I continue on like this for the next twenty minutes, stuttering and stumbling through the numbers. Numbers I know like the back of my damn hand.
Tap-tap-tap.
I’m completely off-balance, unable to focus, and entirely ineffectual.
Scarlett Evans has neutered me.Me. Nick Hart.
So much for cold, calculating, and unfeeling.
The tabloids would have a goddamn field day if they could see me now.
I draw a breath to clear my mind and blow it out slowly as I straighten my tie and smooth down the front of my shirt. I will not give her the satisfaction of seeing me sweat. Even if the last time I felt this way, I was a kid bouncing around the foster care system, totally unsure of my footing.
“Let’s take a ten-minute break,” Miles suggests. “We’ll pick up where we left off at three forty-five.”
There’s a murmur of assent, and the management team files out of the boardroom with Scarlett following close behind. She stops at the door and glances over her shoulder, but then she slips out with the rest. The door closes silently behind her and Miles turns to me, brows pulled low, concern etched in the lines of his face.
“What the hell is going on with you?”
It’s a good fucking question. Fair, too, considering my piss-poor performance.
But how can I tell him Scarlett—his French Poodle wearing, snarky note taking, secretly sassy assistant—is the devil who’s thrown me off-kilter?
He probably wouldn’t believe me.
I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t experienced it firsthand.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the table. “It’s like your mind is somewhere else.” He frowns. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”
“No.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Not entirely untrue, since that little devil plagued my dreams as well.
“I get it. We’re all stressed with the Epos launch.” He eases back in his seat, contemplative. “Hell, we all deserve a vacation once it’s done, but for the next hour, you need to get your shit together and put a lid on the distractions.”
As if putting a lid on Scarlett Evans could ever be that easy.
Chapter Eleven
Scarlett
One glance at my email, and it’s clear I made the right choice grabbing a tall latte macchiato on my way to work this morning. I’m going to needallthe caffeine to sort through this mess.
It’s like I didn’t even clean out my inbox yesterday.
Why? Why do people insist on sending emails overnight? Do they think the company is going to collapse if they don’t answerright now? Is it because they want everyone to know they’re overworked, or is it just a way of proving they put in long hours? Am I supposed to feel bad because I don’t?
If so, it’s a futile effort. I want a full life. One that includes more than just a career. I’m all for working hard, but I have no interest in being chained to my job twenty-four seven.
Unlike Nick, who emailed me at eleven o’clock last night.
We haven’t really spoken since our last meeting, but I can hardly fault him. I’ve made a point of being engrossed in my work every time he passes through reception. Mainly to avoid pissing him off again, since, for now at least, he has no plans to spill the tea on my creative note-taking.
Thank the devil for small favors.
My mouse hovers over the email subject line. It’s a reply to my list of ideas for the Valentine’s social. I should open it later. I have other, more pressing duties—Miles didn’t hire me to plan parties after all—but I’m too excited to wait.
Besides, if I don’t open it now, I’ll just spend the rest of the morning wondering which of my ideas he liked best, and if he added any of his own to the list.
