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He sends back a GIF of Coyote trying to light an entire bundle of dynamite on fire with his last match. It feels fairly accurate to what I’m doing.
I don’t get any more work done. I spend the next couple of hours sitting and ruminating on ways this can play out. In the end, I know my next move.
I arrive to the restaurant ten minutes early, my driver catching a lucky break in traffic, and take a seat at the intimately-lit table. And once again, I’m lost in thoughts of her and why the hell I can’t stop thinking about her.
The sound of heels clicking across the parquet tile floor brings me out of my reverie as a waitress walks up to my table, her smile bright and welcoming. "Would you like something to drink while you wait, sir?" she asks, her pen poised over her notepad.
"Bourbon, neat.”
The waitress says something, but I don’t hear a damn word, because at that moment, I see her. Raven.
The form-fitting black dress hugs her curves in the most tempting of ways, her hair cascading down her back in shiny waves to match with the rest of her outfit. She strides toward me, carrying herself with an air of confidence as a soft smile plays at her glossy lips.
I stand to greet her, desperately wanting to wrap my arms around her, needing to kiss her, and seriously consideringpushing her back to the closest surface to slam balls-deep into her. I settle for pulling her chair out for her.
“Raven, you look beautiful,” I say quietly.
Her smile grows, but as her green eyes meet mine, I see something that makes me question how this night will go.
She’s nervous. It’s the same look that I saw before the fundraiser, where she’s attempting to be cool, calm, and collected. But she’s clearly feeling what I’m feeling, uncertainty, and is only holding things together through guts and brains.
As she takes her seat, she thanks me and then turns her attention to the waitress.
“Would you like a moment or do you know what you’d like to drink?”
“A glass of the Calafuria Rose,” Raven answers quickly after scanning the menu.
As soon as the waitress walks away, I look at Raven and, in an attempt to quiet her nerves, offer her what I should have when I first met her.
“Are you ready to come work for me?” I question, loving the slight shock in her widening eyes. “The position’s yours.”
I expect Raven to be grateful. Relieved, almost. This is the only way I can imagine correcting the situation I’ve thrust her into.
I use people. It’s a way of life at my professional level. I play chess with lives, using people as pawns. You fuck with me, I crush your company. I’ve broken reputations when it was warranted, and I’ve elevated others when it served me. But never have I put someone at risk the way I have Raven, and this odd feeling in my chest is uncomfortable.
Is it guilt?
That seems most likely. In this particular chess game, I’ve sacrificed her to save the king—myself. It was somewhat unintentional, but the fallout is the same, regardless.
But I can save her. Fix this. Sheonly needs to say ‘yes’.
Instead, Raven folds her hands in her lap, giving me a look that would make a professional poker player nod in admiration. Only her eyes betray her emotions. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea, Dylan.”
“No?” I ask, surprised myself. She’s turning me down?
It’s a splash of ice-cold water in my face. But at the same time, it’s intriguing, and I find myself wanting her more. She has to know what’s happening. She’s not that fucking naive.
The more I stare at her across the table, the more I want her to give in and trust me. Take the position and let me fix this.
I guess it is true, you chase what you can’t get. I just need this to be a very short chase. My reputation is also on the line.
“You’re struggling,” I tell her bluntly. “If I’m getting the whispers, then you’re getting it worse. Am I wrong?”
Raven swallows, and I see her bottom lip tremble. She murmurs her response, “No.”
“Tell me about what you’ve been through since the event,” I instruct her. “How many interviews have you been to?”
“Just three,” she admits. “Mr. Styles was the last. It wasn’t productive.”
