“Speak.” His tone changes completely—softer, intimate. “I told you not to call me here.”
A woman? A girlfriend? Why does that possibility send a flash of completely inappropriate jealousy through me?
“Tomorrow night.” He lowers his voice. “Wear the red dress.”
Great. Perfect. Of course he has someone to wear red dresses for him. Someone who isn’t his terrified assistant hiding in his bathroom like a criminal.
Which, technically, I am at this point.
“I have to go,” he says. “Don’t call again tonight.”
He hangs up, slips the phone into his pocket, and—to my immense relief—walks out without touching the drawer.
I wait a full five minutes after I hear the outer door close before I dare to breathe again.
Then I slink out of the bathroom, my legs shaking so badly I can barely walk. I som
