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29 || Must Date The Chef (IV)
Left? As in, he walked out of the restaurant without letting me know? My head rounds up to Idem. He’s waiting for further questions.
“What do you mean left?”
“Today was his last day. He resigned. So he has gone.” I blink back the shock. My mouth drops open and I swallow hard. “Anything?”
“No. Nothing at all. It’s fine. Thanks.”
I pick up my handbag and almost break out in a run in my haste to leave this place. How did: in five minutes turn to: he already left?
Scum. Men are scum.
Paul. Edwin. Scum of the earth.
I don’t remember much of the drive back home or the events after but the next day, I’m awake earlier than I should and ready for work though my leave hasn’t ended. If I had work, I wouldn’t have been at the restaurant. If I hadn’t been there, Paul wouldn’t have embarrassed me.
He couldn’t have told me that he had to leave?
My car slows as I near the path leading to my office. I’m still pissed. Our convers
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Paul didn’t ask for my number. I didn’t ask for his. But we have a date. Today. This evening. How do we communicate? I have no idea. Two days since he fingered me in my car and my body hasn’t stopped playing images of that scene. I have orgasmed multiple times from the image alone. Did I ever come that fast with Edwin? I can’t remember. Our sex life was mostly dormant due to his hectic schedule. I tap on my keyboard and the laptop screen comes alive. One hour until my meeting with potential investors. My eyes soak in all the necessary details required to win a proposal, I pen down a few things and continue skimming. A knock on the door forces my head up. The next thing I do is survey my office. Everything is intact. Table, couch, mini fridge. Intact. “Come in,” I say, tucking the pen into its holder. The door opens but no one steps in. I stand. Might be the investors. One glance at my outfit—chiffon top tuck
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Paul is on his way. He’s five minutes away. Why am I nervous? He called me babe and I did the same. He ate me out. We fucked on my office’s couch. So why am I shaking? I pace the length of my living room. A song is playing from the speakers positioned under my television but the lyrics are lost on me. My phone rings. I jump. Geez. This is fine. It’s just a date. What if he doesn’t ask me to be his girlfriend? He has to be the one to do the asking. I snatch the phone from the sofa. “Hey,” I greet. “I’m here,” comes his voice. Another wave of dread rolls through me. I clear my throat. “Cool. It’s apartment two.” The call ends. I tighten the robe around me and wait. Minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. I stalk to the door and open it. It’s him. It’s Paul in a tux. My breath ceases. My gaze trails him from head to t
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Throes Of Passion 34 || Forgive me, father (II)
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