Page 4 of You Rock My World
She studies me now. Less shy, more feisty. “Am I supposed to pretend I didn’t know that?”
I grin, shrugging. “Up to you. All I ask is that you tell me your name in return. Fair trade?”
She hesitates, then replies, “Josie.”
3
JOSIE
September—Present Time
I stride through the revolving door of my office building, gripping my mocha latte—the only thing keeping me upright. Unfortunately, caffeine can’t erase the dark circles under my eyes or unknot the tangle of despair in my chest.
I haven’t slept well these past few weeks. Running into Dorian at that stupid party a month ago blew six months of therapy to hell. All the work on shutting unattainable fantasies out, setting clear goals for myself, staying rooted in reality…poof—undone by a fifteen-minute conversation. Now everything triggers me. Yesterday, it was his new single playing on the radio. After that, I couldn’t sleep. Images of him kept flashing through my mind in a relentless onslaught—him on stage, his chiseled features on the big screen, that time I had the sexiest man alive to myself for ten hours. My brain replayed every second we shared that night on a loop.
By 3a.m., I was still on the couch, eyes bloodshot, surrounded by KitKat wrappers, streaming his latest album. Each song burned through me like acid.
I shake my head to dislodge the memories. I need to project less “heartbroken walking zombie” and more “adult woman in charge.” Not easy when the first obstacle of my day is the same steel trap where this ridiculous crush began. I pause at the elevator bank, eyeing the call button like it might detonate. Do I want to revisit the scene of the crime? Stir up everything again by stepping into the same twenty-five square feet where I first met Dorian? The alternative is twenty flights of stairs. Good for my mental health and thighs, but terrible for composure. I can’t sashay into the office a sweaty disaster. With a sigh of resignation, I opt for the elevator of doom and broken dreams.
As I step inside, I half-expect to see his devastatingly handsome smirk again. But it’s just me and my tragic reflection in the mirrored walls. I jab the button for my floor harder than necessary, as if the innocent plastic were withholding vital answers I could push out of it.
The ride is mercifully solitary and uneventful, if not a little heartbreaking and panic-inducing. When the doors slide open, I take a fortifying breath and stride out. Confident. Poised. Ready to fake it until I make it.
My positive vibes shatter as Pam, the assistant I share with the other junior associates in the tech division, greets me with a too-bright smile, her eyes darting nervously.
Bad news is coming.
“Morning, Pam. What’s with the?—”
“Nadine wants to see you. Right now,” she announces in a rush, confirming my suspicions.
Nadine Fox is the founder and CEO of the company. A summons from her rarely bodes well.
With a nod, I head for the stairwell, regretting my stilettos. This morning, the heels felt like a power move against the black hole of my ill-fated feelings. Now, they just feel impractical. But since Nadine is only two floors up, I’ll take the sore feet over another elevator ride. Besides, the climb will help clear my head before facing whatever fresh hell awaits me in the big boss’s office.
I emerge on the top floor winded but marginally more composed. Nadine’s secretary waves me straight through.
The office is minimalist perfection, with sleek white furniture, expansive windows framing a breathtaking view of downtown, and a desk that, for all its simplicity, probably costs more than my car.
Nadine sits behind it, looking sharp in a crisp white blazer. She fixes me with her cold blue gaze, gesturing for me to sit.
“Josie, thanks for coming up.” Her tone is polite, but I detect an undercurrent of irritation. “I have some unexpected news.”
I feel like a bug about to be squashed. “Oh?”
“Missy was rushed to the hospital last night. Pregnancy complications. She’s fine,” Nadine adds, seeing my stricken reaction. “But she’s been put on bed rest until further notice.”
“That’s awful. I didn’t even know she was pregnant.” Missy is in charge of the celebrity division. We’re friendly, but not close.
“She hadn’t told anyone at the office except for me, she’s just finishing the first trimester. We were making plans to cover her maternity leave, but now everything’s been fast-tracked.”
I process the new info, not fully grasping why Nadine is tellingme, but not liking where this is going.
“I’m reassigning her clients in the interim.”
“To her juniors, right?” I aim for a breezy tone, but it comes out strangled.
Nadine’s eyes dissect me like a butterfly pinned to a board. “All but one… who specifically requested you.”
