bolted before they could fall down her cheeks. There wasn't much in her desk - just a spare set of keys, a little plant she'd brought with her. She threw them all into a box and went to the break room. She took her secret stash of coffee and the spice bag and tossed them inside the box, too. At the last minute, she went into Michael's office and took a moment to look around. This would be the last time she'd share the same space with him. Even though he wasn't physically present, he was everywhere in here. His scent, the memories of the incredible things he'd done to her body… this was where she'd started falling stupidly, recklessly, hopelessly in love with him.
Laney dug the spice bag out of the box and set it on his desk where he'd be sure to see it. She grabbed a post it note and a pen and quickly scribbled a note, attaching it to the bag. It was the closest she'd come to telling him to go to hell. The words probably didn't even make sense, but it was how she felt, and she hoped he would feel even an ounce as horrible as she did right now, when he read it.
Waiting for the elevator to take her downstairs, Laney vowed to close the door on Michael Caine for good.
##
8.
Michael had a headache. It was the sort of pounding, unceasing agony that usually only tormented you after a night of tequila and loud music. But Michael had nothing fun to show for his pain, only a three hour conversation with Vivian that had left him drained and irritable. While Michael hoped their breakup had been amicable before she took that position with the Royal Ballet Company, Vivian confirmed his suspicions tonight: she had only been bluffing when she left and that she fully intended him to chase after her and beg her to marry him.
Fat chance. Michael shuddered at the idea of being legally married to such a controlling, primping, vacuous woman. Given their past relationship, Michael had felt he owed Vivian an hour to gain closure, but after he made it perfectly clear he had no intention of resuming their prior relationship the claws had come out and she'd spent the rest of the evening browbeating him. It was only when she'd started in on Laney - his office dalliance, as she'd called her - that he'd put a stop to it. The idea of Vivian knowing about Laney made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't define. Laney was his and he didn't want Vivian tainting her with ugly words. She made their relationship sound cheap somehow, when to Michael, the connection they shared was nothing but profound. He had never felt so himself with another person as he did with Laney and he wasn't going to let his ex-harpy jeopardize that.
His steps hurried at the thought of seeing Laney, her smile, her naturally submissive nature, her sweet, guileless eyes. He was disappointed when he didn't find her at her desk, but that just meant she was probably fixing his coffee in the break room. His mouth watered. Whatever she did to the bitter brown liquid was nothing short of sorcery.
But when he got to his desk, he frowned. A bag of powder - spices? - sat in the center, a post-it note attached to it. It was in Laney's messy, barely legible scrawl.
This was all you really cared about.
Michael's eyebrows drew together in confusion. What did that mean? What was this? Not quite sure why, he took the bag and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, note and all. He was going to find Laney and ask her what the hell was going on. But when he got to the break room, there was no Laney. Nor was she in the copy room, ladies room (and yes, he did go inside to check - empty), or back at her desk once he finished his rounds. Baffled, he spotted Price's ancient secretary (she insisted on being referred to as such; assistants, she claimed, were college interns) and marched up to her.
"Have you seen Laney today?" he asked.
She looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "She got the boot last night," she said, shrugging. "Shouldn't you know that?"
Indeed, that was exactly the sort of thing Michael
Laney dug the spice bag out of the box and set it on his desk where he'd be sure to see it. She grabbed a post it note and a pen and quickly scribbled a note, attaching it to the bag. It was the closest she'd come to telling him to go to hell. The words probably didn't even make sense, but it was how she felt, and she hoped he would feel even an ounce as horrible as she did right now, when he read it.
Waiting for the elevator to take her downstairs, Laney vowed to close the door on Michael Caine for good.
##
8.
Michael had a headache. It was the sort of pounding, unceasing agony that usually only tormented you after a night of tequila and loud music. But Michael had nothing fun to show for his pain, only a three hour conversation with Vivian that had left him drained and irritable. While Michael hoped their breakup had been amicable before she took that position with the Royal Ballet Company, Vivian confirmed his suspicions tonight: she had only been bluffing when she left and that she fully intended him to chase after her and beg her to marry him.
Fat chance. Michael shuddered at the idea of being legally married to such a controlling, primping, vacuous woman. Given their past relationship, Michael had felt he owed Vivian an hour to gain closure, but after he made it perfectly clear he had no intention of resuming their prior relationship the claws had come out and she'd spent the rest of the evening browbeating him. It was only when she'd started in on Laney - his office dalliance, as she'd called her - that he'd put a stop to it. The idea of Vivian knowing about Laney made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't define. Laney was his and he didn't want Vivian tainting her with ugly words. She made their relationship sound cheap somehow, when to Michael, the connection they shared was nothing but profound. He had never felt so himself with another person as he did with Laney and he wasn't going to let his ex-harpy jeopardize that.
His steps hurried at the thought of seeing Laney, her smile, her naturally submissive nature, her sweet, guileless eyes. He was disappointed when he didn't find her at her desk, but that just meant she was probably fixing his coffee in the break room. His mouth watered. Whatever she did to the bitter brown liquid was nothing short of sorcery.
But when he got to his desk, he frowned. A bag of powder - spices? - sat in the center, a post-it note attached to it. It was in Laney's messy, barely legible scrawl.
This was all you really cared about.
Michael's eyebrows drew together in confusion. What did that mean? What was this? Not quite sure why, he took the bag and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, note and all. He was going to find Laney and ask her what the hell was going on. But when he got to the break room, there was no Laney. Nor was she in the copy room, ladies room (and yes, he did go inside to check - empty), or back at her desk once he finished his rounds. Baffled, he spotted Price's ancient secretary (she insisted on being referred to as such; assistants, she claimed, were college interns) and marched up to her.
"Have you seen Laney today?" he asked.
She looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "She got the boot last night," she said, shrugging. "Shouldn't you know that?"
Indeed, that was exactly the sort of thing Michael
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