugging the HDMI cord from my laptop and closing that as well.

“Where are you rushing to?”

“Dinner plans.”

I slip my laptop into the pretty blue tote bag, trying to hide my excited smile. At first, I was super anxious to use it, but now, every time I look at it, I think of Cullen. It is still the most lavish gift I’ve ever gotten, and my heart does little flips whenever I see it.

“A date?” Anne’s curiosity is piqued, and it sets off little chimes in the back of my mind.

“No, meeting up with an old college friend.” I slip the tote bag over my shoulder and pocket my phone, the practiced lie slipping with ease. “See you in the morning.”

I skirt around her and speed walk out of the office, praying that no one else tries to stop me. I’ll have to be a little smarter about this in the future, keep my cards closer to my chest so no one picks up on the fact that I am dating a new guy.

It’s been a few days since Cullen and I started talking again, and I am already way out of my depth.

I’d planned on being coy, dipping my toes into the water and making small ripples in the pond. The issue is that Cullen had grabbed my ankle and dragged me into what turned out to be an ocean, and now the waves are crashing around me. I’m drowning in my emotions, trying to stay afloat and not let him pull me under. It’s inevitable, though.

Cullen is inevitable.

He has been since the moment I met him.

At some point, I’ll give in and surrender my heart to him—and something tells me that tonight will be that night.

He texted me yesterday evening to let me know he had booked us a special night out. I bugged him about it during ourcommute this morning, but he refused to let any of the details slip. All he told me was to wear something nice. As though that cryptic instruction didn’t give me even more stress.

My fingers bounce on the railing of the subway car as I make the journey uptown to my apartment. I have some time to get ready but not much. I am feeling a lot like Hannah right now, cursing the fact that our apartment is so far away from the main bustle of the city.

I practically sprint the few blocks from the station to our building, earning a few curious glances from people on the sidewalk. I manage to get into our apartment a little after six and take the next hour and a half to get ready.

Music hums from my phone as I flitter around the bathroom. I spend the extra time curling my hair, which I never do, and burn the nape of my neck in the process.

The outfit I painstakingly chose with Hannah last night lies on my bed. My freshly shaved skin feels like it’s sparkling as I slide on the short red dress. I only have three nice dresses in my closet, and I am lucky this one still fits—I last wore it three, maybe four years ago to a frat formal.

My phone goes off, the timer letting me know that I have to leave in the next few minutes to make the train.

I grab the purse Hannah has lent me once again and shove a lip gloss, breath mints, my credit cards, and Band-Aids inside before racing out the door. Well, racing is a relative term since I absolutely cannot run in heels—but I move as quickly as the three-inch pumps will allow me to without face-planting.

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