Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Chapter 36 Dominic

“Attending a B2B conference in Denver. You approved her itinerary several weeks ago.”

I detect a hint of reproach in her tone. Or maybe that’s just my embarrassment talking.

“Oh . . . right. Sorry, I totally blanked on that.” And not only did I forget, I had to make an ass of myself about it too.

“No problem, sir.” Her graciousness just makes my gaffe worse. “Would you like me to call her cell instead?”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll just email her about this, and she’ll see it when she gets back.”

I hang up, feeling like I’m losing my goddamn mind.

Frustrated, I massage circles into my temples. I absolutely can’t let the stress get to me like this. I need about a gallon of coffee—well, what I really need is for those fucking reporters to have kept their mouths shut, but coffee is better than nothing. I almost ask Beth to bring me some, then decide to head downstairs to the cafeteria instead. Maybe getting away from my desk and stretching my legs will help clear my head.

The crowd is at less than half its usual lunchtime peak, and I’m grateful for that, but there are still enough people that the sensation of them staring at me is almost intolerable. I clench my teeth and focus on filling a paper cup with scalding-hot black coffee, and then getting the hell out of there.

Someone walks over to me. Expecting it to be an employee thirsty for details, I reluctantly look up, only to see Oliver.

He gives me a sympathetic smile that I’m really not in the mood for right now. “How you holding up, man?”

I don’t need to ask what he’s talking about. Everyone who works in this building—maybe everyone in Seattle—has seen that story, and they know it hasn’t even come close to dying down.

“Shitty,” I reply sourly.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” Oliver scratches his head. “So, uh . . . what’re you gonna do about Presley?”

I kind of want to smack him, but that’s not fair of me. I knew I’d have to deal with this issue eventually.

I heave a bleak sigh. “I don’t see how there’s anything I can do other than break up with her.”

God, I’m the worst kind of idiot. How did I let our relationship get to the point where “breaking up” applies? I’m the one who told her I wasn’t looking for anything serious and I wanted to stay casual, and yet here I am, losing my shit over her—in more ways than one.

And now I have to hurt her. I’m sure I’ve already hurt her.

As I peer down into my cup, I can’t help but recall a joke Oliver once made about the way I like my coffee—midnight black—just like my soul, he’d joked. Only now I’m not even sure it was a joke. It sure as fuck doesn’t feel like one right now.

Oliver gives me a wry, sympathetic twist of his mouth. “I know it royally sucks. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.” Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

Recalling his words in Spokane that day when he warned me away from her, warned me that she was a good girl and I was only going to ruin things, I find they now ring truer than ever. He’d have a viable career in fortune-telling if luxury hotels ever start to bore him.

“I think it’s the right thing too.” And I really do believe that.

So then why does it feel so wrong? Why is my heart jumping up and down screaming no? Why can’t I shake the sense that I’m making the biggest mistake of my life? I didn’t feel this awful after I had to stop seeing Sara. Presley and I haven’t even gotten to the actual breakup yet, and my stomach is already in knots.

Shit . . . our relationship turned way too complicated, way too fast. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like this, wouldn’t let things go this far. And yet I didn’t have the strength to control the situation. One kiss, and I lost all control. One taste, and I threw my rules right out the window.

Oliver pulls me out of my caustic thoughts by squeezing my shoulder. “I’m always here for you, man. Anything you need, just say the word.”

“Thanks, Ollie,” I say. “Got a time machine lying around?”

He chuckles. “I wish. But I can offer some company for your misery, at least. How about we meet in your office this afternoon and talk about this over whiskey? Maybe we can brainstorm solutions.”

I snort despite myself. “Who’s we? You’re the one who drinks at work, not me.”

“Come on,” he says. “I can pour you just one finger if you’re scared. You seriously need to take the edge off before you have an aneurysm.”

I roll my eyes. “As long as you stop pestering me about it, you have yourself a deal. I’ll have a little and see if it helps. At this point, I’ll try anything.”

“Attaboy.” He looks almost smug.

“I’m free after four.”

Oliver nods. “Perfect. I’ll swing by then.”

As we walk back to the office, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Presley.

We need to talk.