The Billionaire’s Promise (His Submissive #8)(6)
Author: Ava Claire

Megan stared at the floor, her nonverbal response her admission of guilt. No way was I letting her off that easy–not after she just tried to excuse the inexcusable.

She slowly raised her chin until she looked at me, her face flushed red with shame. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…” She cleared her throat. “You’re right. She’s sketch–and she had no right to treat you that way.”

I relaxed slightly, still a little miffed. “Thank you.”

She wiped her palms on her jeans. “So what now? You gonna give her exactly what she wants?”

I uncrossed my arms slowly. “Of course not.”

“Well, you’ve been eyeballing your cell for the past hour. He’s been calling?”

I nodded.

“And you don’t want to talk to him?”

“I do…I don’t…I mean…” I took the plunge and powered on my phone. When I saw the light flash and indicate that I had two new voicemails, I knew they were from him. I needed to let him explain. I wanted an explanation. But that would require either scrolling down my missed calls list or going back to the penthouse. Option B was too much too soon, but Option A seemed cowardly.

I knew we needed to have a conversation, but I felt like hearing his voice and seeing his face would make me forget how furious I was with him. He wouldn’t even get the ‘I’m sorry’ out before I started apologizing. I pried my eyes from my cell screen, expecting to see Megan’s eyes round with disappointment, but her attention was solidly locked on her phone. It was sitting on the coffee table and she was eyeing it warily like it was going to jump out and bite her.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, grateful to worry about something other than to call or not to call. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What?” she said with a nervous laugh. “No idea what you’re talking about.” Her weird side eye showdown with her cell begged to differ.

“Somebody bothering you? Mark?” I lowered my voice, practically whispering the second name. “Brad?”

“It’s nothing,” she said firmly, finally loosening her grip on the phone–just long enough for me to lurch to the table and snatch it up. The number I saw on the screen– “Is this…”

No. The number was just similar. Because she’d all but told him to go to hell when they met and I was stuck playing referee all night. She couldn’t stand him. She made it crystal clear.

I held out the phone. “Why is Cade texting you?”

Cade Wallace, the action star who couldn’t take a hint for weeks until it finally clicked that I was taken. The same guy that she claimed she’d never date because he reminded her of Mark, the PE teacher she’d dated—except Cade was twenty times cockier.

“How do you know Cade’s number anyway?” she snapped, yanking her phone from me in a huff.

“Because it was my job to know how to reach him. Why do you know his number?”

She obviously ranked continuing this conversation below paying taxes and a trip to the dentist, but she crossed her arms tight and decided to give me the smallest crumb she could muster. “His assistant gave it to me.”

“And why did she give you Cade’s number? How did Lisa even find you?”

“It really doesn’t matter,” she said, trying for nonchalance and failing big time. She tossed the phone on the couch, out of sight but definitely not out of mind. “You didn’t come over here to talk about Cade. You came for my advice.”

This whole Cade business was too weird, but I was in no mood to pull off nails for information. I’d find out what was going on between Meg and Cade after I figured out what was going on with me and Jacob. “Alright–what’s your advice?”

“If you can’t let it go, find out why he kept his relationship with Rachel from you.” She gave me a long, soulful look. “But here’s my real advice. He loves you and you love him. Hold onto that. Don’t let the past dictate your future.”

****

I walked into the conference room with two minutes on the clock, knowing that all the chairs in the room would be occupied except for the ones near the door. It’s what I was going for, needing to be far enough away from Jacob that I could try and focus on the meeting and not the stifling tension between us.

I didn’t take Meg’s advice, though I’d gotten crazy close to going back to the penthouse and emptying my heart. But when I hit midtown and a bus with Rachel’s face plastered on the side huffed and puffed beside me for a good mile, I just couldn’t bring myself to face him.

I’d zipped to the suburbs, dreading walking up the steps to my parent’s almost as much as talking to Jacob. I felt like everything would be scrawled over my face and Mom would gnaw at me like a dog with a bone until I broke. But she just gave me a hug and left me with my thoughts–which was almost worst.

I barely got three full hours of sleep, waking up intermittently, drenched in sweat, not escaping even in dream. Rachel’s twisted smirk, the tightening of Jacob’s muscles when he realized that I would hear what she had to say haunted me. Devils, guilt, and hurt had me tossing and turning all night and not even a venti mocha with two extra shots was enough to help me fake that I was more than a zombie.

I lowered myself in a chair near the door and even though I knew I’d regret it, I raised my eyes. Jacob’s icy glare found me and softened like the seafoam that caressed the shore. His lips parted slightly and in that moment, everything hung on what he mouthed next.

I’m sorry.

I ripped my eyes from him, guilt making me fidget uncomfortably in the confines of the leather chair. There was no ridding myself of the weight of it, no balancing act or body contortion that helped me relax; not when I was face to face with a hundred reasons why I should have answered his calls. Because he was the love of my life. Because people made mistakes. Because it was hypocritical of me to force him to carry this cross when he forgave me for my wrongs. Because a lack of sleep looked good on him. Because the dark shadow of hair highlighted his angular jawline and the cadence of his voice, deep and slightly gravelly, made me think about lazy mornings in bed.

His hair had a slightly mussed look, begging my fingers to roam through the dark locks as I moved closer. Closer–it was like he was a damn city away and all I wanted was to press my body against his.

It was the longest meeting of my life.

When the last idea was tossed around and the final client plan hashed out, I was the first to stand up and take a step in his direction. I didn’t miss the flicker of heat in his eyes but it was snuffed out as one of the publicists stepped in his path. I stood there awkwardly, worrying that the smile was pulled to tightly on my lips, that my black pencil skirt and emerald green blouse were somehow transparent and everyone could see exactly what Jacob Whitmore did to me–swollen ni**les, sopping panties and all.