by Lindsey Hart
“Oh. Uh, I’ve never seen you wear them. Not even on casual Friday.”
“Casual Friday doesn’t apply to the boss.”
“It could if you wanted it to.”
I swallow hard. My tongue feels thick, wrong. I feel…relaxed. Amazing. Light. Free. Good. Just…good. I feel good. “Say something mean. I’m kind of at a loss here.”
“Me too.” Sutton bites down on her lower lip, making my dick spring back to life. “You’re…you ripped my dress.”
She spins so I can see the damage. It’s split right along both sides. I have to say, now that I can see more of her shapely legs, creamy skin, and those red lace panties, it’s quite an improvement. But, of course, I won’t say it out loud. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. And hell, I should stop flirting with my secretary.
“Do you want a t-shirt to throw on over the top?”
“You shoved me out of the bathroom! Rude much?”
“Sorry. I…I had to take care of something.”
“I could have helped you.”
At her words, I nearly fall over. “If you had helped, there would have been an issue…with control. I just needed to have a cold shower. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? That’s a first. I don’t think you’ve apologized for anything before tonight.”
“I also didn’t mean to eat you out and throw you out into the hallway before.”
Sutton’s face becomes a violent shade of red. I think mine probably matches hers.
“I think you stuff your pants with gym socks,” she bites out. “Ugh, god.” She shakes her head wildly. “No. That’s not right. I know now you don’t. I—you— your body wash probably costs like a million dollars a bottle, and it smells a little bit like pickles. They probably make it with leftover vinegar and old dills and upcharge for it, and only rich people with less sense actually buy it.” Her eyes flick down to the floor and pause for a couple of seconds. “I have nothing. Okay? Nothing. Just…let’s order food and sit down and talk. Can we do that? You sit in one chair, and I’ll sit in another. Neither of us will move. We will never ever talk about what happened tonight.”
“What happened?”
“A lapse of j—oh. I see what you’re doing here. Nothing. You’re right. Nothing. We will never speak of this ‘nothing’ again. And it will never be repeated.”
“Do you want a t-shirt?”
“Yes, actually, I do. Thank you. Black, please, because I’m going to take this dress off. It’s too tight, and it hurts. It’s cutting off circulation even when ripped. I never wear it, so I don’t know why I wore it tonight. And these heels are killing me. I’m not fancy enough for your world.”
“My world?”
“Stop. Can you just get me your t-shirt? A fresh one? Because I don’t want to smell like old man sweat or pickles.”
“Old man?”
“That’s right. You’re ancient.”
“Do you have a craving for cake? I might be able to summon some if I stuff the ingredients up my a—”
“Stop! Part of this deal is you never bring up anything you read either! And I don’t think we need to talk. We’ve already established that—that—I think we’ll do fine selling this. Okay. Actually, just—can you get me the t-shirt and drive me home?”
“I think we should talk. I don’t know we’re fine selling it. Nothing happened back there, so…”
“Stop.”
“You don’t want to eat? Your grandma is going to be disappointed. I mean, I’m full, but you—”
“Alright!”
I put up a hand. “Okay, that was a bad joke. I’m not very good at jokes. Or at being nice. You know that. I’m sorry. Really.”
Sutton eyes me up like she expects to be sucker-punched by my meanness at any moment. She backs up a step and sighs. “Fine. We’ll stop for doughnuts on the way home. I’ll tell her dinner sucked, but that I went by her favorite shop and got them just for her to make up for it.”
“I can’t eat doughnuts.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Unless you’d like me to throw up on you…then can’t.”
Her lips compress, and her shoulders sag. “Okay, fine. Let’s talk about something else. Will you please let me make you an appointment on Monday for the—uh—attacks? If you…if you’re worried about it, I’ll go with you, drive you, and make sure you get there. I’ll even go in with you and wait outside on the front step of the place if you want. Just please, please, will you let me call?”
“Do you think they have gluten-free doughnuts? I could go for that.”
