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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IT ISN'T UNTIL THE VERY end of the night, when the formalities are winding down, that Max and I finally cross paths.
I've made a concerted effort not to look for him—not even after my weird conversation with Patrick—but as the minutes and hours tick by, it's becoming increasingly difficult to pretend that I'm not paying attention.
Because I am.
I always am.
Everywhere Max Griffin goes, he commands people's attention—an imposing, powerful force that's pretty much impossible to ignore. It doesn't help that he looks devastatingly handsome tonight, that all I want is to feel his hands on me again, or that I'm running out of extravagant rooms to avoid him in.
Some of the more influential guests have left, so there's less of a crowd to blend into. The dance floor, however, is teeming with intoxicated people, and I'm determined to be one of them for as long as Elle is. I'm taking my cues from her, and after her brother bid us goodnight earlier and told her to behave like a small child, her demeanour totally changed. She got this awfully defiant look on her face and asked me to dance with her. In fact, she wouldn't take no for an answer. Patrick's words seemed to have the opposite effect—challenging her to do something she shouldn't tonight instead of subduing her.
The music changes again, taking a dramatic jump in volume. Imagine my pleasant surprise when a trance song I recognise blasts from the speakers, the bass line vibrating beneath my heeled feet. The execs have gracefully bowed out, and the younger attendees are letting their hair down.
Maybe I will end up having fun tonight, after all.
Elle brushes against me, her dress riding dangerously high as she dances, and I'm vaguely aware of Sebastian and Margo, shimmying closer.
I dance for all of five minutes, my hips swaying rhythmically to the beat, before things go downhill again. Sebastian musters up the courage to drape his arm around my shoulder and draw me back into his orbit. I stiffen, feeling like liquid metal has been tipped down my spine.
I'm not a damsel in distress by any means. I don't need rescuing. But I still find myself wishing Patrick was here, that he would skilfully manoeuvre himself between us again and prevent me from having to politely decline Sebastian's less-than-subtle advances.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I was a little ungrateful when he intervened earlier.
I know how to deal with confrontations and diffuse difficult situations—it was something I got quite good at, being Max's PA for eight months—but it's one of my least favourite things to do.
All night, I've been relying on my body language to do the talking—strategically inching away from him whenever he gets too close, suggesting he sits next to Margo, his fellow nominee, and not me, at dinner—but it's obviously not enough. He's either too drunk to pick up on the signals, or he's more of a douchebag than I thought.
