His Forever Books 1 - 21

2. His Whims, Book One-3

I don't know what's with me and tears today, but they're choking me again.

"Go work on your column now."

I nod, unable to speak. This article was gonna put my name front and center. Now I'm back to being the girl they let pretend she's an investigative journalist. The rest of the office will be overjoyed. I know they call me little-brownnosing-goodie-two-shoes behind my back even though none of them do it to my face. Yet. This could change that.

"And Nicole, no mention of this in the column, is that clear?" Sam asks as I'm exiting his office.

"Fine," I mutter.

I want to beg him to give me another chance, let me fix this. But it'll likely be years before he trusts me with another high profile story after this. And I've already waited years for this one.

Back at my desk, the noise of everyone else working merrily at their desks soon starts to drive me insane. So I pack up my laptop and leave. I could use some lunch, maybe coffee though I'm already so high strung I might not be able to sleep for a week.

It's snowing so hard outside it's sticking to everything, including my eyelashes. All I really want to do is go home and sleep, forget this day ever happened, pretend it was all a dream.

"There you are!" a man yells and grabs my arm as I'm making my way to the nearest diner.

It's Mark. Probably come to gloat over how he messed up my day. I almost drop everything I'm holding and slap him.

"Leave me alone, Mark," I mutter instead.

"I was a little out of line before, I admit," he says, grinning at me. And much of my anger and sadness disappears. Because yes he was out of a line, but it was also the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. And my mind is still trying to make sense of it.

"A little?" I ask. "I wonder what a lot out of line would be."

He grins in a completely different way, a dangerous light passing across his bright blue eyes. I have no idea what he's thinking, but I have a feeling I might like it too.

"Let me buy you lunch," he says and opens the door to a Chinese restaurant we're standing in front of.

There's all sorts of excuses racing through my brain, but instead of voicing any of them I step inside. I need a friend right now. Even if it is Mark, who hasn't been very friendly to me lately.

He helps me take off my coat like a real gentleman, then sits next to me in the booth, and not across, like we're two lovebirds on a date. And despite everything, the thought wakes butterflies in my stomach. Or maybe those are from how close he's sitting. We're not touching, technically speaking, but the warmth he's giving off is almost like physical contact.

"Did I distract you from your meeting with Milton?" he asks, and I feel my cheeks grow hot. I even bat my eyelashes in embarrassment. A very soft expression passes over his face at that, replaced immediately by something hard, menacing.

"But you enjoyed it," he adds. It's not really a question, yet I nod anyway, can't help it. Because I did. And I want more, I'm just not quite ready to admit it to anyone, even myself.

"What will it be?" the waitress asks, breaking my trance. I haven't even looked at the menu yet. But I always get the same thing at this restaurant and I recite off my order, right over Mark asking for a few more minutes.

"Or we can wait," I add stupidly.

The waitress leaves again, and Mark stares at his menu. Something changed between us with this exchange, I can feel it, but I have no idea what it was. He's cold again, distant, like we don't really know each other.

When the waitress returns with a pitcher of water he's ready, and this time he orders for both of us. He gets me what I asked for before, and while I'm not the type who likes the man to order for her, with Mark I'm willing to make an exception. He's always had a forceful presence, but now he exudes a quiet, dark power I'm only used to from the richest guys around, and even they don't do it this well. I'm not impressed by money, but I am impressed with Mark.

"You were interviewing Milton for an article?" he asks, taking me off guard.

"Yeah, but I screwed up. I'm surprised they didn't fire me."

He runs his hand over my thigh, sending a million tiny explosions all over my skin. But this is so improper. He can't just touch me like that. We need to talk.

I pick his hand off my thigh and stare at him pointedly. He shrugs, a glint lighting in his eyes, and doesn't pull his hand back. Nor do I let go of it.

"I can have Milton talk to you again," he says.

It's not a complete sentence. There's a lot he left unspoken. But all I'm seeing is a second chance.

"Can you?" I shriek, squeezing his hand harder. "I mean, would you?"

He smirks at me. "Sure, for a price."

His eyes travel down my front, stopping on my breasts, before continuing lower. I let go of his hand, yanking mine away. The nerve.

I'm on my feet before I even decide to stand up. I've never traded s*x for special treatment at work, and I'm not about to start with Mark.

"Who the hell do you take me for? Some kind of w***e?" I yell, causing more than one head to turn in our direction. And here I was thinking we were moving forward, that this morning was just a little glitch in the grand scheme of wonderful things yet to come. But no, he's only after s*x with me.

