SIR

by R. J. Lewis

  We swim as the trees sway over us, as the water ripples and the breeze drifts over our wet skin. Thunder booms overhead, and I nearly leap out of my skin as lightning strikes followed by very heavy rain.

  “Well, there goes that,” I mutter.

  When I glance at Aidan, he’s already smirking in response. “We’re already wet as it is.”

  True.

  So, we swim under the rainfall, until our flesh is puckered and I’m too tired to carry on. Then we leave, brief glances exchanged as I quickly toss my shirt over my body. I feel his eyes on my bare skin, feel them linger on my legs, and it takes a long moment for Aidan to look away. Even when I turn to look back at him, staring at him staring back at me with his chest sunken, he doesn’t look away.

  Heat prickles my skin as I feel a punishing ache form in my core.

  I swallow and turn away, though it physically hurts.

  We trudge up the hill, neither of us exchanging words. We breathe through the emotions, swirling dangerously between us. The intimacy is there, the desire is palpable, and yet…we’re back to waiting. Waiting for something.

  I don’t know what.

  Eighteen

  Ivy

  It’s been raining for two days straight. Despite it being extra muggy, the sound is peaceful as we sit side-by-side. West is munching on a bowl of fruit Tilda left for him and I’ve just had my fourth chocolate bar of the day. Call it stress eating, but I can’t seem to stop burying my face in comfort food.

  It doesn’t help reception here is shit and when it rains, I can’t get through to Ana. I feel like I’m having serious withdrawal from her.

  And Alex.

  I watch West as he eats and works. He’s looking at a business proposal that Steven forwarded to us via email. I printed it off for him to look at. I think it’s pretty serious stuff, but West looks indifferent. I’m not sure why he doesn’t take the big ones seriously.

  Doesn’t matter.

  There’s a strange buzz between us. Stolen glances here and there. Maybe I’m reading into it, but I swear he’s been peering at me a lot more than usual, especially when he doesn’t think I know it.

  He’s extra beautiful today in his suit; it’s buttoned down and there’s no tie. It’s casual yet professional. His five o’clock shadow is worsening by the day, but it suits him. It makes me want to run my fingers through it.

  “Keep salivating, Miss Montcalm, and I might have to spin your chair around so you’re facing the window.”

  His words break through the silence like thunder. I freeze and my cheeks heat from embarrassment. He looks arrogant, that wicked smile spreading.

  I glower. “I wasn’t salivating, Mr West.”

  “The way you’re looking at me, I feel personally violated.”

  So fucking cocky.

  I resist rolling my eyes. “I am certainly not looking at you in any way, and if you want to spin my chair around so that I’m facing the window, please do. I think I’d find that view more stimulating.”

  “Alright, then get up.”

  “What?”

  He looks at me, raising his brows. “I said, get up.”

  I don’t. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.” He levels me with a look, and I see it clear as day. He’s serious, and I’m…I’m fucking stubborn.

  “Fine.” I smile sourly and stand up.

  He stands up too, shuffling past me to grab my chair. I feel the heat of him, he’s so close. He picks up the chair and turns it around and places it in front of the window.

  “Enjoy your new view, Miss Montcalm.”

  “I’m supposed to be helping you.”

  Now he lets out a hard laugh. “You’d help me more by staying out of my way.”

  “Then I may as well leave the office.”

  He shakes his head, that smirk still alive. “No, Miss Montcalm, see, if I’m paying your way through life right now, you’re going to do things my way. And right now, you’ll take a break and enjoy the splendid view of rain and grass which, as you say, is more stimulating.”

  He purposely brushes past me so that the side of his body rubs against mine as he moves to his chair and sits. He resumes work like nothing happened. I resist huffing in front of him. I go to the chair instead and plop my ass down.

  I look out the window.

  There are a lot of trees. A lot of grass. Oh, and the river, which is pretty to look at I suppose, but…

  I fidget.

