Fallen (Stolen, Book Three) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (7 page)

I
’m not
sure I’ve ever been this nervous in my entire life.

My hand shakes so hard it takes three tries to get my building pass to swipe past the reader. Since my access won’t let me in until six, I had to wait to come in. I slept like crap last night and finally got up just before four, giving up the struggle. The last two hours have basically involved staring at the clock, checking my email to see if Dane was going to write me back (as if he’d be sending off emails to his goofy assistant at four in the morning) and willing time to pass faster. Yeah, that wasn’t nerve-wracking or anything.

Today’s gonna suck when my coffee wears off.

The floor is dim when my elevator dings open; only a couple of people, bleary-eyed and shuffling, are in the office right now, clutching mugs of coffee like lifelines. I make a straight line for my desk, and when I spot the red journal, my lungs exhale hard.

I almost drop to the ground in sweet relief. It’s here. I’m okay. The nerves that were eating me alive fade away, and all the knots in my back loosen. My secret is still safe.

After tucking the journal neatly in my purse and zipping it closed, I settle into my desk and open my email. My heart zips into a fast gallop as I see he finally responded. But when I open it, my heart slows, as Dane gave his usual abrupt reply to my message, saying it was fine. No mention of the journal. The last of my tension eases. For the next hour I dig through more email, answering random client questions, setting up meetings for Dane, until he strolls into the office, wearing a black suit that looks tailored for his lean form, as usual.

My face bursts into flames from residual guilt at the thought of my journal left here, exposed overnight. No, he might not have read my words, but I know what I wrote, and I know the way my body vibrates when I look at him.

“Good morning, Dane,” I murmur politely as he passes by my desk.

He flicks me the briefest of looks. “Morning, Emme.” Nothing on his face or in his body language indicates any weirdness. Okay, he seems a little more clipped than usual, but he’s often like that in the morning, when he’s in a hurry to get his day started. It could also be a hint of residual irritation at me leaving without letting him know last night, even if he said it was fine in his email to me.

Dane goes right toward his office without a backward glance at me, and the door clicks closed behind him.

My heart deflates a touch at the clear dismissal, and I instantly make myself shake that off. Just because I’m having these conflicted feelings for him doesn’t mean he feels anything in return or thinks about me in any other way than work-related. It’s ridiculous to hope for otherwise.

In fact, it’s good that he’s treating me normally. I should be happy for that.

I
should
be. But I’m not. Because deep down inside, a teeny, tiny part of me wondered about the possibility of him reading the journal and maybe feeling something for me too. Of him strolling in today and giving me all the things I’ve fantasized about non-stop for six months now.

The ways I torture myself sometimes are astounding.

I busy myself with emails and other administrative work until ten minutes before our morning meeting. Then I gather my iPad for record keeping and go to the meeting room to get it ready. I set out coffee and pastries, creamer and sugar, napkins and paper cups. Dane’s quite particular about preparation.

And I like to please him.

Once everything is ready, I settle into my seat on the far side of the room and quietly wait for people to arrive.

The stream comes in slowly. Lauren, one of the younger designers, enters the room, her fiery red hair twisted in a cute bun on the back of her head as her skirt sways to mid-calf from her stride. She’s talking rapid-fire with Carl, her free hand waving in the air, and they take their seats near the front of the room.

Lauren glances over at me and gives me a friendly, polite smile. “Good morning, Emme.”

“Morning,” I say back with a nod. Part of me wishes I were assertive enough to get to know her better, maybe take her out for a cup of coffee and pick her brain about what it’s like being in her position, doing what I hope to be doing after grad school, but I’m not quite there yet. I still feel the difference in our levels far too keenly to try to act like I’m on par with her. It also doesn’t help that I’m a little too shy to reach out to people—or even to speak up in our meetings and offer my thoughts on the subject matter at hand.

The one time I did talk a couple of months ago, Carl pulled me aside after the meeting and suggested in his usual patronizing tone that I stick to what I’m good at—fetching coffee and taking notes. I was mad for days afterward. But it shut me up, reminded me that I have to earn respect.

