Page 7 of These White Lies
It was embarrassing enough that my assistant picked me up from the hotel I’d checked into last night, since my home is a literal crime scene. Having her wait to drive me back to the office after my meeting with Luke is too much for me to take right now.
“I’ll get a car.”
Daria gives me a small smile as I push the car door open. “Elizabeth?”
Damn it!I keep a professional smile on my face and do my best not to react.
“Are you… okay?” The slight hesitation in her voice lets me know Daria is more than aware she’s stepping over theveryclear lines I’ve established for everyone I work with. Personal and professional lives don’t mix.
A lesson I learned the hard way.
The fact that she asks anyway makes my throat tighten.
“I’m fine.” I force my smile to widen. “Things might be messy for a while, but I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it.”
It’s a lie. I’m not fine. I feel hollow and wired, and frankly, I might throw up at any second. No matter how many times Itell myself that everything can be sorted… that there will be an explanation and a solution… I don’t believe it.
But, I can’t admit that to her.
“I’ve hired a crisis PR firm. If the press shows up at the office, direct them there. If clients call, reassure them I’m working and not to be concerned. Use the exact language the crisis firm provides.”
I pause before shutting the car door. “And make sure everyone understands that speaking to the press will be grounds for immediate termination.”
Daria flinches, and I immediately regret my harsh words. My stomach twists at her dimmed expression. “I’m sorry, I…” My mouth snaps shut. I don’t know how to walk it back without revealing just what a mess I really am on the inside. With a thin smile, I turn and stride into the high-rise and across the marble floor, my heels clicking loudly.
The elevator ride feels longer than it is. I take in my reflection in the mirrored doors, needing the reassurance it offers. Black skirt suit, a masculine-style, white, collared shirt, and red heels. My armor. The expensive red shoes and my makeup are my only nod at femininity these days at work.
My style wasn’t always this severe, not before...
Nope, not going there.
I press my damp palms against my skirt.
When the elevator doors slide open, Luke’s receptionist is waiting for me with a cool smile. My stomach sinks. Iknowthat smile. It’s the same one I’ve used with clients in crisis.
I follow her down the hallway with my chin high, shoulders back, refusing to let the unease curdling in my stomach show. I’m satisfied I’ve successfully hidden my emotions until we reach Luke’s office.
“What’shedoing here?” I snap.
Brady Worthington leans casually against Luke’s desk, ankles crossed, looking as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Immediately my hackles are up.
His dark hair is a little damp, and it waves back from his face, curling slightly at the nape. His arms are crossed in front of him, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, revealing tattooed forearms. The pose stretches the material tight across his bulging biceps, drawing my eyes and waking up the long dormant butterflies in my stomach.
Stop noticing.
His full lips lift in a lazy grin, as if he knows what I’m thinking, and that sets off another wave of flutters.
Fucking fuckity fuck.
I tear my eyes from his broad shoulders and powerful chest to glare at Luke.
There’s only one reason Brady Worthington would be here.
“Nope. Not happening.”
Luke frowns, looking between us. “Do you know each other?”
Biblically.
