Page 43 of For the Plot
“It’s the daddy issues.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she says, maddeningly casual. “Tall, old enough to know better, emotionally unavailable, dominant energy, definitely repressing feelings from some trauma? Baby girl, this is textbook. If you opened Freud’s diary, I bet your name would be scribbled in the margins.”
“I do not have daddy issues,” I hiss.
Maya snorts. “You literally told me you want him to ruin you.”
“That’s not daddy issues, that’s just—” I fumble for a word. “That’s lust with a side of executive fantasy.”
She cackles. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, every time he calls you ‘Miss Rhodes,’ I know your panties evaporate on the spot.”
“They do not,” I whisper, scandalized and completely full of shit.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, babe.”
“I mean, what even qualifies as daddy issues anymore?” I mutter. “Just because a girl wants a man to boss her around, tell her she’s a good girl, and maybe occasionally pin her against a glass wall doesn’t mean she has daddy issues,” I blurt, louder than I mean to.
Too loud. The word bounces off the walls like a ricocheting bullet. I freeze, eyes darting toward Reece’s office. His chair is empty. Jacket still draped over the back like he just stepped away.
Fuck.
Maya goes silent for a beat. “Skye?”
“I think I just screamed ‘daddy issues’ in an open floor plan that is very, very echoey.”
“Oh my God,” she whispers, gleeful. “Did anyone hear?”
“I don’t know.”
I peer toward the kitchen area. Nothing. I let out a slow breath. “Okay. He’s not in his office, and no one’s popping out of a potted plant to fire me, so I think I’m good.”
“For now,” she singsongs.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Please tell me if he spanks you for insubordination.”
“Goodbye, Maya.”
I end the call, still internally screaming, and sit there another minute pretending I’m fine before grabbing my mug and heading to the kitchen for more coffee I absolutely don’t need.
But just as I round the corner, I nearly slam straight into him. Of course.
Because the universe is a petty little drama queen with a flair for psychological warfare.
“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping back too quickly, my arm brushing his chest before I can catch myself.
His hand catches my elbow, just a brush of fingers, but it’s enough. Enough to jolt my already-fried nervous system into full, chaotic overdrive.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low and far too calm for the way I’m falling apart internally.
No. I’m not. I’m not okay. I’m spiraling. I’m horny. And you’re looking at me like youknowit.
“Fine,” I lie. “Too much caffeine. Not enough food.”
His mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but thinks better of it. “There are pastries in the lounge.”
