Because he’s had me. Itch scratched. Next woman, please. I’m falling to pieces on the inside. Crumbling.
‘Since you’ve been around, Dorothy is much less stressed,’ he says. ‘She can focus on my grandad now. And Gramps loves you,’ he finishes, cruelly yanking at my heartstrings. I adore Mrs Potts. I don’t want to leave her in the lurch. And his gramps? I love him, too. Goddamn him. Becker’s reached an all-time low, using emotional blackmail. ‘What happened last night will never be spoken of again.’
And there it is. I’m determined to not let this break me, because I knew going in that this would be the result. I knew it. But it doesn’t matter how sorry I am that I allowed myself to venture there, because Becker’s regret has just shredded my own. It’s like a kick in the teeth. He made a mistake. He went against Mrs Potts and his grandad’s wishes, and now he’s trying to fix things. He will carry on as normal, wielding his charisma and potency around other willing women, and before a week passes, our night will be forgotten. And me? Well, at least I have my beloved job, and hopefully he’ll be a man of his word and stay away from me. Surely I deserve that. I can’t let my obstinacy and disdain for Becker get in the way of the only thing that’s brought me joy since my father died. That would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. And I can’t abandon Mrs Potts. My conscience simply won’t allow it, not for the sake of punishing Becker. Or myself, for that matter. Because walking away from my job would be a punishment.
So, plucking my professionalism from nowhere, and disregarding the fact that I’m doing Becker a favour, I square my shoulders and knock every reason to decline out of my mind. ‘You owe me a new phone.’ My statement is an agreement without actually agreeing, and the hopeful look that springs on to his face tells me he gets that.
‘Done,’ he says, his eyes shining with happiness. It makes me appreciate just how much he wants me back to help Mrs Potts, and that realisation makes me see Becker in a mildly different light. Maybe he isn’t such a selfish knob. It also makes me pull up and think carefully, because judging by his quick agreement just now, I could probably demand anything and get it.
Maybe it’s time to test my boundaries. ‘And I want a pay rise.’
‘Done.’
I purse my lips and think harder still. Will he really agree to anything? The potential has my mind racing, conjuring up demands while I’ve got him where I want him. ‘No poking me or winding me up.’
‘Agreed.’ He nods.
I push some more. ‘No pieces of arse at The Haven during my working day.’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Really?’ I blurt, shocked. I have no right to demand such a thing, and in all honesty, I have no clue where it came from.
‘Yes, really.’
‘Oh.’ I’m stumped. Nearly. ‘I want Fridays off.’
His eyes narrow, and I realise I’ve reached my limit. ‘Don’t push it, princess.’
‘Oh,’ I squeal, when the most obvious demand comes to me – the one I should have demanded first. I poke him in the shoulder. ‘You don’t get to call me princess any more.’
He sniffs his thoughts on that. ‘Well, we won’t have to worry about that if we stay out of each other’s way, will we?’
‘Fine,’ I snap, knowing he’s suggesting the impossible. I work for him. Avoiding each other is a luxury we can’t have. He knows that. I know that. That’s where resistance and control needs to come into play, though it sounds like Becker’s not going to struggle in that department.
‘Good,’ he snaps right back, pointing behind me. ‘Get in the car. I’ll take you to work.’
I pivot haughtily and come face to face with a red Ferrari. A super-shiny one. It’s the epitome of showy. My nose wrinkles in distaste. ‘This is yours?’ I don’t know why I’m asking. Who else could it belong to?
‘Yes.’ He circles round to the driver’s side and leans on the roof. ‘Maybe you should get the Tube.’
I frown. ‘Why?’
‘Because, you know, your hair clashes with my pretty motor.’
I cough all over his shiny red car, outraged. ‘What happened to not goading me?’
‘I can’t fucking help it.’ He’s halfway between hysterics and exasperation as he shouts over the roof at me. ‘Just looking at you makes me want to poke you . . . or fuck you.’
‘Then don’t look at me.’ I’m offended, I’m disgusted, and, for my fucking sins, I’m instantly turned on. ‘And for the record, looking at you makes me want to slap you. You’re like an irritating gnat that won’t fuck off.’
‘A gnat?’
‘Yes, a gnat.’
‘Nice.’ He gives me doubtful look as he jumps into his car. ‘Come on, princess. You’re over an hour late. You can work late to make up the time.’