Breaking All the Rules (17 page)

“It’s not the entire truth.” He brushes my hair away from my forehead and presses his lips against my forehead. “You accepted the money for me.”

“I signed the agreement for you,” I admit. “I’d do anything for you. I love you.”

Nate cradles my face between his rough hands and covers his lips with mine. I grasp his shoulders, meeting him kiss for kiss, molding my tongue to his. He tastes of mint and man, of sweet propriety and heady decadence, and our connection rights the imbalance within me, restoring my strength and refilling my emotional reserves.

Nate draws back, breaking our embrace. He studies my face. “I’d do anything for you also.” He stalks to his desk, pulls out a familiar stack of papers, and returns to my side. “I want you to shred this.” He hands me our contract, his expression serious.

“This is our agreement.” A hard lump forms in my throat. “We need this.”

Nate’s lips twist. “You haven’t even read it.”

“
You
need this,” I revise.

His gaze drops to the papers in my hands and returns to my face. “This contract isn’t what I need.”

Nate doesn’t need the contract because he doesn’t need me. He’s dumping my rebellious ass. “No.” I step backward, pain piercing my heart, my soul. “I won’t allow you to renege on our deal.” My voice breaks. “Not today, not on the same day I find out I won’t be pitching my project to the executive team, find out I did all of that work for nothing, hoped and dreamed for nothing.”

Nate flinches. He didn’t know the pitch session was canceled. I read that truth in his eyes. “Camille—”

“We have an agreement.” I wave the papers in the air, not allowing him to speak, fearing his words. “And I’m not releasing you from it. So suck it up, buttercup. You’re stuck with me. I—”

“It’s over, Camille,” Nate declares, his subzero tone decimating my protests. “I’m fixing this.” His gaze holds mine, his gray eyes pale and cold. “I’m fixing everything.”

My heart splits into two. “Shredding our contract won’t fix anything.”

“Yes, it will.” He clasps my icy hands, his skin surprisingly warm. “What we have now isn’t a normal relationship. You know this has to end.”

I do know this, but I can’t accept it. “We’re not normal. We’ll never have normal relationships. And we have a month left in our contract.” I lift my chin, blinking back my tears. He can fall in love with me in a month. “This doesn’t have to end today.”

“It ends today,” my unrelenting man replies, his voice firm.

“I can change,” I plead, past pride, past everything.

Nate squeezes my fingers. “I don’t want you to change.”

He doesn’t want me. Period. I pull my hands away from his, unable to bear the contact. “We have an agreement.” I try again. A tear trickles down my cheek and I brush it away. He’s made me cry, the bastard. “You can’t simply terminate an agreement whenever you want.”

“If you’d read the contract you’d know I
can
simply terminate our agreement.” Nate smiles and I want to scream. My heart is breaking and he’s happy. “There’s a cost. I must pay you for the entire month.”

I stare at him. “You must pay me?” I hear the hysteria in my voice. He thinks I care about the money. Has he learned nothing about me?

Nate nods. “I’ll transfer the funds into your bank account this afternoon.”

“You’re transferring funds.” My entire world has imploded and he’s calmly settling his account, putting the final line in his Camille Joplin Trent relationship spreadsheet. “After all of the time we’ve spent together, the things we’ve talked about, the love I’ve showed you, you’re offering me money?” I shake with fury, my rage matching my agony.

His lips part.

“Fuck you, Nate.” I tuck the cursed contract under my right arm and flip him the double bird, extending both of my middle fingers. “You can keep your precious cash.” I fling the door open. “That isn’t what I want from you. That was never what I wanted from you.”

I stomp along the hallway. Employees duck their heads, hiding in their cubicles. The floor is eerily quiet, the heaviness of my tread accentuated. I feel Nate’s gaze on my back. I don’t turn around.

I pass through the reception area and Gladys’ mouth drops open. She doesn’t say anything as I jab the button sixteen times, taking my rage out on the little illuminated circle.

The elevator doors open. A dark-suited man smiles at me. I glare back at him and he gulps, hastily exiting the car. The button for the second level of the parking garage has been pressed.

Not fit for human company, I punch the button for the ground floor. Nate spurns his father’s monetary offer and then he says he’ll pay me? I replay every sentence of our conversation in my mind. He makes no damn sense.

