Talking Dirty with the CEO - By Jackie Ashenden Page 0,58
where he’d get distracted, where he’d dismiss something important, deeming it unimportant. Where he’d forget himself and hurt someone.
Like Jude. And Jude put up with it because she had no choice. Because he was her brother.
But Christie wasn’t. And he had to make a different choice for her.
“Are you going to see her again?”
Joseph stared at the wall of the building next door. Unseeing.
He would break it off with Christie. Before he let her down. Before he hurt her. It was the best decision. An easy decision.
“No,” he said, having to force out the words because they were surprisingly difficult to say. “Not again.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because there’s no future in it. You know me, Jude. I’m not a relationship kind of guy.” And he wasn’t. Not for anyone.
“Ah, that old excuse.”
“It’s not an—”
“Bullshit.” She pushed away her cup all of a sudden. “We both know it is. The ADHD is a convenient excuse to cover the fact that you’re just damn scared.”
His slowly simmering anger came to a boil in furious denial. He swung around to face her. “Tell me you weren’t hurt last night. Tell me it didn’t matter that I didn’t turn up for dinner. That you didn’t care.”
Her jaw went tight and he had his answer.
“Yeah, I thought so. I know you understand—shit, you’re the only person who does. But it still hurts when I make a mistake, and I know that. I hate doing that to you. I hate messing up with people I care about. So call me scared if you want to, but you’ll have to forgive me for not wanting to put either myself or someone else through all the crap I put you through.”
Especially not someone like Christie.
“Okay,” she said. “Have it your way. But don’t do anything you’ll regret, Joe.” She looked at him. “I know you won’t believe this, but sometimes you’re actually worth the hurt.”
No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t worth shit.
But Christie was.
And if she ended up getting hurt because of him, he’d never forgive himself.
Chapter Eleven
Christie hunched over her computer and tried to concentrate on the idea she’d had for an article on vintage computers. Nostalgia was always popular, and vintage had its own cool. She hoped Ben would go for it. She’d already decided to include a step-by-step guide on how to rebuild something like her Arkon.
Anyway, concentrating on the idea was way better than the other subject her mind had refused to let go of: Joseph bloody Ashton.
After his disappearance on Sunday morning, she’d sent him a couple of texts asking him what had happened. His response had been late in coming and she hadn’t received it until that night, just a message saying he’d had to go see his sister and that he had some work stuff to do, which meant he couldn’t see her.
She’d been a touch disappointed but she understood. His work was important.
The following day she’d sent him a good-morning text, asking him if he wanted to come over for takeout and a resumption of their Star Trek: The Next Generation marathon. But all she’d gotten back was a terse refusal. Again with the work excuse.
She couldn’t understand it. He’d been so caring the night of her parents’ party. Supporting her all through it and then, back at his apartment, making love to her, holding her as if he never wanted to let her go. Yet now…this. Terse, three-word texts.
Tuesday her texts had gone unanswered completely, even the one offering to bring over a sheepskin rug and a garter belt. Which had hurt. So she hadn’t sent him anything else.
Wednesday…?
She glanced down at her phone again.
Wednesday, still no response. No nothing.
She’d bitten the bullet that morning and tried calling him, but it kept switching to voice mail. And since she’d left two messages already, she decided not to leave another. That would be way too pathetic. And needy. And desperate.
And she wasn’t any of those things, was she? Not after what had happened at her parents’ party.
No, after that night she was strong and sure of herself. Confident.
She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man.
You were amazing.
The words on the screen blurred and she swallowed, her throat gone painfully tight.
Oh, who was she kidding? She was pathetic and needy and desperate.
And she needed him.
Why hadn’t he called her? Why hadn’t he responded to any of her texts? Why was he ignoring her? It had been four days. Surely he couldn’t have been that busy at work?
“You look miserable,” Marisa observed, pausing