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She suppresses a chuckle. "Excuse me? You feel that? You're always meeting women. You date them nonstop. I know because I buy them gifts, I send them flowers. I even had to comfort poor Mia once for forty minutes when I was off the clock because she went on a rant about how you ghosted her after three amazing dates."
A current of embarrassment rolls through me. I never thought twice about how Hazel would feel handling that side of my life. I figured it was just one more task for her—to make my life easier so I could work more and focus on what mattered. "Mia? Really? I never thought she cared much about ending things. I'm always upfront."
"Just because you tell women you aren't the marrying or steady kind doesn't mean they love what they hear."
"Why are you saying all this?"
She sighs. "You asked for my opinion."
"About the Sugar & Silk business deal."
"Oh, yes. Sorry. I guess the conversation just flowed that way."
I hear resentment in her words. Once again, the journal comes to my mind, and I wonder what prompted her to write it. Is it her way of avenging how I've treated her or the women I date? And why does talking to her challenge principles I so conveniently settled in my brain? I worry that pursuing any kind of relationship with Hazel, even a fake or superficial one, may be a worse liability than I initially considered.
One that lawyers or money won't settle.
6
Hazel
I thread my fingers together as we stroll into a mansion that could be in a Hollywood movie. It has a sense of old money, yes, but it's also modern, with its minimalist lines, lack of clutter, and accent pieces adding backstory to each piece of furniture.
A home. As expensive as it must be, this place feels like someone's home, even though it could pass for a party venue right now, with servers dressed in black milling around and guests dressed to the nines gathered in groups.
I take a deep breath. The moment Archer touches the small of my back, excitement flutters in my stomach and slides over my chest.
Introductions are made. The owner of this mansion is Malcolm Hayes, the filthy rich forty-something entrepreneur who invited us. Well, not us. Archer. I know that because I spoke to his assistant a few times. I also know that Malcolm was dating someone for a while, so to find him hosting alone makes me wonder what happened.
Needless to say, he's also strikingly handsome and in his forties.
I sigh.
"Your home is impressive," I say.
"Thank you," he replies, leaning closer. "Your name suits you. Pretty eyes."
A warmth spreads across my cheeks. Of course, he's just being nice. I work for a grump, and I’ve forgotten what it's like to be complimented.
But Archer quickly reminds me of his presence—he puts his arms around me possessively and says, "Is Brooks here?"
Malcolm nods. "Yes, I'll be happy to introduce you to him. He's outside."
"Great. Sweetheart, why don't you settle in and grab a drink? I'll be right back," Archer says, kissing my cheek before he disappears with Malcolm.
Sweetheart? I shake my head, confused and frustrated. He left me alone in the living room mid-party, which doesn't surprise me—he wants to make this connection, and it'll be quicker if I'm not there. But wasn't that why he brought me? Because most of the other guests have a date? To smooth his rough demeanor?
Why leave me like this?
Unless… he didn't want me to come because he wanted me to stay away from Malcolm. I chuckle. What a ridiculous idea. Even if he's single now, Malcolm could have anyone he wanted. Still, the way Archer kissed my cheek and put his arm around me earlier was the equivalent of showing teeth and growling in the animal kingdom.
Or maybe I'm wrong. I'm his assistant. That's the reality of things, and at the core, coming here is work. He saw an opportunity and took it, and this isn't any different from me running his errands. I'm at a fancy party. Relax.
The server comes by, and I take a flute of champagne.
A couple of women wave at me with inviting smiles. I bet if I joined their group, they'd chat with me. That's what I should do—talk and relax.
Holding the flute, I stride in their direction when someone bumps into my side, and a wet sensation spreads over my ribs.
