Page 39 of Just The Way You Aren't

Because the woman has addled my brain, that’s why.

If I need any more reason to convince myself that last night can’t ever happen again, this is it. My focus should be on my business, not bedding the adorable—not to mention impossibly sweet and kind—young woman whose innate sunshine would only dim and fade away in my world.

I finish dressing for work, swearing when I open my cufflink drawer and find that my housekeeper has reorganized my things—again. It takes me an extra three minutes to locate the pair I want and put them on. When I pass Eliza in the hallway on my way out, I scowl. Willow’s exit couldn’t have happened a moment too soon, now that my household staff had arrived for the day. They’re discreet enough, but I prefer to keep my personal life personal.

“Eliza,” I snap, my grumpiness spilling out, “for the umpteenth time, stop reorganizing my things.”

She stiffens and arches an overly plucked and graying eyebrow. “When you put them in the right place, I will stop organizing them.”

I groan. I don’t have time for this. “We’ll talk later.”

I take the stairs two at a time while she mutters something unintelligible behind me. How my driver, Heinrich, puts up with her is beyond me. They’ve been married for longer than I’ve been alive. Sometimes Eliza graces him with the occasional smile—but only sometimes. My driver still watches her when she’s not looking, though, and I can see the love in his eyes.

Love. Hell. What do I know about that, anyway?

The drive to the office is hectic with Saturday morning traffic. Or as I like to call it, pre-Sunday traffic. There are too many people in the city, everyone going somewhere at the same time, and not fast enough for my liking. Some days, I wish I had a monster truck and could just plow right over them. The way I’m feeling now, my thoughts still churning over Willow, I wouldn’t mind crushing their cars under my wheels.

Once I get to the Langley Enterprises building, I find Alfred Rothchild and Samuel Parsons in my office. This is not a welcome discovery in the slightest, especially considering all the work I need to get done. My anger ramps up higher. “Yes?” I manage to growl.

“Good morning to you, too, Damien,” Alfred says.

I glower at him. “What do you want?”

“We just wanted to congratulate you on your efforts to salvage your image.” Alfred grins. “Several pictures were taken of you last night at the Alzheimer’s Search for the Cure charity.A few really interesting ones of you kissing the Executive Director of Silver Hearts. Bravo.”

My eye tics at the way he’s gloating over this. “You have a point you’re trying to make here?”

Alfred reaches into his suit jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. "Actually, I was just curious about your sudden... dedication to this charity work." He swipes through a few photos before turning the screen toward me.

It's a picture of Willow and me on the red carpet from last night. Her radiant smile lights up the frame while I'm looking at her with an expression I barely recognize on my own face. I look... softer somehow. Christ, I look happy.

"The board is impressed with your sudden change of heart, Damien," Alfred continues, his tone dripping with false sincerity. "We never imagined you’d become so invested in this little demonstration of community service."

He makes it sound slimy, like him. I slide my laptop out of my briefcase, ignoring him. "If that's all, gentlemen, I have work to do."

Samuel Parsons clears his throat. He's always been the more reasonable of the two, which isn't saying much. "The Silver Hearts partnership has generated some excellent publicity, Damien. The rest of the board is very pleased with how this seems to be working out."

"Good to hear," I say flatly, powering on my computer.

"Tell me," Alfred says, leaning forward with a smirk that makes my jaw clench, "how far are you willing to go for this image rehabilitation? Based on last night's performance, it seems like you're going... all in."

I look up from my screen slowly. "What exactly are you implying, Alfred?"

He shrugs, feigning innocence. "Just that you seem to havefound a veryhands-onapproach." He swipes to another photo—this one catching Willow and me in a more intimate moment near the bar, my hand resting at the small of her back, her body angled toward mine.

"Ms. Harper seems quite taken with you," Samuel observes, smiling as he peers at the photo over Alfred's shoulder. "Though I suppose maybe that was part of the plan?"

The implication hangs in the air. I feel my blood pressure rising.

"My relationship with Ms. Harper is professional," I say carefully, my voice dropping to a dangerous register. Even as I say the words, it’s a struggle for me not to imagine Willow naked beneath me last night—or against the door in my foyer.

Alfred chuckles. "Of course it is. I'm sure that's why she was also seen leaving your townhouse earlier this morning wearing the same red dress from last night’s gala." He quirks an eyebrow. "Very dedicated to the cause, aren't you? Willing to really... put yourself deep into your work."

Rage seethes through me like acid as I rise slowly from my chair. "You need to choose your next words very carefully, Alfred."

"Oh, come now, Damien," he says, spreading his hands. "We're all businessmen here. Using every asset at your disposal is just good strategy. The board doesn't care how you fix your image problem, as long as it gets fixed." His smile turns wolfish. "And that chesty redhead seems like an excellent... asset. Pretty little thing. Bit naïve perhaps, but I'm sure that makes her easier to handle."

My vision narrows, a red haze creeping in at the edges. I round the desk in two strides.

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