  “How’s the view?” I hear him ask behind me.

  “Spectacular,” I cheerfully say.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Good!”

  “Yes.”

  “Mm.”

  “Right.”

  I swear, he’s trying to piss me off by constantly having the final word in. I let him have it. No use fighting a losing battle, especially when he is in these stubborn moods.

  “This is very childish,” I claim after a long sixty seconds.

  “What is a mature way to go about this then, Miss Montcalm?”

  “I should be sitting the other way.”

  “I’m not opposed to that.”

  “But you did this.”

  “You said you’d rather look outside. I simply delivered. If you’d like, you can turn back around, but first you have to admit to something.”

  “What is that?”

  “That you were salivating over me.”

  I scoff. “No fucking way, sir.”

  “Watch your mouth, Ivy.”

  “Why?” I demand. “You like my dirty mouth.”

  “What gave you that impression?”

  This time I turn my body around to look at him. I see his back, his head is down, but he’s not doing any work. He’s tapping the pen instead, listening to me raptly.

  “Because you have a look in your eye every time I swear,” I tell him, feeling bold because I don’t have his eyes to look into as I say this. “I think you love when I say the word fuck. I think you’re so drawn to me and my mouth, you keep me seated next to you because you want to be close enough you can touch me. You declare I salivate over you, but I think, Mr West, you stare at me just as much when you don’t think I know it.”

  His head lifts up. I’d give anything to see his face.

  “I’m that transparent, am I?” he asks in a low tone.

  “Yes, sir,” I answer quietly.

  He doesn’t respond.

  I look back outside, my heart hammering in my chest because it was a bold move saying what I did. I don’t regret it, though, and I’m convinced I’m correct. It fills me with too much hope to think this way, I know, because I’m slowly losing my resolve. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep everything in anymore.

  I think…I think if I keep catching those looks from him, I run the risk of telling him everything.

  Would it be so wrong?

  I hear movement behind me. His chair pushes out and his body is up. I hear his heavy footsteps. I go still as they approach me. My eyes are staring fixedly ahead, but my mouth is parted as I concentrate on his movements.

  He suddenly pushes my chair back, creating more space between me and the window. Then he moves to the window, leaning his back against it. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s peering down at me, mind burning with thoughts I’d give anything to know.

  His eyes descend over me, taking in my grey work dress—still short—and bare legs. His breaths are slow but heavy. When they meet mine again, I recognize the look of desire.

  But there’s something else lurking in his gaze.

  Apprehension? Doubt?

  I’m hanging by a thread, waiting for him to break this silence. It’s the worst one yet. I can hear his breaths, can hear every shuffle of his clothing, and I’m itching to draw my chair closer to him, to have him run his fingers along my hair again.

  “If you were seeking an admission, I’ll give you this one,” he suddenly says quietly. My skin prickles as I stare anxiously into his eyes, waiting. There’s ener
gy brimming between us. It’s growing the longer he takes to respond.

  “I’m in trouble with you,” he finally says, swallowing as he looks me over again. “There is something very alluring about you, Ivy Montcalm. I haven’t figured out what it is exactly. It could be your mouth, or the red in your hair, or the way you look at me like you know me already. Maybe it’s a combination of everything. But there is something, something I’m fighting against because, as much as I want to fall into your orbit, something tells me not to.” His face hardens slightly. “Something tells me not to trust you.”

  I’m hardly breathing, and he’s not finished.

  “Stop staring at me like you expect something from me,” he tells me, his voice harder now. “I’m your boss, and you’re my employee, and until something happens to suggest otherwise, I wouldn’t be keen to rock this little boat of ours. You won’t like me when I turn. I burn bridges, Ivy. When I’m through with someone, I’m through with them entirely.”

  He says it with so much conviction, I believe him.

  However, I can’t resist retorting, “What about what happened in the car?”

  “That was an anomaly.”

