Playing Fire with My Ice-King BOSS: V-Card for One Night, Ring Forever - Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Isabelle's POV
By the time we finally escaped that hellish dinner, I was absolutely stuffed and buzzing from way too much of that ridiculously expensive wine.
Down in the parking garage, Conrad was insisting on driving me home, but I shut that shit down immediately.
"Don't worry about me. I've got an early flight tomorrow, plus I have another... appointment tonight. Just remember—I like my car spotless. Don't fuck it up."
The way I emphasized "spotless" carried a double meaning that sliced through my own chest like a blade.
I was using every ounce of self-control not to say something truly devastating.
The alcohol had definitely hit me, but I wasn't drunk enough to completely lose my shit. My rational brain was still barely holding the reins, reminding me what tonight's performance was really about.
Conrad obediently took my keys and slid behind the wheel like the good little puppet he was.
"Belly, I love you!" he shouted through the window, and for once, the bastard actually sounded sincere.
Part of me almost believed him. Almost. I managed a tight smile but couldn't force those three words out of my mouth.
Love was fucking cheap these days—people threw it around like spare change.
I had to admit that once upon a time, we'd actually meant something to each other. But that fairy tale was dead and buried.
Watching him drive away in my car felt like the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. The tears I'd been holding back all evening finally broke free, streaming down my face in ugly, uncontrollable waves.
I stood there sobbing in that cold concrete garage, feeling absolutely pathetic.
"Fucking asshole! Piece of shit!" I hissed through gritted teeth, my voice echoing off the empty walls.
The pain in my chest felt like someone was slowly carving out my heart with a rusty spoon, letting all the betrayal and hurt poison my bloodstream.
I slumped against the wall, crying until my throat was raw and my eyes felt like sandpaper.
I don't know how long I stood there having my complete breakdown, but eventually my tears ran dry. I tried to pull myself together, smoothing back my hair and wiping my face, when I turned around and nearly had a heart attack.
Jeremiah was standing by the elevator, watching me like I was some kind of fascinating train wreck.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I frantically scrubbed at my eyes, trying to erase the evidence of my meltdown.
Jeremiah stumbled toward me, swaying like he was about to face-plant on the concrete. His usually sharp eyes were glassy and unfocused.
"Belly?" he slurred, squinting at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
Hearing my nickname fall from his lips sent an unexpected jolt through my system.
Without his usual commanding presence, he looked almost... vulnerable. Still devastatingly handsome, but softer around the edges.
I turned my face away, but he leaned in closer, trying to get a better look at my tear-streaked face.
"Knew it was you..." he mumbled, swaying dangerously and nearly toppling over.
I instinctively reached out to steady him, my hands landing on his solid chest. "Mr. Winslet..."
My voice came out hoarse and shaky from all the crying.
I let out a frustrated sigh. What kind of cosmic joke kept throwing us together at my absolute worst moments?
Cheating boyfriend, pregnant mistress, and now my drunk boss witnessing my emotional destruction. Perfect.
"You've been crying," he stated, leaning heavily against me for support.
The weight of his body pressed against mine was doing things to my brain that I really didn't need right now.
"Just got dust in my eyes," I lied. "Where's your car? Give me your keys."
I helped him lean against the wall and started patting down his jacket pockets, trying to ignore how solid he felt under the expensive fabric.
His pockets were empty, and there was no way in hell I was checking his pants. That seemed like a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen.
"Didn't drive," he slurred, his eyes tracking my every movement with surprising intensity.
He was staring at my puffy eyes and pink nose like he wanted to memorize every detail.
"How the fuck do you get wasted off wine at a fancy restaurant? What are you, twelve?" I muttered, pulling out my phone to call Gordon.
"Gordon, where the hell are you? Your boss is completely hammered."
"Girl, do you see what time it is? I'm off the clock."
"No shit, Sherlock. I know you're off work. So am I, but you're his assistant! Do you want your boss or should I just leave his drunk ass here?"
I was already dealing with my own emotional apocalypse, and now I had to babysit a wasted CEO.
"Fuck. Where are you?"
"Le Jardin, parking garage."
There was a suspicious pause. "Put him on the phone."
