Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

Seven

Liam

Somebody’s watching me.I can feel it.

I tear my attention away from the spreadsheet my foggy brain is trying to make sense of and look up. My new assistant stands in the doorway to my office for what must be the tenth time this morning.

“What is it?!” I bark out, my patience tank already on empty for the day.

Ross Something-Or-Other runs the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping nervous sweat off his top lip. “Sir, the instructions you left with the document on my desk says that I should underline all upcoming project deadlines in red ink. But I was wondering, do you have a preference for ballpoint, felt tip or gel pen? I could even do a red crayon if that would suit you best.”

Disbelief.

That’s the feeling I feel as I stare wordlessly at the man. In his stupid checkered neck tie and his stupid knitted sweater-vest and his stupid…face.

He shifts uncomfortably in his stupid loafers. “Sir? Is everything okay?”

No. No, everything is not okay.

Because this idiot is in my space and Eliza is gone and I’m coming out of my skin not knowing how to stop thinking about her.

Beyond Ross’s shoulder, I see my other employees milling about, doing their jobs. Like it’s just another day at the office. But for me, nothing feels the same.

Every time my mind drifts off, I see the shocked and shattered expression on Eliza’s face as I fired her on the sidewalk outside of that chapel on Friday night. The stoop in her shoulders when she realized that I was serious, that it wasn’t just some cruel joke.

Now, this Ross guy is standing across from my desk, blinking cluelessly at me from behind the thick black frames of his glasses. “I-I could use a red pencil-crayon? So it’s erasable?”

I really need to brush up on my mind-power skills because I’d like very much to slap him upside the head without having to get up from this desk.

I speak through gritted teeth. “Use whichever writing implement you deem appropriate for completing the task. Just get it done.” My voice cracks like fragile ice on the surface of a pond.

I dismiss him by dropping my attention back to the spreadsheet on my desk. Luckily, he gets the point and scampers back to his work station.

The morning crawls by slowly, each second dragging out three times longer than it should. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this Ross person keeps interrupting my day to ask such mundane questions when a bit of movement and chattering right beyond my office door catches my attention.

The way my chest squeezes when I glance up takes me completely off-guard.

Fuck—it’s Eliza.

It’s Eliza’s ass, actually. I’d recognize that plump heart-shaped ass anywhere. It’s bent over Ross’s desk, gathering up her few belongings as my new assistant along with one of the jackasses from HR stand by basically drooling over her luscious curves.

My first instinct is to punch them both. In the nuts.

But before I have the chance to do anything dumb, Eliza grabs a small picture frame and her empty coffee mug from the desk. She sets them atop the small banker’s box she’s carrying. Her strawberry lips curve into a sad, faint smile for Ross before she turns toward the elevator, the HR assistant ushering her out.

The entire room is focused her way. Her former coworkers eyeball her with curious stares and whispered questions. But Eliza carries herself with grace under the circumstances. Her body language telegraphs that she’s been through worse. And survived.

Watching the scene, I feel a sharp pull beneath my ribcage.

But when she pauses at the end of the hallway and throws a glance over her shoulder? When our eyes meet and I know that I’m the cause of the pain swimming in the deep chocolate pools of her irises, the pout on those sweet lips? That’s the real scissor-kick to my gut.

The longer she holds my gaze with her poisonous expression, the faster the guilt claws its way from my belly up to my throat. It forms a lump that I try in vain to swallow down.

Fuck these feelings, though.

I owe her nothing.

This is my company. My town. My responsibility.

And Eliza Jenkins was making herself a distraction.

That’s why she had to go. I’m not apologizing for that.

I don’t look up when I hear the elevator chime and the chrome door slides open in my peripheral vision.

Getting rid of her is for the best. I’m fully invested in believing that.