Carl’s gaze roves over the pastries, then he looks at me with disappointment. “No donuts today?” It’s clear the lack of donuts has let him down, and therefore by extension, I let him down also. Shocker.

A snippy retort about his ability to buy his own damn donuts if he wants them so badly, is right on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back, make myself offer a stiff smile. “Nope. But we can get some later this week if you want.”

He’s already checked out halfway through my reply to him, turning his attention to the packet of notes in front of him. Whatever. Every company has an asshole like him, so I’d better get used to dealing with his like. Whether he knows it or not, he’s offering me valuable life experience.

Dane enters the conference room, and my heart hitches. I drag my attention to my iPad and open up the note-taking program.

“Morning, everyone,” Dane says in that smooth voice of his. “Let’s start the meeting by discussing the progress on our current accounts.”

For the next several minutes, I busy myself with typing on the iPad as fast as I can. The work draws me in, and I find my earlier tension slipping away. This is what it’s all about. Identifying client needs and addressing them the best way we can.

Dane mentions the Sanderson account and how the client liked the informal pitch he presented to them last week. When I finish writing his statement and Lauren’s voice chimes in with an update on the client she’s in the middle of working with, my eyes are drawn up and connect with Dane’s.

The way he’s staring at me, like I’m the only person in the room and he can see right through me into my head, into my soul, makes the air whoosh out of my lungs. Those chocolate-brown eyes are locked on mine with a knowing look. Right now, I can’t tear my own gaze away, even though my pulse is roaring in my head and my hands clench involuntarily.

Because I suddenly know that he knows.

It’s right there on his face, in his eyes, in the press of his lips and tension of his jaw. He read my journal. He saw my deepest, intimate secrets, and he’s letting me know it. And not just the secrets about him, but about my brother’s accident too, about my lingering sadness over Mom’s death. The loneliness. The guilt and anger and frustration I feel over the burden of being Robert’s caretaker. All my heart, ripped open and laid upon the page.

All there for him to see.

To judge.

My throat tightens so much that it hurts to swallow. I drop my gaze back to the tablet and struggle to listen past the painful throbbing of my heart, which is pumping blood to every extremity in a hot rush. My fingers shake as I type.

Oh God, oh God, he knows, and I just want to die.
The words ricochet through my head in a panic. How am I going to get through the rest of this day? How will I get through the rest of my employment here, for that matter? How can I ever look him in the eye again, knowing that he’s aware of all the wicked things I want him to do to me?

I’ve never felt more embarrassed in my life.

“—that’s all, then we can move on to new business,” Dane is saying, jarring me out of the cycle of fear in my head. Nothing in his voice indicates that that moment happened between us, something I’m thankful for and also kind of frustrated about, if I’m honest. I’m clearly the only person shaken up about this. But that’s good, right? It means he isn’t so horrified with what he read that he can’t keep his cool façade.

It also means he doesn’t feel for me anything close to what I feel for him.

Perhaps I imagined the moment, I decide. Maybe what I took as an all-knowing look was really just him being impatient with my typing speed. Or maybe I want him to know my feelings for him to the point where I’m starting to hallucinate.

I’m so mixed up that I don’t even know how to handle all of this.

I stiffen and attempt to shake off my own personal misery, blinking back tears that threaten to fill my eyes. Either way, I’m sure as hell not going to screw this opportunity up by doing what I so desperately want to do—run right out of the building and never look back.

Whether he read my journal or not, I need to keep the act going, just like he seems to be doing.

“Dane, I think we should start pursuing bigger fish,” Carl says. He has that egomaniac smile on his face, the one that makes me want to roll my eyes. But for once, I’m semi-happy to be in the same room as him, if only because he distracts me from my own problems.

“Do you have any particular ‘fish’ in mind?” Dane asks him mildly.

“A few.” Carl leans forward, elbows on the table, and steeples his fingers, purses his lips. “But we can take that back to your office to discuss after this meeting is done. I’d love to get your personal feedback.”

