by Olivia Hayle
“We met each other recently, so this is still new. We don’t need to know everything about each other to convincingly play this off.”
“Smart.”
“Thanks,” I say, with half a smile. “You’re clearly nervous about this. There’s no need to be.”
Faye wants to protest—I can see it in her eyes—but doesn’t. Instead, she drains the last of her wine. “Maybe I am, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Here.” I reach for her glass, now empty, and stand. “I’ll be right back, and then you can ask me anything you want to put your nerves at ease. All right?”
“All right,” she echoes, curling up further on the corner of the couch, and I ignore the feeling that she belongs here. In my life, in my apartment, and on my couch.
It’s getting harder to do by the minute.
18
Faye
I watch in silence as Henry opens the fridge, pouring us more wine. There’s something so relaxed about him here—in his own apartment, his own territory—that I never see at work. It’s disarming, and it’s not doing wonders for my self-restraint. The kiss in his office has been on repeat in my mind since Friday.
He returns to the couch with sure strides, dressed in a sweater and slacks. The usually stern features of his face have softened, something resembling a smile playing at his lips. To think I once thought him practically incapable of it.
“Henry Marchand,” I say softly, “the waiter. No one would believe me if I told them you could be this domestic.”
“Would you?”
“Tell anyone? Of course not. It does make me wonder, though…”
“About?”
“If who you are at work, in your meetings, is a bit of a charade.” I wave a hand. “You know you intimidate the associates and architects. I think you thrive on it. But I’m not sure it’s who you really are.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s bold of you to say. If it’s not a charade, I might fire you on the spot.”
I’m nervous all right, but not from fear. Nothing I’ve seen from him suggests anything other than a genuinely decent man, one who hides behind layers of protection.
“You wouldn’t,” I taunt.
“No?”
“You need me, inconvenient or not.”
There’s a sudden spark in his eyes, and the heat dances from me to him and back again. “You’re right about that. How are you both inconvenient and completely irreplaceable?”
“It’s a skill.” I wet my lips again and shiver as his gaze slips from my eyes to my cheek, my ear, my hair. Our conversation is about nothing at all, but it still strikes me as momentous.
He lifts his hand up and smooths my hair back behind my ear. The movement is painstakingly soft, like he’s giving me enough time to back out of the whole thing.
I don’t. I slide closer on the couch instead, the warmth of his body echoing the warmth spreading through my own limbs. I’m doing what I shouldn’t, and for the first time in forever, the potential consequences aren’t on my mind.
His mouth twists into a wry smile. “We’re not very good at being good, are we?”
“No,” I say, leaning into the hand on my cheek. My skin feels hot under his touch, like I’ve gotten too much sun, but I’m still coming back for more. “But we’re very good at being bad.”
His dry laugh is a sweet sound, washing over my senses, and he closes the distance between us. “As long as we’re the best at something.”
My second kiss with Henry is nothing like the first. It’s slow and deep from the get-go, his lips slanting over mine, a hand sliding into my hair and another flattening against my back.
I give as good as I get, fingers finally threading through his hair. It’s just as soft as I’d imagined, sliding through my hands like brown silk. His lips leave mine for a moment, and I take the chance to sidle closer to him, my body nearly on top of his.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say, despite my body blatantly disobeying.
“Absolutely not,” he agrees, sliding his lips along my cheek, my jaw, finding the spot below my ear. The couch gives beneath me as my leg circles the other side of him, straddling him. He’s large beneath me, wide chest and strong neck and muscle.
“You’re in such good shape,” I say, voice breaking. “How are you in such good shape?”
His laughter is warm against my neck. “You want my workout routine?”
I roll my hips against him and shiver as his large hands slide up my hips, my sides, my ribs. The curve of my waist and the heavy undersides of my breasts. “Yes,” I breathe. “Preferably in video format. And without a shirt.”
Henry’s hands don’t stop, not even when he leans back and looks at me with eyes that are nearly black with desire. “There were at least two HR violations in that sentence.”
I glance down at his hands, now gripping my waist so tight I think I might bruise, and the hardness of his arousal beneath me.
“Not sure if you’re the one to speak.”
His eyes shutter, and he starts to withdraw his hands, but I don’t let him. I press our bodies closer together and capture his lips with mine. I grip handfuls of his clothes and tug him closer, his mouth turning as hot and eager as mine again. I’m in control now; he’s letting me set the pace.
I don’t know how long I kiss him for, but when I stop, it’s to gasp for air. Henry grins at me—and it’s a full and unrestrained smile. He’s so handsome it makes it even harder to breathe.
He runs strong hands down my sides, over my thighs, down to my calves and back up to circle my arms. I might be on top, but it’s only because he’s letting me, and I shiver at the reminder of just how strong he is. How it might feel if we flipped around—if he was in complete control.
“Faye, you’re so…” He shakes his head, trying to find his words. “You feel just as good as I’ve imagined.”
He tips my head back and trails his lips down to the neckline of my dress, and I don’t care if this is the worst decision of my life—not when his touch feels like this. I grip his shoulders and try to hang on.
