Filed to story: Swallow Me Whole (Sadie & Ashton) Book Free
As if to taunt me.
Oh my God. She’s his wife.
Clearing his throat, he gestures toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”
I’m not sure how my feet eat up the floor without making me stumble, but I manage to reach the chair without tattooing the word fool onto my forehead. I have a million and one questions ready to roll off my tongue, but I can’t find my voice.
Weakness seizes my knees, and I grab the back of the chair, refusing to sit down just yet. Reclaiming his seat on the other side of the desk, he runs a hand through his hair. That’s when the sight of his wedding ring blasts me in the chest, and I manage to squeeze the single most important question past my constricted throat.
“You’re married
?”
His wince is slight, but he can’t hide it. “If you’ll sit down, I’ll try to explain.” He’s eying me as if I might run from the building any second.
I’m tempted to keep my feet planted where they are, but damn it, I need answers as much as I need a job. Even more disturbing is how I want to sit and drink in the sight of him for the next decade or so. I lower into the chair and scoot to the edge, as if preparing to take flight, and force my eyes on him. Direct eye contact is a must in this situation, because he holds too much power over me.
If, by some twisted miracle, he does hire me, this is going to be a disaster of epic proportions, never mind the ratio of well to truly fucked.
“I don’t understand, Mr…” I trail off, his surname catching in my throat. It seems so…impersonal. “I thought we…on the plane…you’re married
?” I ask again, my voice rising to a high pitch. This man flusters me to no end, and I’m certain two pink spots are spreading across my cheeks.
“It’s Cash,” he says with a meaningful glance that shoots warmth over my body. “My name is Cash.”
There are other jobs out there—there has to be. Because I can’t do this. Not again, and certainly not with him. The pull I feel toward him is too strong.
I jump to my feet, and my purse smacks the front of his desk, making that fucking wedding photo vibrate. “Thank you for your time, but I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I scurry to the door until the command in his voice halts me.
“Sit down, Jules.”
A thrill travels down my spine, and a vision of him ordering me onto my knees flits through my mind. Where the fuck did that thought come from? I’m not even good at giving head—a shortcoming Chris never failed to point out. I gulp before turning around, knees shaking, and make my way back to the chair I just vacated.
“I know it’s a clich? thing to say…” he begins, leaning forward, “but it’s not what you’re thinking.” His fingers form a steeple under his chin, and I wonder if he’s as rattled as I am. I can’t tell by looking at him, which makes me question what else he might be hiding. In fact, when I think back to our time in the air, I’m sure he’s a master manipulator.
Because I had no fucking clue he was married. None. I knew he was involved with someone. But married? Fuck to the no.
“You’re right. That is a total clich?. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
“My marriage is complicated, Jules.”
Damn him for using my name again. Every time he does, the core of my sex pulses. The faster I get out of here, the better, and yet I can’t help but push back. “I imagine kissing strangers on planes would complicate a marriage.”
“I didn’t kiss you.”
“But you wanted to.” My accusation settles between us, heavy with the ring of truth.
“Yes, I wanted to,” he admits, “and I would have if things were different.”
“Meaning, if you didn’t have a wife waiting for you at home.” I feel like such a hypocrite, considering I cheated on Chris, but I can’t stop the rush of betrayal from flooding my system. It’s illogical, irrational, and it’s close to choking me.
“I wasn’t sure I had a marriage to go back to. If you remember, I’d just found out she was cheating on me.”
“So that makes it okay?”
“No,” he says, eyes on his fingers as they collapse and entwine on the desk. “It doesn’t make it okay. What I did was out of line. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“How can you promise that? We had a…a connection.” If he denies it, I might go crazy on him. And I’m not crazy. There’s no way I imagined the hunger in his eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong,” I challenge, gripping the arms of the chair. “Tell me those hours weren’t as real to you as they were to me? Tell me—“
“They were,” he interrupts, a soft plea in his tone.
“But you’re married!” I cover my mouth with a trembling hand. How the hell did I get stuck in this sadistic loop of deja vu?
Please, please, please have a good reason. Don’t be a slime ball.
God, the thought of him being a first-class douche is too much. Whether it makes sense or not, I fell hard for him in a matter of a few hours. Call it rebound. Call it insanity. It’s probably a mixture of both, but I can’t deny that I feel something for him.
Cash.
He’s no longer my sexy stranger. He has a sexy name. A sexy life. A sexy job. And a sexy wife I’d fuck if I were into women. I hate myself for admitting that.
He better have a damn good reason for omitting his matrimonial bliss.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” he says, pulling at his tie. “It was hard enough talking about her affair. It didn’t occur to me to share more than that. C’mon, Jules. Did you expect to see me again?”
I dreamed of it. Wished for it. But… “No.”
We’re saved from further discussion by the swish of an opening door. His wife stands with one hand cradling her hip. There’s no warmth in her glacier blue eyes, and despite the fact that I basically hate this woman now, I hate it more that she’s looking at him like that.
“I need to speak with you,” she tells him. “I’ll come back when you’re done here.”
He doesn’t even offer her a verbal acknowledgement. He merely nods his head, avoiding her eyes the whole time.
She prances through the door, letting it close in her wake, and I reevaluate my earlier assessment that she’s polite. And it isn’t due to jealousy, though I can’t deny that a dizzying amount of emotions are storming through me, and one of them might be a little green. The biggest reason for my mistrust of that woman is the way she walks—with a calculated sway to her hips. I recognize manipulation when I see it, because I’ve witnessed it many times in Brit.
Cash clears his throat, bringing my attention back to him. He’s holding my resume in one hand. “You were my first pick out of the candidates HR sent my way.”
Were.
I’m stuck on his use of the past tense, and struggling to switch gears as fast as he had. “I don’t have much experience, and I only have an associate degree.”
He quirks a brow. “Are you trying to talk me out of hiring you?”
It would be the sane thing to do.
“Not at all. I’m just being upfront with you,” I say, uncertain if I meant the double meaning in that sentence or not.
He either doesn’t pick up on it, or he chooses to ignore it. “A bachelor’s is preferred but not required. And I like that you don’t have a lot of experience. I prefer things are done a certain way, so I don’t mind training you.” Something about that statement makes him visibly gulp. “Besides,” he says, setting my resume back on the desk, “your previous boss sang your praises.”