Page 48 of Mr. Wrong
“Where?” I have no right to ask but I do anyway because I laid awake all night, imagining him in bed with some bouncy, blonde extra from one of his brother’s movies and— “Where did you sleep last night?”
His brow furrows slightly like he doesn’t quite understand the question. “I crashed on one of the lounge chairs by the pool.”
“Oh… okay.” Relieved, I nod, forcing myself to move away from the bathroom doorway, toward the dresser across the room. “Well, that’s not necessary, you know?” Turning my back to him, I open one of the drawers he was thoughtful enough to clear out for me. Reaching in, I pull out a neatly folded pair of beige cotton underwear. “This is your place. I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Goddamn it, Ellenore.” He says it quietly but he may as well have screamed it at me because he sounds like his patience is worn thin. Like he’s seconds away from giving up. Like trying to have a conversation with me isn’t worth the effort.
“Yes.” Still wearing my robe, I shake out my underwear and hunch over to step into them. “I quit—not that it did me any good.” Straightening, I pull my underwear up and reach back into the drawer to fish out one of my equally boring cotton bras. “Your brother made it clear that while I’d be well within my contractual right to hand in my resignation, that doing so would be a very bad idea.”
“Why?” He’s closer. Not sitting on the side of the bed anymore. He’s standing behind me, less than a few feet between us. “Why did you quit? You said that you needed this job. That you—”
“Yeah?” Tossing my bra on top of the dresser, I reluctantly tug at the belt of my robe. “Andyou saidyou were going to do whatever it took to get me fired.” Belt loose, I peel out of my robe, letting it drop to the floor. Lifting my bra, I feed my arms through the straps and secure it in place. “You told your brother that if he didn’t fire me that you’d leave and I couldn’t let you do that to Cassie. I couldn’t be the reason she—”
“It worked.”
I stop moving for a second. Forget that my goal is to get dressed so I can get away from Lex and this conversation asquickly as possible. “What worked?” I ask but don’t turn around. “What are you talking about?”
“The littleI’m a selfless martyrroutine you pulled with my brother last night,” he tells me. “It worked—he woke me up this morning before he left to let me know he changed his mine. I won—you’re done here. As soon as he comes back from his trip, he’s going to fire you.”
He's going to fire you.
The words slam into me with the force of a slap, so hard and sharp, I feel the sting of them between my shoulder blades.
“Oh...” I nod my head, like it makes sense. Like it’s exactly what I want. “Good—that’s good. I’m glad he—”
“Good?” He makes the word sound like a curse. “Did you just say that’sgood?”
“Yes, Lex—I saidgood.” Sighing, I feel my shoulders slump because I’m suddenly tired. It hasn’t even been three days and I’m already tired. Tired of the fighting. Tired of the heavy feeling in my chest that only goes away when he’s touching me. Tired of the fact that Lex hates me. Blames me for everything that’s gone wrong in his life and that for some reason that doesn’t stop him from wanting to fuck me, every chance he gets. “I’m not built for this. I’m not made to—”
“Bullshit.”
The word is a whip lash across my back. A challenge to turn around and stand my ground. Stop letting people push me around. Start taking control of my own life.
Instead of meeting it head-on, I dodge and duck like I always do. “I can’t talk about this right now,” I tell him, snapping open the drawer where I stowed my jeans. “I have to finish getting ready and feed my cat and if I don’t get a move on it, I’m going to be—”
“Bullshit.” He says it again, louder this time. “You’re not going to be late and you didn’t try to quit because it’s what’s best for Cassie. You did it because you’re scared.”
That’s what does it. That’s what turns me around to stare up at him because what he just said wasn’t a whip lash, it was the verbal equivalent of a bullet train, smacking into me at the speed of sound. “Scared?” I say it like it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard and not the absolute truth. “Seriously? What’s to be scared of? Working for the most famous man in the world? Making so much money I’d need an armored car to haul it all away? Living on a multi-million-dollar estate?”
“Me.” He says it like it’s true. Like it’s an absolute fact. “You’re afraid of me. Of this,” he says, lifting a hand to gesture it between us. “Of us.”
“Us?” The word almost strangles me. That’s how big it is. How hard it is to push out of my mouth. So big and impossible I almost choke on it. “There’s nous, Lex. We barely even know each other.”
“Yeah—” He nods his head in agreement, giving me a small, tight smile. “and you’ve made sure it stays that way, haven’t you?”
“You don’t want me.” I shake my head, swiping another frustrated hand across my face because I meant to sayyou don’t want me herebut my stupid brain is starting to panic and nothing I say is coming out right.
“What?” he says, like I’m speaking in tongues turning his head to look at the bathroom. “That was you, right? In the shower?” Looking back at me he cocks his head. “That was—”
“I don’t knowwhothat was,” I say, my voice so sharp and loud, it snaps his mouth closed. “I don’t know who that was, but it wasn’t me…” I shake my head and wince a little because I know I’ve stopped making sense. “Look at me, Lex.” I say, holding my arms away from my body, showing him my beige cotton briefsand full coverage bra. “I’m vanilla pudding.” Dropping my arms, I sigh because my dumb brain has given up completely and left my mouth to fend for itself. “Guys like you don’t actuallylikevanilla pudding.”
“Is that right?” He gives me another smirk but it looks more like a grimace. Like it hurts. “And what doguys like melike?”
“I…” The question pushes me back, away from him until my ass hits the edge of the dresser. Leaning against it for support, I give him a helpless shrug. “I don’t know. Seventy-two hours ago, I didn’t even know that guys like youexisted—at least for girls like me.”
“Girls like you?” He says it cautiously, like he’s making a real effort at making sense of my rambling. “Pudding girls.”
“Yes.” I nod, feeling a little miserable because he understands what I’m trying to tell him. “I’m weird, awkward, boring pudding and you’re—”
