Page 133 of Hate to Love You

I’m certain that I’d never hurt her, but I know that I hurt others. Every day. Hell, it’s part of my job. Which would probably seem even more fucked up to her.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, no louder than a whisper.

“Don’t be,” she says, shaking her head. “It gives him power. And I stopped allowing that a long ass time ago.”

She shrugs, taking a drink.

“Besides, I did lie to you. You just caught me in it.”

I stare at her, trying to think of something to say, but feeling utterly and completely lost in her eyes.

“Well, I should probably get going,” she sighs, pulling out her wallet, and her credit card. “If I’m going to make use of the one sick day I’ll have for the next three weeks, I don’t want to spend it all here.”

“Wait…you’re coming back to me?” I ask, my mouth suddenly going dry. “Er…I mean, to work for me, that is?”

The faintest of smiles flits across Abby’s face.

“Well, I guess that’s up to you,” she says, batting her lashes at me. “I suppose it depends on whether or not you can find a way to forgive me.”

“Well,” I grin wickedly. “I’m sure I could—”

“...While not expecting me to sleep with you,” she says, raising her brow at me. “Because I am serious about that. I’m really not interested in you like that.”

I snort, raising my hands in defense.

“Fair enough, Miss Wayne.”

Suddenly my phone rings on the bar top.

Cal.

That’s not good.

He knew I was here and wouldn’t be disturbing me unless it was urgent.

“What is it?” I say, quickly answering the call.

“Boss,” Cal says, his voice riddled with concern. “I thought you should know, but Jacques…well, he’s…dead.”

“Dead?” I breathe incredulously. “What do you mean Jacques is dead?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abby raise her hand to her mouth, clearly shocked.

Fuck, I shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of her.

“Actually, Cal, I’ll call you back in a minute,” I snap, ending the phone call.

“Apologies, I have to run,” I say, aggressively snapping my fingers at the bartender.

“Everything okay?” Abby asks innocently. “Did I hear you say that Jacques is…dead?”

“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “He is.”

“What a shame,” Abby says, taking a final sip of her drink.

“Mmhmm,” I say, realizing I should probably divert this conversation, and distract her.

“Are you leaving?” The bartender says as she walks up to us.