“Philippe! This is important!”
Her hands fly to her hips, but she looks at me with so much naked worry and distress on her face that I just don’t have the heart to continue being a jerk right now. I can always get her to make the appointment and cancel it later. Or not go. Or just go and get it over with, figure this shit out. I have to admit it would be nice. Nice to be able to sleep. Nice to not have panic attacks in public or even in private.
“Okay.” I nod. “Yeah, make it. I’ll go. And hold on, I’ll get you the shirt.”
It hurts my chest to see the relief on Sutton’s face. Like she really does care. I think about what I thought about when I had that panic attack. How I thought she saw me. Really. Saw. Me. Saw me in a way that people haven’t before. The way she looked at me makes me want to be better. It makes me want to deal with this pain so that when she looks into my soul, she doesn’t have to see all of it.
It’s stupid, I think. I don’t know. I give my head a shake because nothing about this night went how I planned it, so I focus on getting Sutton a shirt instead.
When I fetch it and hand it over, she takes it wordlessly but offers me a small smile. She goes off to change, and I pace the kitchen until she comes back.
I have to blink at her, stunned. She’s beautiful. So beautiful in my shapeless t-shirt that goes past her knees, her sweater pulled tight around her, her heels in her hand, and her hair half-tucked into the neck of the t-shirt.
“Promise me,” she whispers without meeting my eye. “That by Monday, this will all be back to normal. Us. This.”
“We still have my sister’s wedding to get through though, and that will not be normal, I can promise you.”
She groans. “Then I hope it goes by fast. Everything is easier when I don’t like you.”
“Careful,” I parrot in her grandma’s voice. “Hate and love are very close to each other.”
Sutton frowns at me, but I know she can’t hold it. A second later, she bursts out laughing. Even I can’t help but smile. “Never do that again. That’s weird and creepy. Please. Don’t. And she’s wrong anyway. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone.”
“The journal said otherwise.”
“Argh. Okay, I take it back. I do hate you.”
Sutton stomps off. I smother another grin, grab my car keys, and trail after her. Later, after I stop for doughnuts (they didn’t have gluten-free options, unfortunately), drop Sutton off, and get back at home, I fall into bed.
The same way I usually fall in. So tired, I can’t think straight. Exhausted. Spent.
This time, something is different though. When I close my eyes, I can feel sleep coming—deep, dreamless, restful sleep. In the morning, I wake up, amazed. I had slept for twelve hours straight.
CHAPTER 7
Sutton
I thought things would be weird at work, but they aren’t. For most of the week, Philippe kept himself locked away in his office. He emailed, called, and texted me minimally. He hasn’t even asked me to get him lunch like he normally does. When I get his coffee in the mornings—out of force of habit—I set it on his desk, but he’s never in his office. Not even once.
The wedding we’re supposed to be going to together is on Saturday. It’s Thursday afternoon now, and I’m starting to get nervous. I expected some kind of briefing or notes. I also haven’t bought a dress yet, and I know I have to get right on that. I don’t expect to hol
d Philippe to his sarcastic promise to pay for a dress. Worst case scenario, I could always just wear the black maxi dress I have in my closet. It’s not fancy, but maxi dresses are good for just about anything. It’s form-fitting enough, in good shape, and I can throw some sweater over it for a pop of color, so it doesn’t look like I’m going to a funeral. Problem solved.
I’m sitting at my desk, trying to focus on the report I’m supposed to be working on and pretending I’m not thinking about Philippe—which is something I’ve done all week—when Cherry sticks her head around the corner of my office.
“Hey!” I shove away from the desk eagerly.
Cherry thrusts a huge package out at me. It’s yellow. Sturdy and square but soft looking. “This just came for you. By courier.”
“Oh.” I can feel my forehead wrinkling up into a frown. “I don’t remember ordering anything.”
