Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Chapter 22 Presley

Jet lag is a major drag. I never really understood that until last night. I tossed and turned for hours before slipping into a fitful sleep.

After coming to the decision that I have to put my career first, I decide I can’t let these little setbacks affect me. I roust myself out of bed, power down two cups of scalding-hot coffee, and make my way to work like it’s my job.

It is your job, Presley. Wow, I must be tired.

The click-click of my heels on the office floor is a familiar sound. Yes, this is what I need—a consistent and predictable work environment in which I can be the best version of myself. Not an undefined relationship with a man whose mood changes so dramatically that I wonder if he’s really two people. The first, a charming, funny, considerate man. The other, a loathsome asshole with no consideration for the feelings of others.

No, I don’t have time to juggle my work and a man who can’t decide who he is. I’m still figuring out who I am.

My determined stride across the office falters as I spot Jordan, packing his personal items away into a box. Why?

“Jordan!”

“Oh, hey, Prez,” he says in his usual chipper way. But his dimpled smile doesn’t reach his big blue eyes.

“What’s going on?”

“The internship is over. The others already packed up. I guess no one got the job.”

I feel as though I’ve been dropped into the cold, dark ocean. Like the plane I disembarked just yesterday hadn’t landed safely at all, but rather had crashed right into the tumultuous sea.

“You’d better get packing too.” Jordan hands me an empty box, then turns back to his almost empty desk, once covered in his alma mater’s insignia, pictures of his dog, and an assortment of bobblehead dolls. “It’s reassuring to have Bill Gates and Elon Musk nodding at me in approval all day,” he said to me back in our first week.

Tears prick my eyes. “Jordan . . .”

“Oh, Prez, don’t worry. We’re going to be fine. You’re practically a genius, so you’ll get a paying job in no time. And who can resist this face?” He smiles with his eyes this time, showing off his full, brilliant grin.

I wish I could return the enthusiasm, but all I can manage is a sad half smile and a reluctant nod.

On my way back to my desk, the click-click of my heels sounds less like a battle cry and more like the cheap knock-off shoes that I bought in college. They’ve been glued back together so many times . . . if the heel snapped off one of them today, I wouldn’t even be surprised. A fitting end.

Back at my desk, I start collecting my own things. I don’t have much—a Brown insignia pin, a picture of Michael, a stained coffee mug, some miscellaneous business books, and a preserved sticky note my mother wrote for me back in middle school. I love my smart girl! it reads in a splash of blue marker. She tucked it away in my lunch box the day of a dreaded geometry test that I’d been studying for all week.

I caress the worn paper, and for a moment consider throwing it in the trash. Smarts can only get me so far, Mom. But if I’m anything, it’s sentimental. I can’t throw this piece of my mother away.

One by one, the pieces of me go into the box, which gets heavier with every memory. Just like my heart.

“Oh, you’re here already?”

I squeeze my eyes closed. I’d recognize that voice underwater if I had to.

Dominic stands behind me, probably leaning against the empty desk kitty-corner to mine that once belonged to Jenny.

I refuse to turn around. He doesn’t deserve my attention, the bitter little girl in me insists. Even as angry as I am, I know how immature that is.

“I am,” I say over my shoulder.

“I see you’re already moving out.” ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

“I am.”

“Good.”

I want to scream in his face, but I restrain myself. For as much of a stress nightmare this internship was at times, I wouldn’t have changed the experience I gained for the world. I learned more here than I did in four years in college. I’m grateful for that.

“Thank you for—” I murmur, but Dominic is already walking away.

I take a deep breath and turn around quickly, not letting my gaze linger on the broadness of his shoulders, and head straight for the elevator. I maneuver the box against my hip so I can press the Down button. The elevator dings and Oliver steps out.

“Whoa, where are you going?”

“I’m going home. Thank you so much for helping me acclimate—”

“Wait, Presley. Why are you going home? Are you sick?”

I don’t understand. Is this some sort of trick? I’m so gullible . . . I can never tell.