"No, I take you for the hottest and most desirable woman I've ever met," he answers, speaking barely above a whisper.

"Then show me some respect!"

"Is that what you want? Respect? I thought it was something else." He's speaking in such an infuriatingly soft tone, yet it's still cutting right to my core, where I undeniably want to give myself to Mark in any which way he wants me.

But that’s insane. I've gone crazy.

"No!" I yell, grab my coat and storm out. I was speaking as much to myself as to him. Because I need to get away from him before I lose my mind completely. Too large a part of me wanted to go along with his plan. Just so he'd touch me again. f**k me again.

I don't even put on my coat as I hail a cab. I'm covered in snow, and people are staring, which is odd for NYC. But I don't care. I just need to get home. Put this nightmare of a day behind me. And maybe that's all it is. Me dreaming. And I'll wake up any minute and get to start this insane day all over.

Mark's called me a few times today, as had Sam, I realize when I finally check my messages. I call Sam back briefly to leave a voicemail saying I've gone home for the day. Then I change into my comfiest pajamas, and pour myself a glass of wine.

The snow's coming down in huge clumps, and I love watching it fall. But it won't leave a pristine white blanket like it would back home in Oregon. Here in NYC, it turns grey before it even reaches the ground. And I’m sure there’s a metaphor for my relationship with Mark in there somewhere too. Back when we were children and inseparable friends, everything was so perfect, so right. But now, not so much.

Yet a large part of me wishes I'd stayed at the Chinese restaurant with him. Laughed off his comment and enjoyed the lunch, his presence, the warmth he wakes in me. Now I'm just cold, wishing that I at least had work to bury myself in. But I can't even think of that, not after this morning.

My phone rings, piercing through my gloom and doom like an alarm.

"Is this Ms. West?" a female voice asks as I pick up.

"I have Mr. Harrison on the line, please hold," she continues after I tell her she has the right number. My heart's racing, my mind stuck in a loop of all the horrible things Milton will likely throw at once he comes on the line. I should’ve just ignored the call.

"Ms. West, I would like to apologize for this morning," Milton's deep voice says. I'm breathing hard, his words not making any sense in my brain. "If you have any more questions for me, I will be happy to answer them."

I clear my throat, my fingers hurting from clutching my phone so hard. "Yes. Yes, I do have more questions."

"Next Monday at ten," he says. "Same place."

"OK, I'll be there," is all I manage.

After he hangs up, I'm still not sure I didn't just imagine the whole conversation.

Did Mark set this up? So what he said at lunch was just a sick little joke? He cares, he really does, and I just left him sitting there in the restaurant.

My doorbell rings, and I jump from the couch, certain it's Mark come to tell me he's sorry. That he loves me. That everything was just a huge misunderstanding.

"Delivery for Nicole West," a man says when I press the intercom button.

"OK, come up," I say and buzz him in. It's not Mark, and I'm not expecting any deliveries.

All I see through the peephole when the doorbell rings is a huge bouquet of red roses. The delivery man hands them to me, waits as I deposit them on the dining room table, so I can sign the receipt.

There's a small white envelope stuck in amid the flowers.

I'm glad you're back in my life. -Mark

Just that, nothing else, no promises, no apologies.

There's got to be at least a hundred flowers in the bouquet. I don't even own a vase large enough to hold them. No one's ever sent me flowers before.

I put them in the water pitcher and set them on the coffee table, reading and re-reading the note. I wish he'd delivered them himself. Then I could tell him I'm glad he's back in my life too.

But as things stand, I don't know what to do.

My whole apartment smells of roses the next morning. The scent follows me as I drink my first coffee, assaults me when I get out of the shower, wraps around me while I’m getting dressed. Mark wants me, I know that. But in what way? And for how long?

Everyone’s already gathered in the conference room when I come into the office, so I don't have the chance to tell Sam about Milton's call in private. At least that's sorted for now, but I need his guidance on how to approach it. My way clearly hasn't worked.

"So, does anyone have anything new to pitch?" Sam asks once we're all seated.

I could tell him about Milton now, in front of everyone. Maybe that would stop them smirking in my direction, or whispering to each other and looking at me. But I refrain. Sam still has to give me the go ahead to run with the story, and that would best be done in private.

"Cross Investments are finally up and running," Lucy, one of my co-workers says. She's the worst when it comes to backstabbing and gossip. She stole at least five of my article ideas, while pretending to be my friend when I first came to work here. "They're holding a large party this Saturday at the Hilton. I'm sure there's a lot of fodder in Mark Cross' shady past to warrant a story."