Cherry stares at me like she expects me to open it, but I don’t open mystery packages in front of anyone. God knows what could be in there. Someone could have ordered me something super embarrassing as a joke.
“Thanks.” I toss it onto my desk, flash Cherry a big smile, and resume working.
Soon, Cherry leaves since I’m not very entertaining. The second I’m sure she’s gone, I get up, shut my door, run back to my desk, and tear into the package like it’s Christmas morning, and also as if I was promised an actual real-life unicorn as a present.
The thing is sealed up well. I tug at the packaging, bite at the corner, and finally grab my scissors. I make sure I carefully snip so I don’t damage anything inside.
I let out a gasp when something black slides out onto the floor. I discard the rest of the package on the desk before bending to pick it up. A dress. It’s black and tighter-fitting on top with a skirt of feathers at the bottom. Actual. Feathers. I glance at the tag because I can’t help myself. First, I see the size, and when I realize it’s my exact size, I gasp. Then I see the price. And I really gasp. Twelve. Hundred. Dollars. How could this dress cost twelve hundred dollars? It’s a designer name, I realize that, but seriously? It’s obscene. It’s soft, though. Silky, and with real feathers.
I’m scared to set the dress down, so I leave it draped over my arm. The large package contains a set of black flats, also in my exact size, and a black square cardboard box that I open to find a set of black pearl earrings and a silver chain with a single black pearl on it. One glance at the stamp on the chain confirms it’s white gold.
I set everything down carefully on my desk and walk out of the office. The place is humming with conversations, the occasional laughter, and cough. It feels the same as it always has, but when I walk down the hallway, I feel different now. My armpits get moist as I approach Philippe’s office.
The door is closed. I want to turn around and walk the other direction, but no. This is a conversation we need to have. Some protests need to be made, and a particular dress needs to be returned. So I force myself to knock.
“Come on in,” Philippe’s voice drifts out, happier than I’ve heard it in a long time.
I slip in and lock the door behind me. I turn slowly, composing myself. As soon as I open my mouth, Philippe leans back in his chair, a shit-eating grin splitting a face that I’ve come to realize is far too handsome. My lady bits tingle. He’s had his lips on me. Down. There. And I’ve thought about it all week. The thing that didn’t happen. Except it did, and I just can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t turn off my body’s reaction now.
“I see everything arrived. Good. I was worried it wouldn’t be here until tomorrow, and that wouldn’t have left much time to get something else if it didn’t fit.”
I need to tell him that it needs to be returned because it was all too expensive, but for some reason, I say something completely different. “Uh, how did you know my size?”
“Because I am actually a mind reader.” He grins. I roll my eyes. “You’re just angry because I named you Sunshine Sparklepants.”
“What?” My jaw cracks open so wide, it actually hurts.
“Ha! Two can play the crazy journal game.”
I cross my arms. “I see what’s going on here. You’re trying to distract me so I can’t tell you the dress was crazy expensive and that it needs to go back. I can’t wear that!”
“Why not?”
“Because you probably bought it on the company card, and there’s no way I can reconcile it on the statement.”
“I didn’t. I actually used my own card.”
“That’s even worse!”
“It’s fine. It’s my sister’s wedding. You only get married once in a lifetime.”
“That’s not—” I stop there because it’s his sister, and I am not going to say that most people get married and divorced and married and maybe even divorced and, in some cases, married again. Marriages aren’t just a one-time deal. “When I get married, I’m going to wear a normal dress and just go and sign the dang paper and get it over and done with. No money. No fuss. Nothing. I’ll have Granny come. And my parents. It’s only like twenty-five dollars for a marriage license or something.”
Through all that, Philippe never stops smiling, and it makes his eyes twinkle. It makes him way more attractive too, and my va-jay can’t take it. The office closes in around me, overwhelming me. I need to get out of here.
“Good to know. I’ll take notes.”
“Go freaking eat a gluten-free bagel,” I fume. “Have you been getting your own lunch all week?”
“I have.”
“Why?”
