The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 35

It's amazing what the human heart can endure when you have a will like mine. It's incredible how you can bounce back like you were, no matter what life throws at you. It's amazing how many masks I must keep in my back pocket for when one gets smashed into a thousand pieces so I can slide a new one on.

We're on a plane already, and I'm calm, controlled, and acting like yesterday never happened. Redhead is gone, thank God, and Jake seems like the typical, good old Jake from before our vacation. Just like that! The past week or so was erased from memory.

All is almost right with the world; if I can ignore all that, forget all the tears, and ignore the crazy way he makes me feel that I can no longer honestly say is platonic. Despite me glaring at him about using it on the plane, he's on his cell.

"Yes, that's right." He waves his hand at my expression, dismissing me as I picture us crashing into the ground. "No, it doesn't need his permission; it's my money." He sounds annoyed with whoever he is talking to. "Exactly as I sent you." He frowns into space, and I return to working on my laptop. "As soon as … Let me know if there's any more contact."

He slides his phone off and chucks it down, giving me a wary glance, yet saying nothing. I'm working through a document and go back to being absorbed, ignoring him. I hate flying; it's tedious and stressful, and I've done enough of it to last a lifetime these past few months. Life has just reverted to complete normalcy overnight. I'm unsure how to feel, but it's better than his absence and anger.

"You look serious." He's appraising my profile as I stare at my screen and try my hardest to block him out.

"I'm working." I try and ignore that probing gaze.

"So, it's your serious work face?" I can almost hear the smile in his voice and squint up at him; he's in playful mode, and I sigh in response.

Great, that's all I need; he can be irritating in this mood when we're stuck on a long-ass flight. Think bored child without any toys and only me to occupy him.

"Aren't all work faces serious, Mr. Carrero?" I respond sassily yet flatly, refusing to be distracted, still not entirely back to normal with him but trying.

"Yours is especially serious this morning," he teases, pinching my cheek annoyingly, and I quell the urge to react.

Lord, help me.

"Perhaps it's having me up and on a plane before sunrise, boss." I'm trying hard to stay focused on my screen and ignore his invasive hands, or I will never get this done.

"Perhaps." He's smirking; I can see it from the corner of my eye. He leans out and closes my laptop, almost on my fingers. I flinch, pulling them away quickly, glaring at him icily.

"I haven't saved that!" I point out.

"It saves automatically," he shrugs knowingly, and I pout at him as I open it again, but he firmly lays a hand on it.

"Leave it. We have a long flight; I want you to relax." He slides down in his seat as though demonstrating what relaxed looks like.

"It's important," I stress, irritation rising.

Only I could have a boss who doesn't deem his own company's business as important.

"It will keep," his tone firm. His flicker of irritation makes me back down, wary of him still being touchy under the surface.

"Okay, fine. You're the boss. How shall I relax, Mr. Carrero?" I sulk as he lifts a hand to the attendant, and she comes over with the tray of champagne; he takes two and hands me one with a nod.

"Why is it always alcohol with you?" I sigh, sipping it anyway. I'm so not in the mood to refuse him.

"Proven method. I stick with what works." He raises his eyebrows impishly, all hints of annoyance gone so quickly.

"The resurfacing of drunk Emma?" I'm still pouting, my tone tight as I say it, and I can feel his grin without looking.

Asshole!

"Maybe just tipsy Emma; she's nice too." He winks my way naughtily.

"Hmmm." I'm unimpressed.

"Or just Emma. I like Emma just as much."

I flick a glance at him and turn away, unsure how to read the distant look in his eyes. He's being unusually nice all of a sudden.

Guilty conscience?

"Maybe Emma and her other Emmas don't like you much anymore," I mutter quietly, averting my gaze to the bubbles popping in my liquid refreshment. Sometimes my brain has this amazing habit of saying out loud the most random of little thoughts hiding in the back of my head. It is the worst trait, and I bite my tongue.

"And why is that?" he chuckles, watching me steadily.

"Because," I pout childishly. I don't want to follow this line of conversation and start a row.

"Just because?" he probes, his eyes burning a hole in my face, stupidly obtuse and grating on me.

"Do I need a reason not to like you anymore?" I know I'm being petty, but a small part of me has still not forgiven him for leaving me on that yacht and closing me out for days while he … never mind. This is why I should never have said it.