It’s easy to picture what this would feel like without clothes on. The two of us, doing this, over and over again. Making out like teenagers on the couch at first, before shifting to the bedroom, where it be heavy and slow and quick, all at the same time.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders. He’s in a soft, gray sweater, nothing at all like the harsh suits he wears to work. “You look good in your suits,” I murmur. “The gray one is my favorite.”
His mouth starts its upward journey again, finally finding my lips. He kisses me in a way that makes it perfectly clear where this will end. “You look unreal in the office,” he says. “Every morning, I think there’s no way she can look as good today. Everybody has bad days. But damn it, every day you find a way to top yourself.”
I smile against his lips, his praise sweeping through me like a tidal wave. “You’re biased.”
“Yes, clearly.”
“So I like you in your suits and your big office…” I slide my finger across his jaw, meeting his dark green eyes. The heat in them makes my stomach tighten. “And you like me in my pencil skirts and blouses. I think we’re somewhat of a cliché, sir.”
Henry’s eyes warm with amusement. “It’s a common kink.”
“You’re calling us common?”
His hands grip my thighs, and I’m lifted up and around, spread on the couch with him above me. His body is everywhere—tall and strong and resting lightly against me. He’s still hard; I can feel him against my thigh, through the thin layers of fabric. Everything in me distills to that narrow point of contact. Excitement and fear chase one another.
“Absolutely nothing about you is common, Faye Alvarez. You’ve been unexpected, ever since that damn letter arrived in my inbox.” Henry kisses me with the single-minded determination I’ve come to expect from him. Strong arms cradle my head, biceps taut under the pressure, and I run a hand over his back.
Pulling him closer, my legs opening instinctively for him, I want him everywhere—the two of us one.
He breaks off the kiss. “Slow. We’re not in a rush.”
“Aren’t we?” I tease, reaching up to nip at his lips. “We shouldn’t be doing this at all. How long can we outrun common sense?”
He runs a finger down the side of my cheek. It’s a sweet gesture, even if the hunger in his eyes is anything but sweet. “Common sense, huh.”
It’s like I’ve dumped a bucket of cold water over him.
He pulls back, looking at me for so long that I almost wonder if he’s decided to instigate another staring contest.
“Henry?”
“You’re right,” he says. “We shouldn’t.”
He moves off me entirely, retreating to the other side of the couch. We watch each other, both of our eyes dark with desire, with want.
I want him to ask me to stay. I want us to forget about our positions, our jobs, our reputations. I want to pretend like I’m not just his conveniently hot personal assistant.
But I am. And he’s my boss.
And I need this job.
Henry puts his head in his hands. In the silence, both of us are breathing hard. “Fuck,” he breathes, “but I’m so turned on.”
“I know,” I say miserably, because I am too.
Because being with Henry feels like being alive for the first time in a very long while, where achievement and status doesn’t matter. Where we just are, the two of us, understanding one another perfectly.
“Well,” he says. “One-zero to you, I suppose.”
He must see the confusion on my face, because he clarifies. “You asked if I would be able to stay away from you. I said I would, but clearly…”
“I participated. If anything, we both lost a point.”
“It’s clear that we’re not as strong as I assumed, by any means.”
“Mmm.” I bite my lip, staring at him, his thick hair mussed from my hands. “Why do you really want me to come to the wedding as your date?”
His eyes darken. “You keep asking that. Are you hoping to get a different answer?”
“Maybe.”
It can’t just be for work. This man does nothing that’s not deliberate, and he’s far too smart to not understand the implications and the consequences. So am I, for that matter. We’re both playing with fire.
“Why do you think?”
I shake my head. “No, you don’t get to turn the question back on me.”
He smiles, showing a row of white teeth. “Well,” he says. “Maybe it’s because you’re so very inconvenient.”
The implied praise makes me smile. “Glad I can be of service.”
“Hmm. Yes. I think it’s time to call it a night, before our self-control shatters completely.”
I stand on shaky legs, following him through his apartment. His hands are in his pockets—safely tucked away—and shoulders stretched taut underneath his sweater. “Sure we’ll be able to handle a whole weekend away together?”
“We have to,” he replies, “because the opera house deadline is looming, and I have a contract to adhere to.”
Oh. Mine, the one I made him sign. I grab my purse from the peg in his hallway, turning to face him. He stares back at me—eyes warm, nothing impassive left on his features.
“Thanks for signing it,” I say.
“Thanks for drawing it up,” he says. “If we win the competition, you’ll get all the credit you deserve, Faye. You have my word on that.”
I glance down at my shoes, trying and failing to hide the emotion that’s in my eyes. Recognition. Acceptance. Partnership. It’s everything I never got in my last job. Or in my last relationship.
“I’m very glad I applied to be your assistant,” I say finally. “I can’t believe I got so lucky on a drunken application.”
Henry reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I hold still, my whole body taut at the faint brush of his fingers. “I’m very glad of that too,” he says faintly. “Now go home, Faye, before I lose control completely.”