The elevator doors open and I rush through the lobby. My heels bend against the marble floor. A cautious woman would tread more lightly. I slam my feet down with all of my strength, the noise waking the sleeping security guard. He jerks in his chair, grabs his holster, sees it’s me, and closes his eyes once more.

He doesn’t think I’m a threat. He doesn’t realize how dangerous my mood is. I blast through the revolving doors, step outside, and glower at the sky.

The weather should be dark and stormy, reflecting my pain. It isn’t. The sky is blue, the clouds white and fluffy, the sun shining. I curse LA’s perfect climate as I head toward the tiny park, my shoes battling the hard sidewalk.

I turn onto the gravel pathway and gravity claims its victory. The heel of my right shoe snaps, rendering it completely useless. I color the air with another long stream of profanities, yank both of my shoes off my feet, and toss them into the garbage can. Good riddance to bad shoes.

Tiny stones bite into my bare soles. I hobble onto the grass and locate the nearest bench. A connection with the earth usually grounds me. Today I need more. I need Nate.

Cursed man. I slap the contract and my ass down on the wooden slates. Leaning back, I stretch my arms along the back of the bench. The sun’s rays caress my face and the wind rustles the leaves. Nothing feels right.

Nate thinks shredding the contract will end what we have. It won’t. My body, heart, and soul are bound to him today, tomorrow, forever. Destroying a stack of papers won’t change that.

I thumb through the pages, skimming the words. Nate will pay me a small fortune every day I’m with him. He’ll replace my entire wardrobe, every item detailed including the number and brand of socks he’ll buy. He’ll provide three meals a day, three snacks, and more beverages than a healthy woman should ever drink. I’ll have a bedroom with a walk-in closet and an attached bathroom. I’ll receive a minimum of two kisses and one orgasm a day. Everything he will give me is absolute, specific, and almost lovingly outlined.

Nothing he receives is certain. I dictate what I do, say, eat, and wear. I decide whether or not we have sex. I can decide to give him no orgasms, not to kiss him back, not to touch him. He doesn’t curtail my freedom at all.

Because Nate didn’t craft our agreement to control me. I hold the papers against my chest. He was ensuring he didn’t disappoint me, guaranteeing my expectations would be met, trying to make me happy, to take care of me.

And I hadn’t even taken the time to read it.

My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. I’ve received a meeting request for next Tuesday at five o’clock with Mr. Blaine, the CEO and founder of Blaine Technologies. The subject is mentoring and the meeting reoccurs once a month for a year.

I accept, of course. I may be rash and reckless and completely heartbroken, but I’m not an idiot. Having Mr. Blaine as a mentor is the equivalent of winning the lottery for any entrepreneur.

I’m his wife’s friend. That must be why I’ve landed these highly coveted meetings. He heard I was working on a project and wishes to help.

A small voice inside me whispers
bullshit
. This voice, originating from the region around my heart, knows Anna hasn’t arranged these mentoring sessions.

Three minutes later I receive another invite. This monthly after-hours meeting is with the chief marketing officer, a man whom I’ve only met once in my life. I accept, stunned by my sudden popularity, and the voice inside me grows louder.

Anna, my friend, has baby brain. She wouldn’t have arranged this second meeting. She doesn’t care enough.

Only one person on the planet cares this much. He knows what this project means to me and he promised to fix everything. He always keeps his word.

As I accept one meeting I receive a request for another. By ten o’clock I have monthly meetings set with almost all of the executive team. I also have no doubt about who is driving this activity.

Nate calls me, his number appearing on my phone’s small screen. I shouldn’t answer. My emotions are exposed, my soul vulnerable. But I can’t not speak to him, can’t forgo this opportunity to hear his voice, maybe for the last time.

“Camille speaking,” I answer, striving for a professional tone while my heart pounds in my chest.

“This is Nate,” he says. There’s a long gut-twisting pause. “I never listen to hip-hop. I don’t know any of the songs.”

He called me to talk about music? I shake my head, confused. “I’ll send you my playlist.”

“I’d like that.” There’s another long stretch of silence. Papers rustle and a chair creaks. “A couple should know each other’s favorite songs.”

A couple? My hands tremble. “I thought you ended our relationship.”