“Because you basically pointed out that I should be capable of doing it. Also, I didn’t want to risk anything getting licked.”
“That is not fair.”
“I got your size because I phoned your grandma. You mentioned it once, and I remembered thinking it was kind of nice, if slightly old fashioned. Opal. She has the same last name as you. I am capable of using the internet, so I looked it up. She has a landline, and she gladly gave me your size.”
“I’m impressed.”
“That I remembered your grandma’s name?”
“That you’re actually computer literate.” Philippe’s smile stays strong, so I do my best, without even thinking, to destroy it. “Did you go to the appointment on Tuesday?” I called a top-rated therapist on Monday morning, and it just so happened she had a cancellation on Tuesday morning. The smile that is turning me inside out disappears, and I’m glad for the reprieve, but I feel like an ass for making him unhappy. He looks cautious now, on edge and broody.
His eyes flick back to his open laptop. “It was fine.” Non-committal. Clipped. Aggravated.
I should stop, but I never was very good at knowing when to quit, and this matters, even if I get that he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Do you need me to book you another one? A follow-up? Or find someone else? Or if you liked it, I could call back. Did it help? Was it okay? There are lots of other people out there if you need—”
Philippe slams his laptop closed hard enough to make me worry about the replacement cost for it. A vein throbs at his temple, and his nostrils flare. “My dad is dead, and I’m still trying my hardest not to fuck up his company, and no, one appointment didn’t fix it, and no, I didn’t get medication to dope myself up with because I actually need to focus so things here don’t go to complete shit, and no, the meditation exercises are not helping.”
I freeze. If I was in a forest and had just accidentally lodged my foot up a sleeping bear’s ass and had it turn around on me with its bear jaws bared and its huge, gleaming fangs aimed at me, I don’t think I could be more alarmed.
Philippe swipes his hands over his face. His shoulders slump, and when he looks at me, he actually looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just stressed about the wedding, and it’s making everything worse.”
“Why are you stressed?”
“Because I’ve been an asshole to everyone. I was mean, and it’s why I need a fake girlfriend in the first place. To try and m
ake it all better.”
“I don’t understand. Are you just secretly angry because your real name in your secret diary is actually Purple Glitter Fart Cloud?”
Philippe snorts. “I wish. I just, for once, want to be the son who makes his mom happy instead of disappointed.”
I can’t take it anymore. I walk over to Philippe’s desk and set my hand on his shoulder. He starts at the touch. I think I do too. He’s warm. Solid. So amazing. I think I can die whole now. He doesn’t ask me what I’m doing. He doesn’t tell me I’m crossing the line again. He doesn’t mention this is how nothing got started. Or that this is how babies are made.
He leans into my touch, and I get brave and sweep his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. “I like that you have long hair. It suits you.”
“Why? Because the devil has long hair?”
“How would I know what the devil’s hair looks like?” I brush my fingertips daringly over his cheek “This is practice, by the way,” I clarify. “For the wedding. Since we didn’t actually do any of this before, is it believable?”
His eyes flutter shut, and he hums low in his throat. “Yes. I think everyone will believe it. And don’t be mad about the dress and stuff. Once you meet my family, you’ll understand why I had to pull out the big guns.”
“Because they have expensive taste?”
“Hardly. I just thought if I bought you something nice, you’d feel obligated to go through with it and stick it out when things get weird, and when my mom starts trying to kiss you and blubber all over you and sit you down for a talk about grandchildren.”
My heart flutters oddly. “I’m used to that.” I go for glib, but it comes out all wrong. “You have to remember that my grandmother has been giving me the birds and bees talk since I was around twelve.”
“I didn’t even know what the birds and bees metaphor was when I was twelve.”
I set my hands on his broad, firm shoulders and massage gently. I’ve never actually done this for anyone before. I can feel how tight the knots there are. Stress. He said he was stressed. And it’s bad. He practically purrs when I work the knots a little harder.