I smile. “All right, I will.”
“And take a cab home.”
“Okay,” I whisper, stepping out into the hallway. Henry closes the door softly behind him, and I’m left with the feeling of his hand on my cheek, his lips on mine, the entire ride home.
19
Faye
Weekend bag, packed. Nails, painted. Hair, blow-dried. My battle armor is on—I couldn’t be more prepared—and I’m still nervous, waiting outside my building for Henry to pick me up.
May has turned into a beautiful June, and New York is in that sweet spot temperature-wise, not yet sweltering hot and unbearable. Still, I feel too warm, my summer dress clinging to my skin. What have I gotten into with this weekend trip? Meeting his family? It’s madness.
A large gray car indicates and pulls up to the curb, stopping right in front of me. I square my shoulders and try to channel my nerves into excitement.
Henry steps out of the driver’s door. He’s in dark blue slacks and a soft linen shirt instead of his usual suits, but his hair remains meticulously in place. It’s impossible to look at him now and not remember how his body feels against mine.
“Hi,” I say, unable to stop myself from smiling at him.
He smiles back, bending to grab my weekend bag. “You didn’t have to wait outside. I would’ve called when I got here.”
“I like being curbside,” I ramble. “It’s one of my favorite parts of the city.”
He closes the trunk. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible, inconvenient, irreplaceable… I’m racking up quite a reputation these days.”
“A well-deserved one, I’d say.” He turns the key in the ignition, and we make our way out of the city. New York disappears behind us in a blurry skyline, replaced by intersections and four-lane highways.
He keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other casually by his side.
I lean back in the passenger seat, studying his profile. “Are you excited?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Not even for your sister’s wedding?”
His eyes slide to mine briefly. “We talk a lot about me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
I blink at him. “No, we don’t. I know practically nothing about you! You’re the definition of a closed book.”
His eyebrows rise. “Nothing? You know a lot, Faye.”
“I know that you have a sister and you went to Yale. Oh, and that you prefer your bagels without sesame seeds.”
“Well, those are the most important things about me,” he says seriously. “But the sesame thing is deeply personal. Don’t tell anyone.”
I smile. “A joke, Mr. Marchand?”
“Delivered while completely sober, as well.” He glances over at me, amusement clear in his eyes. “Have I shocked you?”
“You are definitely more human than usual.”
He wraps his fingers along the steering wheel, thoughtfully tapping his thumb along the leather interior. “You’re going to have to call me Henry this weekend.”
“Right, let’s set some ground rules.”
“I thought we already had rules,” he says. “You wrote a contract.”
“Yes, but I was thinking…well.” I frown, unsure of how to continue.
He smiles at my awkward silence—a genuine smile. “You’re not usually afraid to speak your mind, Faye. I’m curious now.”
I clear my throat. “What are the boundaries? Do you think we need to touch at the wedding reception, or in front of your family, to sell the illusion?”
“The illusion? You wound me, Faye.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do. And look, they’re not going to be trying to discover some ruse. They’ll be busy with the wedding, with preparations, with guests from out of town. We’ll breeze through the whole thing easily, with plenty of time to work on the opera house desig
n.”
“Mmm.”
“But if you do feel like touching me, you have my permission,” he says, voice wicked, “but you’d be losing a point.”
I want to roll my eyes at him again. “Right, we turned this thing between us into a game. I almost forgot.”
“Much safer than confronting it with adult conversation,” Henry agrees, voice lighter than I’ve heard it in a long while. Warmth spreads through my chest at his words, at the implication, at the way we talk. Outside the office, with open road in front of us, he seems much more himself.
“Of course,” I agree. “The miracle of mutual attraction isn’t something to handle maturely.”
“Especially not when it involves several HR violations, a potential lawsuit, and a career-changing design project.”
“Not to mention a difference in age, class, and race,” I point out. “Honestly, we’re a walking cliché, Henry. Doomed to fail.”
His smile turns wry but doesn’t disappear. “How tragic. We should be cast in a romantic movie, one of the tearjerker ones.”
I chuckle. “Somehow I don’t think we’re the kind of leads that people would cry for.”
“I’m definitely not,” he says darkly, and I have to bite my tongue to stop from asking what he means. That I’m pitiable? Or that he’s not worthy of sympathy? I don’t know which option I dislike the most.
I slip off my shoes and tuck my legs underneath me on the seat, the way I’ve done for years, and contemplate the sudden change of conversation.
Henry glances over at me. “Sit properly.”
“Sorry?”
His voice is glacial—the commanding tone he takes with people at work who don’t meet deadlines. “Don’t sit like that.”
I straighten reluctantly. Everything inside me wants to rebel at his tone of voice. “All right,” I say. “So I’m your assistant, not your date. Thanks for making that clear.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry’s hands tighten on the wheel until his knuckles whiten. I turn and focus on the scenery, on rolling hills, trees, houses, and try to ignore my irrational hurt. I keep my legs straight, my hands in my lap, sitting like a goddamn crash test dummy.