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Why is it the person you least want to see who always turns up first at a party?
It was definitely exhausting working with her. The shouting. The showing off. The pathological need to be noticed, as if she thought she might actually evaporate if ignored for thirty seconds.
And for a moment, just a moment, as he passed her, Jess could feel his appraising gaze sweep over her, his eyes pausing fleetingly on her chest, his interest briefly flickering—and then switching off again as his brain ruled the possibility out, as she stopped being a potential person of interest and reverted to being something else, like furniture.
It was a very Adam move, in meetings, just to repeat or closely paraphrase what the previous person had said. What the previous woman had said, usually, as if he were translating from the original Estrogen.
It was always the same with Home members—it’s hard to dance like no one’s watching when everyone always is.
People who did the most terrible things told themselves whatever they needed to tell themselves to carry on living their lives as before.
Was his constant interference necessary? Debatable. Was it helpful? No. A sensible use of a multimillionaire CEO’s valuable time? Absolutely not. But it reminded everyone who was in charge here, whose party this was, whose club, whose company.