"I guess not. It would be nice to have one, though. Can't have random acts of boss-hating being thrown about," he grins, adjusting his casual posture in his seat while making it creak. Despite myself, I stifle a laugh; he can be funny sometimes, if not a little dumb. I frown again, trying to bring back my pout to stay moody.

"You could always boss me into liking you again, bossy," I tease solemnly, trying to retain my upset look and failing miserably. He's too good at always bringing me around.

"I might do that." He watches me for a long second, then frowns deeply. "Is it because I fucked off and left you?" His voice has an edge with this question and a knowing look. I guess he's decided now is the time to talk. We hadn't yet, not about this.

Shit.

"Maybe." My voice is inordinately tight, sensing his frown even though I'm not looking at him anymore; he takes the drink out of my hand and puts our glasses on the table before us.

"We need to talk about this, Emma. Right now. Get it out of the way."

Boss Carrero tone. Yup, this is what I feared. This is all I need.

I shift slightly to look up at him, my heart stilling and my breath pausing. I guess we had to do this sometime. What better place than on a private jet, thousands of miles high in the sky, where I have zero escape.

"I had to leave," he says. His focus on me is almost uncomfortable.

"Of course you did," I say quickly, slightly too sharply, and chastise myself inwardly for bristling at the first sentence.

"Stop it," he warns, "Look at me and stop fiddling with the laptop; it's staying closed."

I roll my eyes; he's watching me steadily. He takes my laptop and slides it on the floor, away from me, between his feet.

"I left for both our sakes, Emma," he continues, still locked on me intensely.

"If I remember rightly, you left for your own … needs." At least he has the grace to look away and sigh. My face is flushing, and my cheeks are hot; talking about this is making me uptight already. This was never going to be a good conversation. It just hurts me irreversibly.

"Yeah, well, we had started to overstep the mark a little too frequently, as you kept reminding me," he points out calmly, but there's a sadness in his voice.

"Is that what we're calling it nowadays?" I sound pathetic, huffy, and immature, and I hate myself for it.

"What would you rather we call it? Gross misconduct? Sexual advances from your boss?" There's a slight sneer, but overall, he sounds calm, his face almost expressionless, although his green eyes have darkened stormily.

"Um, no. Drunken antics that got out of hand … twice," I utter nervously, trying to lighten the mood.

"Three times," he corrects.

"I'm sure you weren't drunk in the car," I add.

"Maybe I should have been." He shrugs with one shoulder and shifts in his seat.

"Well, that would have been safe, driving the way you were," I sarcastically retort. I sound more than immature now; I sound aggressive and in no way ready to talk.

Why am I trying to antagonize him? Does he just bring this need out in me to fight with him lately?

"I'm an excellent driver, Emma. I've driven with some of the best racing instructors in the world." He ignores my jibe.

"Is that the direction we're taking now, squabbling over your driving accomplishments?" I pout, crossing my hands in my lap and sighing deeply. He wrinkles his forehead at me and looks out over the aisle at the empty seats, shifting in his seat for the second time.

"I left because, if I didn't, it was going to go one of two ways … either I'd end up fucking you or strangling you."

I'm gobsmacked; there's no other word for it. He just put it right out there so bluntly.

I'm sure I should read my contract under the section about appropriate conversation topics with your boss and maybe check the sexual harassment clauses.

He flicks his eyes over my burning face, accepting my silence.

"It's clear that parts of our relationship sometimes blur the lines. We work closely, live in each other's pockets, and sometimes I forget you are my PA above everything else."

"What exactly do you confuse me with?" I snort because that would be nice to know. I need a definition.

What else would you call what I do?

He throws me a pained and disdainful look.

"You're younger than any assistant I've ever had; we get on, and we're friends. I sometimes forget that I need to act a certain way with you." He goes back to staring at the side of my face, and I resist the urge to meet his gaze.

"So, you never kissed any of your other PAs?" I say sulkily. Margo flashes across my mind, and I immediately shake it away with disgust. My stomach is already in my throat.

Eeww, she's like a mom to him.

"No, Emma, I haven't. Before Margo took over full-time for me, I went through a few assistants, which never lasted more than a couple of months. I've tried male and female assistants, I lacked interest and trust in all of them." "I see." News to me, but okay.

"Working the way we do, requires both. And being this close means sometimes I forget there would be consequences in trying to screw you." He's still watching me closely; I'm dying under his scrutiny and the blatant way he's talking about sex between us. I'm also upset that he's making it pretty clear it would only be that, nothing deeper! I forget that sex for him doesn't carry consequences; maybe that's the issue. He's too used to meaningless sex and has to remind himself that he would still have to work with me after. Meanwhile, I'm too hung up on what sex with him would do to my heart afterward, and I would be unable to work with him.