  “Sorted then?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, if that incident was an anomaly, and you burn all bridges, then why was Nina ever here?”

  He gives nothing away as he peers at me. “You’ve taken an awful lot of interest in that little rendezvous.”

  That little rendezvous, he calls it. Ugh, it fills me with bitterness.

  “No interest,” I quickly retort, feeling my cheeks burn. “I just…I just think you need to listen to your gut more.”

  “I didn’t with Nina?”

  “Well, she was here so…”

  “You think I fucked Nina, Ivy?” he prods just then, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Is that why you look so angry every time you say her name?”

  “Did you?” I question on a tiny breath.

  “Why do you care to know?”

  “I don’t…It’s just…I’m just curious.”

  But I’m not just curious. I’m literally brimming with emotion and it’s hanging on my sleeve and he can see it, can’t he?

  Again, he gives nothing away. He won’t even answer me. He just studies me in the quiet, and I don’t like the attention. My hurt is in plain sight. I can’t stop my need to have it confirmed, to hear him say it—I just need to know.

  But he’s not going to answer, and I don’t think he ever will.

  “Are we finally ready to work, Miss Montcalm?” he then asks, moving around me, completely dismissing my question. “Or would you like to remain seated in front of the window?”

  I could be disheartened he didn’t answer—or take his silence as an answer—or I can build a fucking bridge and stop wallowing. I can’t expect a certain reaction and when I don’t get it allow myself to feel like shit.

  It is what it fucking is.

  “I’m ready,” I tell him, my voice stronger than it was.

  When I stand up, he returns my chair next to his and I sit down, ignoring the hurt in my chest. Nothing I’m not used to at this point.

  The room feels smaller now, and I need to grieve. Because he fucked her and maybe others and there may be more women on the horizon given his absence every time he throws a fucking party. I know he said he was done with them, but how sure was he when he said that?

  Maybe I’ve been wrong.

  Maybe I have my limits after all.

  Nineteen

  Ivy

  We work quietly throughout the morning. I make some calls, sneaking a peek at him in between pretending to be busy. He’s frowning, his eyes are colder than the norm. He’s sour after our conversation. I think it’s because he admitted more than he wanted to.

  He wants to fall into my orbit, but he won’t.

  Something is holding him back.

  It’s that sensible part of him he’s forgotten. The part that remembers I broke his soul— but it wasn’t like I wasn’t intending to return for it. I would have mended it had I gotten to him before he left Ottawa.

  “Miss Montcalm,” he suddenly says without looking at me. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me since the conversation.

  I lean in to listen, hungry for his attention as he claims, “I’m famished.”

  I nod, agreeing. “Me too”

  He sighs, crossly. “Do something about it, would you, Miss Montcalm?”

  Oh, right.

  I stand up, feeling lost because this is Tilda’s job, not mine, but he’s requesting lunch earlier than usual. “What do you want to eat?”

  “Figure it out.”

  “Are we in the mood for meats—”

  “Figure it out,” he repeats firmly.

  I resist glaring at him.

  I guess my job description includes being his mind-reading chef.

  I hurry out of there and to the kitchen. My stomach is grumbling, too, and no, I didn’t pack a lunch because I only made it three days making lunch in advance before my try-hard motivation ran out.

  I wonder if Tilda is around. Maybe I can ask her what our master likes to have for lunch. I don’t see her though, and I’m certain she’s busy doing half a million jobs around here.

  I enter the kitchen and open the fridge. It’s packed with everything you can think of. Okay, okay, so we’ve got cold meats, like some Turkey breast and shit. I grab a pack and toss it on the counter. I find a container of mayonnaise and add that as well.

  Oh, there’s mustard, too, and Swiss cheese. That goes in the pile. What else? I bend down to open the vegetable drawers and find some tomatoes and lettuce. Perfecto.

  We’re getting there. I got this.

