Page 22 of Tangled Control

“Three hundred on Leo,” I say with a smirk.

“What the hell, Ri?” Dylan complains.

“That woman at the bar is Anika Singh from my office. She’ll never fall for a rugby buff.”

Leo grins while Dylan shakes his head and mutters something that I can’t hear over the music.

I drain the last of my cocktail. It was good – bitter and strong. The plush pink chair glides against the carpet as I get up. “Right, I’ll let you fight it out. I’ll collect my winnings tomorrow. This Saturday working has taken it out of me. I’m knackered.”

“You’re leaving already?” Leo furrows his brows. “Alexandra and Jennie will be joining us soon.”

“Please pass on my apologies.”

Dylan leans his huge frame over the table. “Come on, Rian? Stay a bit longer.”

“I think your chances with Anika are even slimmer if I stay.”

“Well then, what are you waiting for? Feck off home already.” He laughs, and it brings on the first hint of a true smile on my face this evening.

The damp spring air is pleasant compared to the chilled air-conditioned wine bar. I walk home to the Docklands instead of flagging down a cab, but it doesn’t calm my mind.

Finally at home, I pace around my apartment, looking for something to keep my mind offher. I could head out to The Bureau to release some tension, but I discard the idea quickly. My last visit wasn’t worth it. I lean both hands against the glass dining table and, thankfully, my reflection doesn’t show in the frosted glass. I don’t really like this table. I take a critical look around my apartment. A massive open-plan room with dark leather and stainless-steel furniture in minimalistic style. Nothing personal except two framed pictures on the wall.

One is of my family. I was nine in the picture, Rosie only two. Mum knows how to take care of herself – she looks almost the same now as then.

The other frame is of my group of friends in our late teens, full of self-importance and arrogance and not a care in the world.

Two pictures are all I contributed to my own home. I’ve lived here for six months and don’t know why I picked it. Maybe because a penthouse is what’s expected? An interior designer decorated it with minimal input from me. Maybe I should move somewhere I actually belong?

The sound of my laughter fills the room. Trying to get Catriona out of my mind has made me consider redecorating and moving? God, I have it bad.

Maybe I need Alexandra to settle? Her home is just like Alexandra herself, feminine, understated and perfect. However, a bit staged, a bit too perfect. Like a façade.

I wonder what Catriona’s apartment is like. It’s probably organised with military precision, like she approaches work. I wouldn’t mind messing it up a bit.

I run my hand over my face.Christ, get a grip!

Seventeen

Catriona

The sun is fighting to get through the cloud cover. The chill when it doesn’t succeed is proof it’s still a while to go before summer. I’ve decided it’s warm enough for my herbs, as I busy myself with pots, plants, seeds and soil. I’m determined to make the most out of my tiny balcony. I decorated it with colourful strings of lights for Christmas a couple of months after I moved in, and orange and green banners for St Patrick’s Day. Now it’s time for basil and coriander to do the decorating job. I grab the marker I took from work – yes, sue me – and write the herb names on wooden sticks.

“Ach, for feck’s sake!”

I throw the stick to the ground – the one where I’ve writtenRianinstead ofcoriander. Is this payback for stealing?

No matter how much I try to focus on the task at hand, my thoughts keep returning to last night. I can’t understand how I let it happen – again – and how much I liked it. My arms tied… No one has ever made me feel like that, so out of control, yet sofree. Nothing else mattered in that moment.

And now, of course, I am riddled with regret. Such irresponsible and stupid behaviour. I didn’t initiate either of theincidences, but that doesn’t lessen my accountability – I did nothing to stop them, and that makes me just as responsible as him. I want to succeed with my career and the last thing I need is for myself or anyone else to wonder whether I reached the top because of sleeping with the boss.

I haven’t slept with him!

Semantics, I know.

This affair must end. I snort – does letting my boss spank me and then give me an orgasm with the world as witness classify as an affair?

“Jeyses, Catriona,” I mumble when I use too much force pushing the new stick, correctly labelled, into the soil, and cover half the writing in mud.