Sweet Regret: A second chance, single mom, rockstar romance
Sweet Regret: Chapter 8

“I’ll get it to you by tomorrow morning. I have a few more things I need to add to the list before it’s ready to go,” I say to Bianca as Simone and I pass her cubicle.

“Sounds good. At least I know when you say it’ll be done, it’ll be done. Unlike some others around here,” she says a little louder than necessary to which a coughed bullshit is heard from the other side of her cubicle walls.

We both laugh, and I schedule a reminder on my phone for later today so I don’t forget my promise to her.

“So what gives then?” Simone whispers. “Why is he using you as some kind of leverage against Xavier?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Girl, were you doing more than just serving the man his drinks last night? Is that why he’s demanding your presence at every meeting?” she teases. “Because if you’re skipping out on telling me those details, we are no longer friends.”

“Will you shut up?” I look around to see if anyone could have heard her. I know she’s joking, but the last thing I need is rumors flying around.

“Oh please.” She laughs.

“I’m serious. It’s like he’s put a huge target on my back with McMann,” I say as we reach my cube.

“Who’s put a target on your back?”

Simone yelps quietly at the sight of Vince sitting in my chair, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. His large frame eats up what’s left of the small space that his presence doesn’t already own.

“Oh. My,” Simone murmurs under her breath before giving one last look and then walking off.

And while she may be ogling, the suppressed confusion and anger over how Vince used me as a pawn in his power play with Xavier returns.

And then it dies a rapid death as one thought permeates all others: my pictures.

I have a few seconds of abject fear until I see that the frame that displays Jagger in all his goofy, adorable glory is still facing toward the cubicle wall where Simone’s feet had knocked it earlier.

If Vince were to see a picture of Jagger, he’d know. There’s no way he couldn’t.

The relief that floods through me is short-lived as my scattered emotions struggle to replace footing.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugs in that cocky, casual way of his. “Trying to figure out what that look on your face is for.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’ve seen a ghost.” His eyes narrow as he studies me.

“No ghost.” I keep my eyes on him instead of scanning my space like I want to, just to make sure there are no other visible personal effects. I have a lot to figure out, and right now isn’t the time to do that.

Clueless to my personal war, Vince angles his head and simply stares at me. It makes me feel like he can see right through me. “Then what is it, Shug, because there’s something you’re not telling me.”

My nervous laugh flits through the air. That’s the good and bad of being so connected with someone. They see everything when you want them to . . . and even when you don’t want them to.

“Not telling you?” I snort and divert. “How about you stop using me to piss off my boss.”

“Again with the anger? I thought we brought it down a notch last night. What? Did you go home and decide you hated me again and figured you’d make sure you put your foot down today and really let me have it?”

“Are they ready for you downstairs?” I ask.

“You’re not answering my question,” he says completely unfazed. “Was this a predetermined reaction this morning or does seeing me just bring out the best in you?”

Why is everything so casual for him, so easy, when it comes to interacting with me when I feel like I’m tiptoeing barefoot around shattered glass?

“It’s cuz you missed me so much, isn’t it?” he continues.

“I’m not doing this with you.”

“It seems you don’t want to do a lot of anything with me.” Vince stands to his full height while I look around fervently, hoping it will prevent people from hearing this conversation. When I look back, he’s scratching just above his waistline, fingers holding the black T-shirt up so that I’m greeted with a glimpse of his happy trail.

“This right here.”

His groaned gasp as I playfully nip the dent of muscles is a seduction in and of itself. “What about it?”

“I could lose myself here all night.” I look up the plane of his chest and meet those pale eyes. His lids are heavy with arousal as he stares intensely at me.

His smile is crooked. Arrogant. “By all means, Shug. Take all the time in the world. You won’t replace me complaining about it.”

The memory hits me out of nowhere. Hard and fast and so very real and, by the smirk on his lips when I meet his eyes, he’s remembering it too.

“Let’s go,” I say, tearing my eyes away from him and his happy trail.

“Where to? For that drink you promised me? Good idea.” Frustrated and exasperated, I grab him by the arm and pull him out of my cubicle, his low, rumbling chuckle grating my every nerve. “God, you’re so easy to rile up.”

I stare at him for a beat, no doubt my cheeks are flushed, before stalking through the maze of cubicles toward the back elevator on this floor. The hall leading to it is closed door after closed door behind which are various stored items. Files. Furniture. Electronics. Places where no one should be, and therefore, whatever flirtatious taunts that Vince may throw my way won’t be heard.

His footsteps fall heavy behind me.

At least he’s not arguing with me about that.

