𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐃 | ᴀ ᴅʀᴀᴍɪᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ

Chapter 8

THE NEXT DAY, Hermione doesn't come into the office until eleven o'clock. I don't need to tell you that this is unusual for her.

She's avoiding me. I know this because I've done it myself on more than one occasion. Discreetly sneaking over to the other side of the club when I happen to vaguely recognize one of my previous hook-ups. But to actually be on the receiving end of this? It sucks.

I don't get the privilege of speaking with her until two, when she comes striding into my office—looking drop-dead gorgeous. Her hair is pinned up in what Pansy would call a French twist. She's wearing a black dress that flows out slightly at the knee, with matching high heels and a black  blazer.

She puts a small stack of poster board on my desk, her charts and graphs shrunk down to notebook-size like we agreed. "Okay. You're right. You should lead with Riddle. I'll be second chair."

She talks like nothing ever happened. Like she wasn't quivering in my arms and setting me on fire with her hands in this very office just a few short hours ago. She's all business. Completely unaffected. And it pisses me off.

Badly.

Indifference is not exactly a reaction I'm used to from women. Frankly, it's a little hard to take.

I feel my jaw clench as I tell her, "Good. That's the best way to go."

Now, if you haven't guessed, I'm not the touchy-feely type. I'm not one to talk my feelings to death like some New Age, meditating freak of nature. But I expected something from her. Some acknowledgement of what happened last night—of the attraction that's still pulling at both of us. I thought she would be the one to bring it up.

She's a woman, after all.

When all I get is silence, I can't help but push. "Hermione, about last night—"

She cuts me off. "Last night was a mistake. It will not happen again."

Do you know anything about child psychology? No? Well here's a lesson for you. If you tell a kid they can't do something, guess what's the first thing they're going to try and do the minute you're not looking? Exactly.

Men are the same way. It's so going to happen again. But she doesn't need to know that at the moment.

"Okay."

"Good."

"Great."

She whispers, "Fine."

Fine's a funny word, don't you think? I don't think there's another like it in the English language that says so much while actually saying so little. How many wives have told their husbands, "I'm fine," when they really mean, "I want to cut your balls off with a butcher knife"? How many men have told their girlfriends, "You look fine," when they really mean, "You need to go back to the gym and work out—a lot." It's the universal way of saying we're just peachy—when we're really anything but.

"Fine," I repeat, looking down at the papers on my desk.

And then she's out the door, and I spend the next ten minutes staring after her, replaying last night over and over in my mind.

Hey, you know another word that can mean the opposite of what it's supposed to?

Fucked.

Which is exactly what I'm going to be if I don't get my head out of my ass and back in the game by seven o'clock tonight.

oOoOoOo

Our dinner meeting is well under way. Although I've done a lot of the talking, it's Hermione that has Tom Riddle completely charmed. If I wasn't in such a pissy mood, I'd admit that she's working this meeting like a pro. But I am, so I'm not telling anyone but you.