"So, the redhead?" I ask, smarting at this conversation.

"What about her?"

"She's the one you ran off with for a week?" I'm back to sulking Emma, half pouting, heart twisting in my chest, broken inside. He frowns at me and shakes his head.

"No. I picked her up before I flew home." He avoids my eyes this time, and I swear I catch a moment of shame.

Nice. 'Picked her up,' like picking up a quart of milk on the way home from work.

"Back on form then?" I spit, my temper returning at how I've maneuvered the topic. I'm such an idiot.

"Completely," he responds. I sense the coolness returning to his voice; he reacts to my anger and snippiness.

"Got to the root of the issue?" I ask sardonically.

Try and keep calm, Emma.

I scold myself inwardly for this argument.

"Yes. Isn't an issue anymore," he grunts. I swallow hard, so close to crying, and paste a smile on my face instead.

"Good. Can't have you incapable and suffering now, can we? Carrero losing his edge is worse than death for you, right?" I smile curtly with the fakest smile I've ever given. He regards me icily and hands me back my champagne. "Maybe we should clink to that," I add drily, hating him now and unable to stop the internal distress.

"Maybe we should." He pings his glass against mine harshly, I catch the sarcasm on his face. He seems angry now too, but I smile icily, hating on him as much as I detest myself.

Are we fighting? It feels like we are, but it's laced with uber-cool and polite words, and I can't read him.

I lay my head back against my seat, irritation clouding my thoughts. I'm smarting and emotional, and I want to throw my drink at him to feel better. He's acting like this is a meaningless, casual joke; maybe it would have been two weeks ago but not now, not ever again.

"Maybe I should follow your example," I pout loudly; I hadn't meant to say it out loud, but it's out.

Crap.

"What example would that be?" He pulls out his cell and starts typing in response to a text. I wonder which leggy woman has his attention this time. I don't even want to know.

"I should get a string of fuck buddies to visit for a week, rid myself of the tension," I sigh heavily and stare straight ahead, bracing myself for his agreement, which will hurt.

His hands falter and pause. His body tenses, giving me a moment of satisfaction. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his thumbs hover over the screen; putting the cell down instead, he leaves the text unanswered.

"If you want to be that sort of girl." His tone is instantly different, tight-lipped, and pissed.

Hypocrite!

I think he's mad.

Hmmm, well, if it's good enough for the gander or whatever that saying is.

"Well, I work as hard as you do, so maybe I should follow your lead and play hard too. Seems to work wonders for you." I'm fluttering my lashes innocently as his shoulders tense up. His jaw is tensing, and I notice his ear move as a result. I'm enjoying his reaction a little too much; in a way, it feels like payback.

"I don't think it would make you happy, Emma, sleeping around, fucking strangers." There's definitely an edge to his voice. His frown has deepened, and he's aggressively gripping the arm of his seat.

"You seem happy enough," I push on, feeling brighter.

See, Jake? Two can play at being assholes.

"We're nothing alike; I don't get hung up on the emotions of it." He's glaring out of his window, avoiding me, his voice still laced with anger. He's trying to keep his cool. I know him too well, and it seems I got to him; the mighty Jake is possessive of his almost-conquest.

"You don't know that I would. I don't think I would." I know only too well that I can't. I know how I feel when I get close to having intimacy, hence my boyfriends not lasting long. But Jake doesn't know that. His hand drops onto my thigh and squeezes it rather harshly, his nails biting in.

Ouch.

Now that's gross misconduct, and sexual harassment rolled into one, but I grit my teeth and refuse to show it.

"End of conversation, Emma," he snarks at me darkly, and I can tell he's raging mad; his eyes have turned the darkest green I've ever seen, almost terrifying. Maybe he does care, after all.

Is this as close to jealousy as I'll ever get with him?

"You're the one who wanted to talk," I smile sweetly.

"Not anymore. Drink your champagne and shut up."

I clamp shut at his rude response, inwardly surprised but with a whole lot of satisfaction that I riled him.

Charming! Loss of Carrero charm in one fell swoop. Seems I've more power than I realized, huffy and seething.

Well, I feel better, at least. A little check on my imaginary clipboard.

One to zero to me, Mr. Casanova, who fucks women like it's going out of fashion.

I guess we were fighting after all, and it looks like I won.