SIR

by R. J. Lewis

  I wish my heart would slow down, but it’s beating so fast, it might burst out of my chest.

  I can’t help the silly smile on my face as I say, “You really are a businessman, Mr West.”

  “How so?”

  “You tell a good pitch, but you’re all talk. You’re just in it for yourself.”

  His chest vibrates with laughter. “When it comes to pleasing another person, Ivy, I am not in for it myself at all.”

  My smile fades now as he gives me a heated look. “You’re not?”

  “I’m a greedy man, but not with this.” He says it with conviction, and of course I believe him—I’ve been on the other end of his dick, so yeah, I am the first to know.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I say quietly. I’m out of witty responses because it’s late and I’m tired but not super tired at the same time. It’s a bad combination.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?” he asks me then, sensing my mood.

  I shrug. “New place.”

  “Yeah.” He nods once, glancing at the apple in my hand. “The front desk packed the fridge for us. I can get them to get anything you want—just write it down. You won’t have to go hungry late at night.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling grateful. “You can take it out of my pay—”

  “Absolutely not,” he cuts in, looking almost offended. “Food is part of the package.”

  “I’ve never gotten board and food before, so…this is a huge adjustment for me.”

  “Get used to it,” he says it playfully, but I sense the seriousness in his tone as he looks at me with warm eyes.

  I’ve longed to see that warmth directed at me. I almost want to pinch myself to prove it’s real.

  My body feels tight as a drum as I smile kindly. “This is a nice place.”

  I’m making conversation, drawing out his presence for as long as I can get it because he’s being so sweet.

  “It’s something I would purchase for myself,” he replies thoughtfully. “It’s right there from amenities, the perfect place to form a business, form contacts. Not like the Georgian home which”—his brows furrow—“didn’t make sense.”

  “Are you happy to leave?” I wonder, breathing lightly. I think of the way Gaston joked to Aidan this morning about him being in isolation.

  “Yes,” he admits, and my heart dips sadly in response. “That’s not a home you live in by yourself. That’s…a home you build a family in.” He frowns now like he’s just come to that realization.

  I nod, saying nothing in return.

  “But you miss it,” he says then, eyeing me now, that warmth returning to his gaze.

  I spin the apple around in my hands, choosing my words carefully. “I loved the house. I enjoyed being in it—”

  “Just not the company,” he cuts in, amused.

  I shoot him a playful smile. “Well, that company has followed me all the way here, Mr West.”

  His face is light, like he’s about to smile in response, but then he’s looking deeply at me. His eyes slide down my body in one quick sweep. I feel warm everywhere—like he’s touched me with that searing look. I feel his throat bob as he swallows once and clears his face. Then he takes a step back and throws his hood on. “I’ll see you in the morning, Miss Montcalm.”

  I nod once more, trying to keep my voice steady. “Good night.”

  I admittedly hurry to my room after he leaves and peer out my window. I sit on the sill for only a few minutes before I see his figure exit the building. He runs—he runs fast and hard.

  “Could have used that energy on me,” I mutter to myself.

  Aidan

  There is something so virile about being out at night, running.

  A rush I haven’t felt in so long tears through me. It’s a shock to my senses—like a zap of electricity straight to my heart.

  I can think clearly as my feet slam against the concrete

  This past week I have felt an array of emotions.

  I have felt lonely.

  I have felt sad.

  I have angry.

  I have felt sick with stress.

  I have also felt…happy.

  I’m embracing emotions like one embraces light after sitting in the dark for so long. And being here, seeing these storefronts, listening to people grumble, ask for change, try to get picked up, or get tossed out of bars for disorderly conduct—this is the pulse of a thriving city.

  I know how to work a thriving city.

  I know how to spark more life into it, create opportunities, carry the weight of people’s hardships and help them.

  My heart is beating fast, and it’s not from the running. It’s from the endless opportunity in every direction I turn.

  This…

  This is me.

  And now I want to go back. I want to storm into the apartment and see if she’s awake. I want to know what she’s thinking. I want to tell her what’s on my mind. I want to flirt with her, fuck her, moan sweet verses in her ear…

  Ivy is another endless road I want to journey down.

  Twenty-Three

  Ivy

  West looks at me from the corner of his eye. He watches me as I work, as I respond to emails and call up Steven to forward us more proposals.

  He stares at me for minutes on end sometimes, and when I look at him, expecting him to turn away like he usually does, there are times he doesn’t.

  There are times he continues to stare at me, into me, eyes shrouded with mystery.

  Those stares are my undoing.

  There are moments in passing when he comes a little closer, when his face draws near to mine, when he pretends to look over my sheet of paper, when his fingers lightly drag along my leg. An intentional touch. A touch he makes without looking directly at me. A touch that slides high sometimes, roaming beneath the hem of my dress, sending my skin on fire. I look at his face when he touches me, at this jaw tensing, at his eyes growing soft, like he too gets lost in the feeling.

  It’s totally inappropriate.

  We don’t talk about it.

  I wish we would, but sometimes words feel cheap. Sometimes the action is better than speaking.