  Maybe if I make Aidan an incredible sandwich, he’ll find me more bearable and “fall into my orbit.” At least I have a goal to work towards now. I’m not navigating in the blind, wondering what he’s feeling.

  I make the sandwich of fucking peace. This is rich people shit right here. I razzle dazzle this baby with herbs and Cajun. I practically float back upstairs with the plate in hand, feeling confident as fuck with myself.

  I enter the office and find Aidan still at work. He doesn’t look up from me as I settle the plate on the desk.

  “Did you get lost, Miss Montcalm? I was beginning to think I had to send a search party after you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I made you some sandwiches.”

  I am cheerful, hopeful. He will take one bite of this puppy and instantly feel better. The ice will be broken, and he will find me bearable again.

  He glances at the sandwiches. “I’m afraid that won’t suffice.”

  My smile is brittle as I stand before him. “Why?” the fuck not?

  “I don’t eat mustard.” Then he waves a dismissive hand at me. “Toss it.”

  My reaction is immediate. I feel anger biting through my cheery façade.

  I grab the plate and want to smash it against his head. “Would you like me to make you a turkey sandwich without mustard then, Mr West?” I force out politely.

  “I think it’s best I continue to depend on Tilda for that from here on out.”

  I feel exasperated, destroyed even over this stupid fucking sandwich, though I know, on a deeper level, it has nothing to do with the sandwich. “I wasn’t aware you didn’t eat mustard. I did ask what you wanted, Mr West.”

  He looks down at his work, brows pinched together. “Why are we discussing this? I’ve already decided I’ll solely depend on Tilda—”

  I place the plate down on his desk. “I worked on these sandwiches for a long time.”

  Maybe it’s not getting an answer about the whole Nina thing and realizing how fucked this whole situation is that’s making me blow up. I’m frustrated to tears and angry, and now he’s being a jerk again. How much more of him being a jerk can I take? And why do I feel like he’s holding back from going full Asshole on me?

  His cool eyes lock on mine. His expression is filled with warning. “Settle down,
Miss Montcalm.”

  I point at the plate. “Eat your fucking sandwich then.”

  He drops the pen, and his face darkens. “What is it with you and disobedience, Ivy?”

  I cross my arms, feeling stubborn. “What is it with you and being unappreciative?”

  “Unappreciative?” he repeats hard. “I’m being unappreciative? I have an assistant who isn’t assisting. In fact, it’s pretty clear you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m smelling the bullshit from a mile away, but have I fired you?”

  “Don’t worry, Mr West, you threaten me with that every five fucking seconds.”

  “You said you wouldn’t curse in my office.”

  I glare at him. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

  His eyes darken as he looks at my mouth.

  I don’t relent. “Are you going to fire me? Go on, fire me, see if I fucking care anymore.”

  He stands up, and I step back, realizing shit is going to go down. He rounds the desk, and I have a feeling he’s going to storm to the door and whip it open and tell me to get out and go home.

  Fuck.

  I don’t want to go.

  I’m not ready to.

  But I’m still so fucking angry.

  My head is spinning. I hurry to the door before he does and block it.

  “Wait,” I tell him quickly, raising a hand. “Just stop. Let’s be chill about this.”

  He stops midway to me, raising his brows.

  “We’re just clashing,” I explain, waving my hand like it’s nothing. “We’re two very alpha people butting heads, Mr West.”

  “Alpha?” he repeats, astonished at my word usage.

  “Yes, alpha. It comes with the territory working together. We have to learn to mesh.”

  He watches me, and I can see I’m getting nowhere.

  “Please, sir,” I emphasize the word because it buys me favor.

  It seems to work because his eyes are back on my mouth.

  “I want to assist you,” I continue slowly. “In any way.”

  I sound like I’m telling him I’m down with fucking him if that’s what he wants. It’s not the right message to send, but I don’t clear that up or anything. In fact, with the way he’s looking at me now, eyes heavy with want, I wouldn’t say no if he tried it out with me.