But he’s chirping little comments as we go. Comments made to irritate me further but that I try valiantly to ignore.

If there is such a thing as ignoring Vincent Jennings.

“Where are you taking me? This isn’t the elevator I came in on,” he says as we reach the end of the long hallway.

“You’re right. It’s not. It’s the cargo elevator.” I turn to face him to replace his brow furrowed as he studies me. “Oh, wait. I’m sorry. I forgot that you need to have everyone staring at you to feed that giant ego of yours.” I roll my eyes. “Forgive me for not thinking of your needs first.”

“There’s that animosity again.”

“You’re goddamn right it’s there,” I grit out.

Vince steps into my personal space. Space I want to step back and reclaim, but that would only prove to him that he’s getting to me when I don’t want him to know that. “What is your problem because last time I checked, my presence excited you and it wasn’t in this way.”

His comment was meant as a joke. That crooked smile and sheepish eyes say so. But all it does is churn up confusion I don’t want to feel and cause all the cylinders of my temper to fire.

I step into the elevator that has just opened, keeping my back to him until the doors shut. And the minute they do, I whirl on him, finger pressing into his chest and anger spewing.

“If you want to have a pissing match with McMann, then have one. Keep me out of it. I need this job, and when you leave, whenever it is you’re leaving, I still have to be here. I still need the job. The income.”

He stares at me, jaw ticking, eyes flaring, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Why are you here at McMann anyway?” I ask. “Clearly you have issues with Xavier, so why’d you sign with him?”

“I don’t have issues with him.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Why’d you leave CMG?” I ask of his previous management company.

And it’s that fleeting grimace, the one he tucks away just as quickly as it comes, that tells me there’s more to the story than I thought.

“He’s a prick, I’ll give you that, but he’s good at what he does,” Vince says evenly.

“So you hired a man you hate?”

“Hate’s a strong word.”

“How about dislike? Is that better?”

“It is.” He gives a measured nod followed by a slow crawl of a smile. “You know me, I’m not exactly a fan of being told what to do.”

“Then McMann was the wrong person to hire.” I snort.

“I needed the change of scenery and someone who knows the playing field. He’s one of the few who fits that bill.”

“Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re just as bad as him.”

“Yep, sure am.” The roll of his eyes pisses me off.

“Well, he talks about me like I’m his property. You did too.”

“Then start acting like you’re neither to either of us. That would be a good place to start.”

I stare at Vince with wide eyes and a blank expression, uncertain what to say.

I hate that he’s right.

“You don’t understand. McMann eats junior associates for lunch, and you just served me up on a platter by telling him I offered my opinions.”

“The Bristol Matthews I knew didn’t let anyone tell her what to do. I was hoping she was still around.”

“That’s not fair.” My words are all but a whisper as my ego takes a hit, and we stand there staring at each other. This job is my sole source of income. It barely covers my bills, a few extras for Jagger here and there, and the interest of my deferred student loan payments, but it gives me the experience I need and the free time for studying. Losing it is the last thing I need, and Vince being here, pulling his chest-thumping bullshit like he did in the conference room, makes that a possibility. I refuse to let him be the reason everything changes in my life. Again.

“Bristol?” he finally says.

“Hmm?”

“You need to push a floor, sweetheart, or we’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh. I didn’t—”

But I’m silenced as he leans past me and pushes the button for the tenth floor. It just so happens that to do so, his entire body presses against mine.

And this elevator, the one that’s used for cargo and is larger than normal, suddenly feels so damn tiny with Vince occupying what feels like every inch of space and breath of air in it.

When he pulls his arm back, he doesn’t move his body. All six foot plus of him remains firmly against mine. His cologne is subtle. His breath smells like mint. And when I dare to meet his eyes and the intensity in them, it’s my own breath that sucks in.

Seconds feel like minutes.

Minutes that need to end but that history has me holding on to.

“Do you remember how good we were?” he murmurs. His breath feathers against my lips as he runs the back of his hand down my cheek.

Chills chase over my skin as my head and my body battle for control of the narrative. One that knows this can’t happen. The other that craves for it to happen.

“Vince.” It’s barely a whisper as his hand slides down my neck to the curve of my shoulder so his thumb is resting on my jawline.

“I know. It’s crazy it’s still here after all this time.”

“We can’t—”

He runs his thumb over my lips to stop me from talking. His thumb . . . when all I want it to be is his lips.

He rests his forehead against mine, his mouth a whisper away, and we just stand like this for a beat.

My pulse thunders.

My chest constricts.

But my head knows so much better than to start this.

And when the elevator dings, I’m not sure if the sigh I emit is in relief or defeat.