Page 22 of Sinful Abandon

“So, following a stranger up to their apartment would make that person a disgrace?” I turn to Jarrod. “I think we should explore the art of the one-night stand. We’ll call it, ‘Sleeping with a Stranger,’ exploring what compels a person to go home with someone they don’t know.”

“That’s an interesting—” Jarrod starts.

“Go home with a stranger? What would compel a person to ask a stranger into their home in the first place? In today’s day and age, it can be quite dangerous,” Ryan barks from his side of the room.

“‘City Slickers,’ about con artists who leave out critical information about themselves in order to bed women,” I counter.

“‘City Suckers,’ women who only date men with power,” Ryan nearly shouts.

“Men who make women feel bad about the choices they make.” I rise from my chair, my hands splayed on the table.

“Women who marry for money,” Ryan sneers.

That last line gets Jarrod’s attention, who turns and looks down at my hand with a slight rise of his brows. He quirks a grin. “Well, it looks like we have our own War of the Roses thing in here.”

The room chuckles at his comment. I take a seat and adjust my hair. I haven’t gotten that worked up in a meeting in years.

Jarrod looks to me. “I think you and Ryan make a good team. Take him under your wing.” To Ryan, he says, “You’re getting a first-class education in production, working with Heather. Consider this a gift. I think you two will come up with some interesting story ideas.”

My jaw drops, and I’m about to protest when Jarrod rises and speaks in a louder than usual voice, “I have an announcement to make.”

Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

“Heather and I are getting married.” His words are matter-of-fact.

I rub my forehead with the pads of my fingers. There is silence as the staff processes what Jarrod just said. It isn’t until Meg starts the awkward slow clap that everyone follows suit and offers their congratulations.

Jarrod leaves without acknowledging a single pat on the back or a handshake. That leaves me to accept the good wishes from a roomful of people who don’t like me.

While I should care about their distaste for me, all I can think about is the man on the other side of the room who looks like he lost the war.

The problem with taking someone under your wing is, you have to guide them. That only works if you know the direction you want to go.

“Ryan, the intern, is in your office,” Meg says as I round the corner, coming in from a morning meeting.

My Pradas halt on the carpet squares. “Why?”

“It’s your one-on-one session.” Her words are slow, explaining this as if it were common knowledge to everyone.

I force a look of disgust. “Reschedule for next week. I’ll be down the hall. Come fetch me when he’s gone.”

“With all due respect, you have canceled on him. Three times.” Meg looks at me over her red-framed glasses. “I know you don’t usually mentor, but he’s a really nice kid. Mr. Bellomy is your fiancé, but he’s still your boss, and since he’s assigned you to look after Ryan, I think you owe the boy at least fifteen minutes of your time.”

My body is arched back. My eyebrows are hovering over my eyes. If I had a Q-tip, I’d clean my ears to make sure I’d just heard what I thought I did. “Where is Meg, and what have you done with her?”

Her mouth flies open, and a series of gasps follows. “I’m sorry, Heather. I don’t usually meddle but—”

I hold up my hand to her. “No, I like it. Everyone around here is too nice. It’s good to have a woman with some brass balls in the building.”

Meg nods her head, her hands meekly crossed in front of her body.

With an exasperated breath, I walk into my office and pause at the broad shoulders of the man sitting in the chair opposite my desk. He’s facing the windows, looking out to the river. His leg is resting on the opposite kneecap, his foot dancing in the air with nervous energy.

I stand in the doorway and look at the back of Ryan in a way I shouldn’t. Like someone who knows what it’s like to be held in those arms all night as he runs his finger up and down her arm while he tells stories of growing up in Chicago. Like someone who wants to sit on his lap and play with the curls at the end of his hair, asking him to tell her more jokes. Like someone who wants to rub her palms over his tensely held shoulders to take away the stress and work out the knots and kinks. Maybe do a goofy impression and see that incredible grin of his again. No other employee in this building would cause me to stop and stare the way I am right now even if it’s only at the back of his head.

Suddenly, his foot stops shaking. His shoulders rise with a deep inhale, his head lifting with the movement.

Ryan addresses me without turning his head, “Are you coming in, or are you just going to stare at me all day?”