Into My Arms - Lia Riley Page 0,1

rainbows?”

“Nah.” Bran starts in with his restless pacing; he hates sitting still. “Love sure as hell isn’t that straightforward, but it’s worth a risk. Go on, put yourself out there. What can go wrong?”

The answer is laughably simple. “Everything.”

He pulls up short. “And nothing is what you’ll have if you don’t.”

I sweep my hand, gesturing across my state-of-the-art office on the top floor of the company I created. “This isn’t nothing.”

“It’s not what matters, mate. You once offered me three million dollars to give up my girl.”

“And you said no.”

“And would again in a heartbeat. All this”—he mockingly imitates my own gesture before balling his hand into a fist—“doesn’t mean a damn thing to a guy like you. Or me. Deep down, we don’t need stuff.”

“What is it we do need?”

“Truth.”

And the shit of it is, he’s right. Which is why he’s my friend. Why I trust him.

“Fine. I’ll—how do you say?—give it a go…with her, with…Bethanny.”

“A date?”

“Of sorts.” I rub my chin, the scruff rough against my thumb. The fantasy I’ve toyed with for so long could have merit.

He shakes his head. “Dude, you look like the Grinch. When he gets a wonderful, awful idea.”

My brows lift. “What is this Grinch?”

“It’s a Christmas…ah, fuck it. Take the girl out. Wine and dine her. Try and allow yourself to have a bit of fun.”

“Anything I do will be strictly on my terms.”

Bran ignores my cold stare, smirking like he’s in on some big secret. “Whatever you say, Casanova…but just remember one thing—girls like romance.”

“I don’t do romance.”

“Neither did I, mate.” His eyes blaze. “But you will for the right one.”

Chapter Two

Beth

Managing my boss’s calendar is like playing Jenga; so many fiddly pieces need to balance exactly right. Thank God for the Red Eye I pounded at five because I need stamina and for this final meeting to confirm sometime during the next century. The barista in the Zavtra Tech cafeteria is trained to pour a double espresso shot into a drip coffee the moment she sees me coming. Cut a vein and I probably spurt Italian dark roast.

Ping!

A new e-mail pops into my inbox and boom—Z’s final Monday appointment locks in two minutes before I’m off the clock.

These are the little moments I want to turn and high-five someone, be like, “And that’s how you multitask under pressure, bitches.” But of course no one is around. I’m alone as usual at my glossy lacquered Italian-designed desk in the Fishbowl, my nickname for the monochromatic antechamber that serves as my office. To the left is a wall of single-pane glass that looks down five vertigo-inducing floors to an atrium that could pass as a terrarium, all Jurassic Park–style ferns and fronds. Apparently, visual exposure to plants is meant to reduce stress and enhance productivity by 12 percent.

Hah.

As if I can relax with that camera angled over my desk. Somewhere, right now, a security specialist is watching me type, make calls, put together reports, and ensure I don’t leak any company secrets that might pass before my executive assistant eyes. The owner of Zavtra Tech, reclusive genius Aleksander Zavtra, or “Z” as he’s commonly referred to, is one of the youngest billionaires in Silicon Valley, which is saying something in the land of Mark Zuckerberg. He’s also a little bit—okay, a lot—sexy…that is, for those who swoon over the dark and dangerous three-piece-suit type with a reputation for being ruthless as hell.

The office joke is that he’s Willy Wonka. After all, he has a separate elevator installed in his office. No one knows who comes in or out. Katya, his bodyguard, and Brandon Lockhart, head of Environmental Applications, are the only staff who meet with him directly, and they are allergic to gossip.

Guess that makes me the lucky Oompa Loompa. I sit on display outside the double mahogany doors for the sole purpose of responding whenever he PMs me an order, which is all the time. I’m closer to him than almost anyone else in the office and he doesn’t even speak to me face-to-face. As if on cue, my computer pings and I leap to attention, conditioned to respond faster than Pavlov’s dog.

“What can I do for you now, Master?” I mutter under my breath. There is the sense of eyes boring into my back, prickling the fine hairs on my neck. I glance at the security camera before refocusing on the screen. It’s crazy but sometimes I fantasize that Z is the one watching through the black lens, the dark,

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