  He will pace the office, one hand in his pocket, his other hand raised, finger lightly dragging along his bottom lip, buried in thoughts. Thoughts of me. I know it because he watches me, his mind alive as his eyes drag along my body, his wants dirty.

  I shake at my desk when he watches me like that.

  I shake harder when he casually rounds that desk and hovers behind me.

  I lose all sense when he bends over me, nose running along my hair before pulling back and carrying on, leaving me shrouded with the scent of his cologne.

  It is getting intense, and I am unraveling.

  Aidan West is an addiction, and I’m dying for my next hit.

  *

  He sleeps in a giant bedroom on the other end of the penthouse. Do you know how infuriating that is? Not knowing what he’s up to? Not hearing his footsteps down the hall right before he goes to bed?

  We’re living together, sort of. It’s personal. There’s no housekeeper, his brother is still MIA, and the place may be huge, but not big enough to accommodate countless wealthy partygoers.

  So, it’s us.

  It’s us for days.

  Trying to figure out food and having to order it in. Having to shop online for office furniture because he can’t bear not having more shelves and lamps and all kinds of shit. It’s us making conversation when the day has come to an end and the silence is too loud to ignore.

  It’s…us when he slips into a pair of his shoes one morning and says, “Come for a walk with me. We’ll grab some coffee.”

  I walk the streets of Vancouver for the first time with Aidan West at my side looking like a fucking model, capturing every woman’s attention—and he doesn’t even care for it. Never once have I seen his head swivel in the direction of an attractive woman. Never once has he desired that sort of attention. He’s distracted, in a fog
, talking endlessly to me about companies he wants to take over and reinvent. I feel the passion in his voice when we sit in a random café and he uses me to unload it all to.

  “Now, there’s the passion,” I remark softly. We’re sitting around a tiny table outside the café, the morning sun hidden behind large, grey clouds.

  He smiles at me—really smiles. “Being here, in the city, watching these stores thrive—don’t you feel the energy, Ivy?”

  I nod as we people-watch. “I do. It’s infectious.”

  “There’s opportunity everywhere. I didn’t think there was at first…I felt angry, felt foolish that I could ever sell S.P.P. after all the hard work I put into it. It was my livelihood, my golden goose. It defined me. And I think that was the problem. You should never hold onto every success. You should nurture it and let it go.”

  “Move on and start over?”

  His eyes are filled with delight. “Exactly. Move on and do it again, and again, and again.”

  It’s hard not to feel drawn into his energy. It’s like watching someone discover their greatest passion.

  I stare down into my coffee, frowning to myself because…what the hell makes me passionate?

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, catching onto my mood.

  I’m surprised he’s noticed, even when I smile. “Nothing at all.”

  He looks at me closely. “Liar.”

  “It’s just…” I pause, thinking. “It’s a real privilege to watch someone as successful as you come back.”

  “Come back?”

  “Yeah, you know, back to what you know despite…”

  “Losing my memory.”

  “I guess some people don’t need their memory to rediscover their passion. Meanwhile, you get people like me who just…go through life at a steady pace, never accomplishing anything extraordinary. Never truly finding themselves, whatever that even means.”

  When he doesn’t respond straight away, I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, keeping my eyes drawn anywhere but him. “I just made it about myself.”

  I can feel his stare. He leans over the small table, drops his head close to mine and says quietly, “My grandmother had a quote for everything. Everything. She’d say them to me so often, I remember almost every single one of them. Sometimes I would reach out to her. I would ask her to remind me. All I’d say was, ‘Remind me, Ruth.’ And she always knew what to say.” He grows quiet, his eyes drawn to my hand, to the cup I’m holding—to the bangle on my wrist. Then he licks his lips and says, “Once, I felt the same way as you. I felt…directionless, and she said to me, ‘Aidan, sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere. And sometimes, in the middle of nowhere, you find yourself.’”

  He eyes me for several moments as I reflect on the quote.

  “Will I know?” I ask him quietly. “When I find myself, will it hit me?”

  “You assume I have,” he returns, smiling softly now, but his eyes aren’t glowing anymore. They’re distant and full of anguish.

  I watch him carefully. “You miss her.”

  He looks at me for half a second and then sits back in his chair. “Yeah, Ivy, I do.”

  “Have you heard from Alex?”

  Does he even know what Alex is up to? But how could he not? Despite their strain, they’re brothers.

  He taps the table with his finger, watching the movement. “Briefly. Alex…is taking it hard. I told him he didn’t need to revisit that home, but he needs closure, and he thinks he’ll find it there. I let him go. He was very close to her, perhaps more so than I was at the end.”

  My heart pinches in my chest. “It’s hard equally on both of you. I doubt one has it worse than the other.”

  His eyes flicker to mine. “No, in this case, I disagree. She deteriorated before his eyes. I…I wasn’t there for most of it.” His jaw tightens. “I should have been.”

  His anguish runs deep.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I whisper then, feeling deep remorse because I should have been there for him. I swallow down the emotion, but it’s hard to keep it at bay.

  Aidan studies me, brows coming together like he senses something is off.

  “She died an old lady,” he finally says, ending that discussion. “That’s all anyone truly wants. To die old and cared for…” But he can’t finish his sentence and frowns to himself.

