Page 4 of Arranged Addiction
Which is good because it means I won’t be subjected to his nightmarish whims anymore. But bad since there’s no way I’ll ever find an entry-level job that pays so much.
See ya later, house of my own. I can already picture it receding into the distant mists of time.
“You’re right. I apologize. I’m mortified, honestly. I was too embarrassed to have that shipped to my house since I still live with my aunt. She opens my mail sometimes, mostly because she’s not paying close attention, and I didn’t want her to find all that stuff. I thought it would be safer coming here.”
His expression somehow hardens. He goes from cold to straight-up polar iceberg. “Not the best judgment ever.”
“Please, Mr. Whelan. That box was a whim.” I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel the whole story spilling out of me in a torrent, and I can’t seem to shut myself up. “I’ve been stood up ten times in the last six months. I haven’t been on more than two dates with a man since high school. It’s like I’m putting out some kind of repulsive pheromone or something. I saw that Spicy Self-Care box was on sale and I thought maybe it would help make me feel more confident, and maybe that would help me feel less lonely, and now I’m saying it out loud and I realize how pathetic it is, and I’m sorry, Mr. Whelan. You can fire me now. Actually, no, don’t worry, I’ll just pack my stuff. You don’t have to speak.”
I walk over to his desk, shaking, tears in my eyes, feeling miserable and terrible in a way I’ve never experienced before. It’s one thing for a guy to ditch me on a first date, but this is somehow more humiliating.
I’ve known Declan Whelan for two years now, but we’ve never shared anything private with each other. Our relationship has been strictly professional.
Now I feel exposed in a way I never wanted with him. Mr. Whelan’s not the kind of man I want to spill all my patheticsecrets to, but now that it’s too late to shut myself up, my only option is to quit with some little piece of my dignity intact.
A very, very little piece, but still.
I gather up my Spicy Self-Care box. The vibrator somehow turns on again and makes the whole thing buzz. “Oh, shoot,” I say, fumbling it and dropping the whole mess on the floor. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m so sorry.” I gather all my stuff up, shut off the vibrator, and get to my feet.
Tears burn my eyes. My throat’s a lump. I want to run away, but Mr. Whelan’s standing right next to me now.
He smells good. I love the cologne he wears. I picked it out for him during Christmas last year, and he still puts it on every day. One of the very few things I like about him.
“Put the box at your desk, please, Ms. Brennan, and make sure you tape it shut.” He licks his lips and for a second, he’s staring at me like he’s picturing what I might look like in that first little outfit.
But that can’t be possible. Declan Whelan is cold-blooded. A beautiful specimen, but I’m pretty sure he’s more lizard than human.
“You don’t want that. I mean, I’m leaving, you don’t have to?—”
“You are not leaving. If you’re putting in your resignation, it is not accepted.”
My eyes go wide. I’m having trouble understanding. “But, Mr. Whelan?—”
“CallDolce Vita, ask for a table tonight at eight.”
“Your—your usual, sir?”
He shakes his head. “A table for two. My driver will pick you up at exactly seven forty-five. You will dress appropriately for the venue, Ms. Brennan.”
I stare at him, mouth hanging open. “I don’t—you mean—I don’t understand.”
“You and I are going to have dinner.” He stares at me, completely deadpan. I have no idea if he’s kidding or if he just commanded me out on a date. “If there’s nothing else, please return to your desk and get back to work.”
I can’t move. I’m trapped in his office. I’m pretty sure I must’ve gotten my head chopped off and now I’m in hell. This is a sick joke. Mr. Whelan, my sexy-as-sin Boss Bastard, saw my Spicy Self-Care box and now he’s demanding that I go out to dinner with him?
This makes no sense.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur, mostly out of pure muscle memory, and walk stiffly back to my chair. I slump down as his door closes behind me with a soft click.
I stare at the vibrator. It’s sitting there like a sick joke.
When he opened the box, I assumed I’d be murdered and/or fired.
Instead, it sounds like I have dinner plans.
Chapter 2
Casey
