Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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WHEN MAX DOESN'T SHOW UP to work the next day, after we've just fucked each other's brains out, I'm worried, naturally.
I can't remember the last time he didn't come to work.
All morning, I'm too distracted by his absence to get much done. Of course, I'm wondering what this means. It's not exactly a good omen. Does he regret what happened between us? Is that why he's not here? Better yet, what are things going to be like when he is? How are we supposed to pretend everything's the same as before?
When I eventually meet up with Krystal to go over the social media campaign I've planned for one of our upcoming projects, I end up asking her outright if she knows why Max isn't here. Subtlety isn't a strength of mine.
Krystal finishes typing whatever she's typing on her laptop and gives me a cursory glance. "No. He didn't say," she replies, and I try to hide my disappointment.
A couple of hours later—back in my storage cupboard and pretending to reply to emails—I finally cave and pull out my phone, sending him a message.
You good?
When his answering text comes through almost instantly, I let out the pent-up breath I've been holding all day.
Yeah. TOIL.
After you left, I worked until 5 a.m. I did find the error, though.
My chest pangs a little, reading and rereading what he's said. After everything that happened between us last night, I'd honestly forgotten all about the issue with the invoices—why we'd needed to stay back so late in the first place. Max taking the day off makes perfect sense, seeing as he worked all night.
Despite knowing that he's alive and well, and not lying face down in a gutter or at the bottom of the harbour, I find myself booking an impromptu Uber when I exit the office. I'm breaking not only my routine but every single one of my rules.
Instead of my usual commute home—walking to the Circular Quay wharf and catching the six o'clock ferry—I climb into the back of the sleek BMW that pulls up at the curb and greet the polite but shy driver (no complaints there).
Thankfully, it doesn't take long until we reach our destination—the perks of inner-city living—but you can bet for the entire drive, I'm second-guessing everything. From the way I look to the potential repercussions of just showing up at Max's house unannounced. It's a move he's made before—visiting my apartment without permission or invitation—so, in theory, it's technically my turn, but it's just so bold and unlike me.
At least not when it comes to romantic gestures.
I'm not exactly sure why I've decided to take a detour and see Max's waterfront mansion with my own eyes. Maybe it's because I can't stop thinking about him, or, more accurately, what we got up to last night. Maybe it's because I really do care, and I just want to remove all traces of doubt about his wellbeing. Or maybe it's because I'm finally acting on instinct, not weighing up every damn decision I make like one wrong move will throw my entire world off its axis.