  As we finish up and get ready to leave, I stand up and toss my cup in a nearby trash. I quickly check my phone for messages, vaguely aware of Aidan’s eyes on me. He moves closer, and his face drops to mine as he says, “Ana. Your friend’s name is Ana.”

  My spine straightens. I look up at him in shock, but he’s not looking back. In fact, he doesn’t seem to mind at all that he’s just remembered the name of my closest friend.

  We walk back, and I’m in a daze, heart clenching and unclenching the whole way there. I keep waiting for him to say more—he must remember more, but when he looks at me, my Aidan isn’t there.

  Twenty-Four

  Ivy

  I’m going to eat this man alive, I swear. I am going to fucking lick every inch of his skin—I’m about to gnaw on these walls because, ohmyfuckinggod, he’s in nothing but his briefs, body wet from a shower, muscles bulging, water dripping from his fuckable hair that’s shorter than it’s been since ever! He got it cut yesterday after work and I couldn’t stop staring at it today in the office—the office that we spent ages putting together. So many shipments of shelves and lamps and books he ordered—all day alongside his sweaty body as he bent and unbent and lifted and groaned through the heavy lifting. His heavy lifting groans made my ovaries explode; in fact, they’re still sore.

  I stare at him from across the island, spoon of ice cream in my mouth. I suck the chocolate off that spoon, pretending it’s something different. Beside me is my phone. I made an album the other week when he tortured me with his gazes. It’s filled with lustful songs like Wild by John Legend, which is softly playing in the background.

  I, too, am wet from a shower. But I don’t make it look nearly as good as him. He glances at me from over his shoulder as he opens the fridge and pulls food out. We say nothing as he sets a plate down and dishes out a bit of everything. It’s take-out food he put in the fridge earlier today. It’s restaurant quality food, not the Chinese take-out I ordered for myself earlier.

  He doesn’t have a chef, and I’m tempted to just step up and make food, but the whole sandwich thing in the office has left a bad taste in my mouth—pun unintended. I want him to pine for a home cooked meal. I want him to crawl over glass for it.

  Okay, not really.

  I know he just has to ask, and I’ll probably do it.

  He sits down across from me and smashes his food, eyeing the spoon in my mouth along the way as I suck every bit of flavor off it.

  “You gotta make that look dirty, don’t you?” he asks, amused.

  “Am I?” I pop the spoon out, licking my lips.

  He eyes the action, body tightening in response. “Are you trying to send me out on another run, Ivy?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t found an active participant to…help you release that energy.”

  He smirks. “You’ll be happy to hear I’m taking in resumes.”

  “Really?”

  “Would you apply?”

  I narrow my eyes playfully. “I get enough criticisms inside the office. I’m not keen on hearing what they’d be inside the bedroom.”

  Aidan’s expression is heavy. “I doubt you could do wrong. Just have to suck me like you did before.”

  How did we get to this point? I wonder. We’re talking about this like it’s nothing. Where along the way did it just…stop being inappropriate?

  “You shouldn’t talk to me like that,” I warn, pointing my spoon at him. “You are my boss, and I am your personal assistant—”

  “What you are is trouble,” he cuts in. “Your very existence is punishing.”

  “I’m punishing
you?”

  “You punish me every day.”

  “Is this about the short skirts.”

  “No.” He grows still, watching me intently. “It’s just you, Ivy.”

  I scoop more ice cream out, fighting the trembles in my fingers. “So, if I were to apply for this position you’ve just opened up, I stand a good chance of getting the job?”

  “You would get it,” he assures me, voice gruff.

  “No interview?”

  “There would be one.”

  “What would you do during this interview?”

  He watches me eat, his gaze growing distant. “I would have you on your hands and knees,” he says heatedly. “I would fuck you so good, you’d be screaming out my name so loud, the neighbors wouldn’t need an introduction.”

  “Have you even seen the neighbors?” I swiftly ask, purposely dodging his naughty talk, knowing it drives him crazy.

  “They’re an elderly couple,” he says carelessly.

  “They might have hearing aids, so I doubt they’d hear me.”

  “They’d hear you.” He is certain, and I believe him.

  He waits for a response, his chest is hardly moving, but I don’t offer one. I simply smile at him slowly and slip the spoon back into my mouth. His eyes darken, and as I slide the spoon out, he runs a hand through his wet hair, watching me carefully.

  “I want a taste,” he demands quietly.

  “You’ve got some food left on your plate—”

  “Give me a spoonful.”

  “So bossy,” I murmur, eyes bright.

  His are still dark and aching.

  I dig my spoon into the chocolate ice cream and dig out a good chunk before offering it to him. He takes it, and I watch him place the spoon in his mouth. He eats the ice cream off, his lips tight around the spoon. I fidget, feeling heat in my core as I catch a line of water run down his bare chest.

  This is agony.

  Suddenly, I’m not feeling so playful. I’m wanting and lusting and he isn’t making it easy when he offers me a spoonful of ice cream. I part my lips and he feeds me, and then he feeds himself. He repeats this, and to be honest, I don’t even taste the chocolate anymore. I taste nothing but hot desire for this man.