Page 76

“Anche tu.” Translation: you too.

The other man stands and nods before he exits the office.

The doors shut quietly behind him.

I stare at the smug-as-fuck bastard behind his big desk. He’s equally as sexy, but I’m choosing to ignore that.

I hate him.

He sits back in his chair as his eyes hold mine. Electricity crackles through the air between us. My poor heart may not survive today’s activities. “Olivia.”

I grit my teeth. I hate the way he says my name. Husky and deep. Ol-liv-i-ah.

It’s almost melodic. Most definitely sexual.

The sound of his voice scatters my senses, and I stare at him as I search for an intelligent response.

He gestures to the chair in front of me. “Please, take a seat.”

“Go to Hell.” My hands clench into fists as they hang by my thighs. I can’t remember ever being this angry at someone.

His tongue slowly darts out and sweeps over his bottom lip. He raises a brow. “Don’t you dare come into my office and give me that tone.”

“I’ll do whatever I fucking like.”

He stands and walks around the desk toward me. Our eyes are locked, and I swallow the lump in my throat.

His power surrounds me. I feel myself brace as I wait for his angry onslaught.

He leans his behind on his desk and crosses his ankles in front of him. He’s wearing a navy suit and a crisp white shirt. His shoes are the black leather pointy kind, and his chunky, obviously expensive watch sits heavily on his wrist.

He grips the desk beneath him. “Let me guess. You were in the area and thought you’d drop in?”

Damn him and his dark hair, chiseled jaw, and his big, red lips. I begin to feel my pulse quicken. This is not in the plan, Olivia.

“Cut the shit, asshole,” I fire back, furious that my traitorous body has the audacity to still find him attractive.

Amusement crosses his face, and he breaks out into a low chuckle.

“This isn’t funny.”

“I would apologize, but I disagree.”

I narrow my eyes, contempt dripping from my every pore. “What are you apologizing for?”

“Laughing. What else?” He raises his brow.

I can’t believe this. He’s fucking infuriating. “How about you start with the caveman act during my date on Saturday night? I would like an apology for that.”

He clenches his jaw and stands, angered. “He wasn’t your date.”

“Yes. He was.”

“You met him on Tinder. Don’t insult my intelligence, Olivia. Tinder isn’t dating.”

“What do you care who I date?”

“I don’t,” he fires back. “Get out. You’re not the woman I thought you were, anyway.”