Play with Me (Novella) by Lisa Renee Jones Page B

know?”
    “I have it under control.”
    “Kali,” he says softly. “Just tell me so I can get it the hell over with in one day.”
    Kali. My heart squeezes. “The charity list you gave me—most weren’t scheduled at all.” I leave out the missing donations. No need to stress him more than he obviously is until I know there’s a real problem.
    “Fuck.” He shoves his arm on the doorjamb over his head. “How many
are
confirmed?”
    “Maybe twenty percent of the ones I called, but most of those I convinced to get involved. They hadn’t been contacted or they were told details would follow that never did.”
    “How far into the list are you?”
    “Halfway.”
    “I’ll call the heavy hitters and then split the rest with you. If there is one thing I do today that matters,” he says, “it’s this. If you get someone on the fence about their involvement, put them on with me.”
    After three calls that require his assistance—one of which is an arrogant jerk of aHollywood star—Damion suggests I just pull up a chair at his desk and use his second line. I grab my sandwich and my work and head into his office.
    “Have you eaten?” I ask.
    “Not since breakfast.”
    “Me, either. I picked up lunch but never ate.” I open the container. “It’s ham and cheese. You want half?”
    He stares at me for a moment, and I wish I could read him but I can’t. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I’ll take half.” He stands up and walks to the fridge in the corner of the room and brings back two sodas. “I don’t have diet.”
    “I looked over the press for the event last year,” I say as we dig into our halves of the sandwich. “It’s very generic. Can I write a piece about your personal attachment to this project, which I assume exists or it wouldn’t be your pet project?”
    “Nothing personal about me ever. I don’t do press.”
    “Oh. Okay. Because you got burned when you took over the casino?”
    “Because I don’t. Talk to Dehlia at the shelter. She runs it. Find an angle with her. We funded five college scholarships for kids living in the shelter last year. Profile the program, though, not the kids. I don’t want them labeled homeless sympathy cases.”
    There is something in the way he says this that has me narrowing my gaze on him, and the minute he realizes it, he reaches for the phone and punches in a number. Conversation over. I’ve hit a nerve. I don’t know which nerve, but I’m certain there are many reasons we are drawn to each other, one of which I’ve now confirmed in my mind: namely, that we are both bruised but not broken.
    Another hour passes and Damion leans back in his chair. “That’s it for the night. Go home, Ms. Miller.”
    I’m Ms. Miller again. The name is a wall, a way to put distance between us. “What about you? You’re exhausted.”
    His lips quirk up. “And I look like shit, right?”
    I don’t laugh. “You look tired. Let’s both leave.”
    “No.” His expression darkens. “You should go up before me.”
    I swallow hard. “Oh.” I push to my feet.
    He stands, too. “If I ride up with you, everything we tried to achieve will be destroyed.”
    A wave of unexpected emotion rushes over me and I lower my head, letting my eyes shut. I want him to come upstairs with me. I want to know him, to understand what his bruises are.
    “Kali,” he murmurs softly.
    I inhale and force my gaze to his. “Good night, Mr. Ward.” And I turn and head out of the office, wishing he’d stop me. But he doesn’t.

Part Nine
Running …
    On Friday, feeling confident in a fitted emerald-green dress that contrasts with my long blond hair, I head into Mr. Ward’s office. Glancing up from his desk, he gives me a hot, heavy inspection and scowls.
    I back-step, all too aware of why he’s cranky. I have, after all, been living the problem with him all week. “I’ll be right back,” I say, and head to the kitchen to pour him a cup of coffee. We’re both going crazy. Every