I sighed and walked back to Jeremiah, who was still watching me with those unfairly beautiful eyes.
"Your assistant wants to talk to you. Tell him to come rescue your drunk ass!"
I grabbed his wrist—Jesus, why was his skin so warm?—and pressed the phone into his palm.
Jeremiah shook his head like he was trying to clear the fog, looked at the phone, then walked a few unsteady steps away.
I used the privacy to fix my smudged makeup and finger-comb my hair.
"Yeah," Jeremiah said into the phone.
"Boss, you were drinking wine at Le Jardin, right?" Gordon's voice was clearly skeptical.
"Yeah."
"You don't actually need me to come get you, do you?"
Smart man. Gordon had worked for Jeremiah long enough to know that a couple glasses of wine wouldn't put his boss on his ass.
"Yeah."
"I can suddenly develop food poisoning, but I want tomorrow off. Paid."
"Yeah."
"You're the best! Keep up the Oscar-worthy performance. I'm turning my phone off now."
"Yeah."
Men and their fucking secret language. Jeremiah had just negotiated an entire deal with one word.
He stumbled back over, draping his arm across my shoulders like we were old friends.
I tried to duck away, but I couldn't let him fall flat on his face. "Did someone actually agree to come get you?"
I snatched his phone to call Gordon back, but it went straight to voicemail.
That sneaky bastard had thrown me under the bus.
With no other options, I helped him to the elevator to call an Uber.
In the back seat of the car, Jeremiah's head somehow ended up on my shoulder. I caught a whiff of his cologne mixed with whatever expensive shampoo he used—something that smelled like money and sex appeal.
"You know, going out drinking without a bodyguard is pretty stupid. Someone could kidnap you and auction off that pretty face to the highest bidder," I murmured.
Then, because the wine had apparently destroyed my filter, I reached over and pinched his cheek.
It was surprisingly soft. I couldn't resist giving it another squeeze, giggling despite my emotional wreckage.
The Uber driver was definitely trying not to laugh at us.
Using my fuzzy memory from that infamous night, I managed to direct the car to his building. By the time we arrived, it was almost 11 PM.
The security guard immediately rushed over to help, but Jeremiah waved him off with unexpected aggression.
"Fuck off!"
The poor guy backed away like he'd been slapped.
"Are you insane? Do I look like someone who can carry your giant ass?" I complained, sweating bullets as I half-dragged him through the lobby.
The security team looked absolutely shell-shocked watching their untouchable boss being manhandled by a woman half his size.
I finally managed to dump him onto his living room couch, ready to escape this nightmare, when he suddenly grabbed my wrist and pulled me down.
I tumbled right into his lap, my hands landing on his chest for the second time tonight.
"Shit!"
His body was just as solid and warm as I remembered from that night we'd tried to forget.
"Don't leave, Belly..." he whispered, his voice rough and low.
Something about the way he said my name made my entire body react in ways I absolutely could not afford right now.
Without thinking, I slapped him across the face and scrambled off his lap like I'd been electrocuted.
"Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" I immediately reached out to touch his cheek where I'd hit him. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to—"
He looked up at me with those dark eyes that suddenly seemed a lot more focused than they should be.
The housekeeper who'd been approaching froze, staring at us in shock.
I quickly stood up and straightened my dress, turning to the woman.
"If he doesn't remember this tomorrow, don't mention the slapping thing. Just tell him he... fell or something."
"Of course, miss," she nodded, clearly recognizing me from that night. Smart woman knew when to keep her mouth shut.
I glanced back at Jeremiah one more time—he was still watching me with those intense eyes—before practically fleeing his apartment.
Less than two minutes after I left, Jeremiah sat up, perfectly steady, and reached for the hangover remedy his housekeeper had prepared.
"Fuck," he muttered, touching his stinging cheek and watching through the window as my Uber disappeared into traffic.
The housekeeper was barely containing her laughter, pressing her lips together to keep from smiling.
She'd never seen anything like it—the most powerful man in the city playing elaborate games just to spend time with a woman, and that woman having the balls to reject him and slap him in the face.
Back at my apartment, I couldn't strip off the clothes Conrad had touched fast enough. Everything went straight into the trash before I stumbled into the shower.
Was he actually... playing games with me?