Dane quirks a brow, the only emotional expression on his face. “Isn’t that the purpose of this meeting? To discuss it here and now? With everyone else in the room, so they can also give their feedback and thoughts?” Yeah, he totally reads through Carl’s bullshit. Carl just wants to pretend like he’s more important than everyone else in the room—so important that he requires private meetings to discuss new client acquisition.

Carl’s cheeks turn red. “Oh, I guess so, sure. I thought—“

“Come back and discuss concrete details with us when you’re prepared to do so,” Dane smoothly says. After another twenty minutes or so discussing strategies for approaching already agreed-upon potential clients, he says, “Okay, I think we’re done here. Let’s wrap this up and get back to work.”

Everyone around me stands, a few hands reaching out to snag the remaining pastries. I keep my attention carefully on the iPad, pretending like I’m solving world hunger or something that requires every ounce of my focus. I’m proud of how steady my breathing is.

A couple of minutes pass in this manner, with the crowd thinning and me clicking away on the tablet’s smooth surface. I figure I’ll wait in here until the room clears, then exit, chin high.

“Emme,” I hear Dane say, and the way he speaks my name sends shivers across my skin. God, it’s shameful. I hate thinking that even if he knows what I wrote about him, and even if he’s disgusted by it, I can’t stop my physical reaction to the man. I hear the door click closed and risk a glance up.

He’s standing at the door, looking hard at me. I can’t read the expression on his face. The professional wall has slammed down around him.

My heart is jackhammering in my chest.
Chin up,
I remind myself.
Dignity. Pride.
I stand and close the cover of the iPad. “I’m going to my desk to clean up these notes. I’ll email them to you as soon as I’m done.”

He sighs, and I see the façade crack for just a moment. Something flickers in his gaze, but I’m not sure what I’m seeing. “Emme. You need to be…” He clears his throat. “Please be more careful with your personal artifacts.”

And there it is. Spoken out loud.

The look he gave me during the meeting wasn’t just my imagination.

Oh my God.

It’s real. And I feel sick.

I force my gaze to stay on his and swallow, my face so hot I’m sure he can see the burn on my cheeks, my throat. “I apologize, Dane. I never intended for you or anyone else to read the material in there.” It costs me every ounce of energy in my bones to keep the next words from trembling off my tongue. “It was unprofessional of me to leave it out on my desk.”

Dane just looks at me for a long moment, then takes a few long strides toward me. I stay locked in place, unable to move. When he’s just a few inches from me, he peers down into my eyes. His scent fills my nostrils, and I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. His brow furrows; I can tell he wants to say something.

Is he wanting me to apologize for the way I feel? Should I?

Even if I don’t feel sorry for it?

Which I know is insane and possibly stupid. I should feel bad—I wrote dirty things about my boss and I was caught. But my guilt comes from being busted, not from having these feelings for him.

I can’t apologize if I don’t feel those emotions are wrong, except insofar as he’s uncomfortable from having seen them. Then again,
he
was the one looking in
my
private property.

Like he’s reading my head, he murmurs, “Be that as it may, reading the book was an error on my part.” His words are a breath caressing my skin.

Suddenly I want to know his thoughts on it, if only to help reinforce that I need to stop fantasizing about him by hearing out loud that he isn’t attracted to me. But I can’t make myself ask.

“Are you…” I clear my throat. “Do you want me to give you my resignation?”

“What? No.” The words are almost barked out, and I jerk in response. His body seems a little stiff, and he takes a step back. His voice is much more even as he continues. “There’s no need for you to quit over this, Emme. We’re both adults.”

I nod. It’s relieving, at least partially, that I’m not going to get sacked. I can tell he expects us to go about business as normal, and I’m determined to do my best. I’m sure as hell never bringing that journal within a thousand yards of this building again, I know that for sure.

I just hope I can pretend everything is okay, that the massive weight on my chest might not do me in.

I’m still at least partly in shock. He admitted to reading my journal, filled with pages and pages of intimate details and sexual acts involving him and I that were pornographic at best.