“I ended our agreement, not us, never us,” Nate clarifies. “I want us to have a normal relationship.”

He never ended us. My heart squeezes. He wants to spend time with me, be my lover. “Nate, love, we’ll never have a normal relationship.” I smile, dazed by his revelation. “I grew up on a hippie commune. I’m a hacker, a former Goth girl. I have green hair and a tattoo and multiple piercings. I don’t know what normal is.”

Nate chuckles, the sound low and deep. “I don’t know what normal is either. And I don’t want normal. I want you. I want you to choose to be with me.”

“I always chose to be with you.” I cradle the phone against my face, wishing I could touch him. “I consulted my heart, not the contract, when I made decisions.”

The line goes quiet. Nate wants a normal relationship. We could start with a normal conversation. “If you don’t listen to hip-hop what do you listen to?” My bet is on classical. Nate seems like a Beethoven type of guy.

“I listen to country.” He surprises me.

“Country?” I laugh, unable to picture my sophisticated executive wearing a cowboy hat and boots. “Why?”

“I like the lyrics,” Nate explains. “The singers talk about real life, real emotions.” We yap about music, TV shows, movies, neither of us having much time to indulge in either of the latter. The topics are intentionally light, steering away from more serious issues. I tease him about his eclectic tastes, his not caring about popular opinion. He likes what he likes, screw the critics, and I love that about him. I love him.

We finally end the call. I glance at my phone’s screen and blink. An hour has passed. I gingerly navigate the hard gravel, the stones digging into my bare feet. Nate cares for me. The hot sidewalk sears the tiny wounds on my soles. He might not love me, but I know he cares for me.

I enter the office building. The cool air blasts my heated cheeks. The equally chilly floor tiles soothe my aching feet.

“Walk with me.” Mr. Henley, the big brutish head of cybersecurity, appears out of the shadows and matches my stride, his scarred face hard, his suit, shirt, and shoes as black as night. He doesn’t walk casually with anyone. He’s stalking me for a reason and that reason isn’t good.

I’m in trouble. Again. “Mr. Henley.” I suspect not wearing shoes violates Blaine Technologies’ rigid dress code. We enter the elevator. I press the button for the legal floor. Mr. Henley presses the button for his floor.

“Due to security concerns I don’t normally mentor anyone outside of my department,” Mr. Henley rumbles.

I nod, knowing this information. When I first joined the company I had brazenly asked him to mentor me, and did some extremely stupid things to try to impress him, almost losing Kat’s friendship in the process. Mr. Henley had turned me down cold, threatening to fire my defiant ass.

“But as your mentorship request comes from Mr. Lawford, I’ll make an exception,” the scary executive concedes. “I owe him a few favors and this is the first time he has collected on one.”

Mr. Henley owes my strong and silent man favors. I gulp. Nate constantly surprises me, keeping me challenged, excited, head-over-heels in love with him. “Do many of the executives owe Nate favors?”

“Yes.” Mr. Henley’s dark eyes gleam. “We all owe Mr. Lawford favors. He’s a good man, Camille, and he cares for you. Try not to break too many of his rules.”

“Many of his rules need to be broken,” I mutter, Mr. Henley’s insights secretly thrilling me. “Do you truly think he cares for me?” I ask.

“A couple of months ago an urgent business issue arose. I tried to talk to Mr. Lawford about it in the parking garage.” Mr. Henley shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “He said he’d meet with me at eight o’clock, told me he had an elevator to catch.”

“I was taking that elevator car,” I share. “Nate wanted to see me.” He has cared about me for months, before we touched, before we kissed.

“I’m aware of that,” Mr. Henley says dryly. “I suggest you find your shoes.” The elevator doors open. “And remember that the cameras in the elevators and the shredding room are fully functional.” He steps out of the car.

Nate and I had sexual encounters in both places. I grin. We must have given Mr. Henley’s security team quite a show.

Chapter Thirteen

A
S
I
ENTER
my shredding room office, the soothing scent of mint fills my nostrils, a fragrance I will forever associate with Nate. The lush green herb is set on my desk. Its shiny white pot matches my executive’s black-and-white kitchen.

A folded piece of fine white card stock leans against the plant. Nate’s distinctive handwriting flows in heavy black ink across its surface.

I humbly request the honor of your presence for lunch.