The Bet An Enemies-To-Lovers Billionaire Romance - Sienna Blake Page 0,126

front desk or the coffee shop to the left. I knew if Ronan was there, I’d be most likely to find him on the floor, passed out or well on his way to being passed out.

I joined the half-full elevator and after pushing the button for the third floor found myself wishing the doors would stay open just a little bit, just a little, little bit longer. I resisted craning my neck to see if he was maybe coming from the sides of the lobby. Even as the doors finally slid closed, I half expected a set of long, pale fingers to wedge between them.

The elevator ride was silent save a few muffled coughs and a clearing of a throat, and I tried to focus back on the interview I was about to do. I opened the leather file folder Aubrey leant me, which still contained a few invoices for The Jar behind my CV and a legal pad. I tried to reread the cover letter I’d prepared, but found my eyes just skimming over the lines without comprehending as I battled an irritating as hell sense of disappointment.

What were you expecting? I chastised myself. Were you expecting him to be waiting just inside the revolving doors of the lobby with a bouquet of roses, a sober mind, and an apology on his tongue? Were you expecting him to leave behind his booze and boobs to walk you to an interview for a low-level position he surely didn’t have an iota of a clue about? Were you expecting Ronan Fucking O’Hara to change for the woman he played like a fool for a single goddamn euro?

My clenched jaw drew the attention of the woman beside me, who scurried away onto the second floor when I sent her a “mind your own fucking business” leer. I grinned to myself as the elevator doors slid shut once more: still had it. The elevator lurched up and I squeezed my eyes shut.

I knew who Ronan O’Hara was. I knew who he was. I knew who he was. I knew who he was.

And yet that seemed to be the problem. I felt, despite all that had happened, that I did know the real him. And it wasn’t the drunk, lazy, rich asshole I and the rest of the world so terribly wanted to paint him as.

I stepped out of the elevator on the third floor cursing Ronan’s name because he had come to consume all my thoughts when I was supposed to be focusing on my interview, my poor bank account, my actual future.

It had been so easy when I overheard him at the Le Ball to push him away, to believe that the act he put on was in fact not an act, to accept what those around him had accepted: that there was nothing more to Ronan O’Hara. But it was growing harder and harder, because I knew him. I really and truly knew him.

And that pissed me the fuck off.

I wasn’t exactly pleasant to the receptionist who greeted me and walked me down the hall to a small office in the back. I reminded myself to apologise once I was done with my interview. It wasn’t her fault I’d let a dick and a half into my heart. She told me my interviewer would be there shortly and that only added to my bad mood. I was on time, why the hell couldn’t he be?

I forced myself to sit in the chair in front of the desk simply adorned with a computer, a mug of half-consumed coffee, and a few pictures of some wife, some kids, and some wife and kids on some vacation. My fingers drummed irritably on the arm rests. I was going to blow this interview and it was all Ronan’s fucking fault.

I couldn’t think about my relevant MBA courses or what I could bring to the table at the Merrion Hotels or even the first thing about marketing basics when I was remembering his stupid sharp green eyes that always saw more than you thought or his stupid mischievous grin that he wielded like a weapon or his stupid voice that purred like a lazy cat lounging in the sun or his stupid arms that used to wrap themselves around me so tightly.

“Fuck him,” I muttered under my breath, not hearing the door open behind me. “Fuck Ronan Fucking O’Hara.”

“My, oh my,” a familiar, stupid voice said from the doorway. “Not off to a very good start,