Page 57 of Tempting Frankie
Just us.
But reality crashes down on me like a bucket of ice water. That goddamn calendar. Three weeks. Twenty-one days until our arrangement ends. The image of Francesca's journal, carelessly left open this morning, burns in my mind. Her neat handwriting, the countdown doodles, and that glaring red circle around the end date. It's seared into my retinas, a constant reminder that our time is slipping away.
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to sweep everything off my desk in frustration. Three fucking months. That's what I paid for, what I thought would be enough. But now? Christ, it feels like we've barely scratched the surface.
I grab my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. I want to call her, to demand she come up two floors to my office. To tell her... what? That I don't want this to end? That I'll pay foranother three months, six months, a goddamn year if that's what it takes?
But I can't. Because that's not what this is supposed to be. I'm not supposed to fall in love with the girl I hired because I saw her months ago and my obsession grew like a spore. The girl who's half my age. The girl who used to date my son, for fuck’s sake.
She's just waiting for that red-circled date. Once our contract is up, she'll walk away without a backward glance. And why shouldn't she? I'm just a job to her. A paycheck. A means to an end. Why else would she be keeping track of our days?
I'm in love with her. I'm in love with Francesca DeLuca, and the realization hits me like a freight train.
I pace the length of my office, running my fingers through my hair. How did this happen? When did this vibrant, sarcastic, beautiful woman burrow her way into my heart? Was it the first time I saw her truly laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkled? Or when she curled up against me after a nightmare, trusting me to keep her safe?
I can't lose her. The thought of Francesca walking out of my life in three weeks makes my chest constrict. I imagine her packing up her things, that guarded look back in her eyes. No more stolen kisses in the elevator. No more lazy Sunday mornings tangled in silk sheets. No more of her quick wit keeping me on my toes.
I stop in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the city below. What are my options here? I could offer to extend the contract. It would be the safe choice. Keep things professional, give us both an out. But the idea of reducing what we have to a business transaction now makes me want to vomit.
Or I could tell her the truth. Lay my heart bare and hope to God she feels even a fraction of what I do. But what if she doesn't? What if I've misread everything, and she's just counting down the days until she can escape?
My reflection stares back at me, jaw clenched. I refuse to let her go. The possessive part of me, the part I've tried to keep in check, rears its head. If I have to lock her in a tower like some fairy-tale princess, so be it. She's mine, dammit, and I'll move heaven and earth to keep her.
I pick up my phone again, this time dialing with purpose. “Make a reservation for two at Le Petit Château. The private room,” I bark at my assistant.
As I hang up, a memory flashes. Francesca curled up in my lap, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. “You know,” she'd murmured, “for a guy who's supposed to be all cold and ruthless, you're pretty soft.”
I'd scoffed then, but she was right. I am soft.
For her. Only for her.
I walk out of my office toward the elevator.
Hitting the down button, my impatience grows to get to this damn meeting over with and then execute my plan for Francesca.
The elevator dings, and I step inside, loosening my tie further. As the doors slide open on the floor below, I freeze. There's Cameron, sauntering out of Meredith's office like he owns the place. What the fuck is he doing here?
My eyes narrow as I take in his disheveled appearance. His usually perfectly coiffed hair is mussed, and his designer shirt is wrinkled. A faint whiff of Meredith's perfume hits my nostrils as he approaches. My jaw clenches.
“Dad!” Cameron's eyes widen in surprise. “Fancy seeing you down here.”
“I could say the same to you,” I reply, my voice low and controlled despite the anger simmering beneath the surface. “What brings you to my HR office?”
Cameron shrugs, aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile. “Oh, you know, just saying hi to Meredith before heading up to see you. We go way back, remember?”
I remember, all right. I remember the Christmas party three years ago when I caught them making out in the copy room. I remember the harassment seminar I had to mandate because of it. And I remember thinking my son couldn't possibly be more of a disappointment.
Looks like I was wrong.
“Is that so?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “And does 'saying hi' usually leave you looking like you've been through a wind tunnel?”
Cameron has the decency to look sheepish, running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to tame it. “Come on, Dad. It's not what you think.”
“What I think,” I say, stepping closer, “is that you need to remember where you are. This is a place of business, not your personal playground.”
He rolls his eyes, and for a moment, I see the petulant teenager he used to be. “Relax, old man. It's not like I'm the only one mixing business with pleasure around here.”
“Watch yourself, Cameron,” I growl, my voice low enough that only he can hear.
