by Lindsey Hart
“You’re too hard on yourself. You’re not going to eff anything up. With the company or anything else. I’m sure your mom isn’t disappointed. You just need to learn how to talk to people. I’m sorry for pressing you about the therapy thing. I don’t know how grief works, and I don’t know anything about you. Not really.”
Philippe reaches up and envelops my hand, which has stopped on his shoulder. His palm is so big that it covers mine completely.
My heart does some crazy aerobics and acrobatics in my chest. “The appointment did help a little, talking to someone. I did make another one for next Tuesday. We talked about my dad for a bit, and it was nice. Everyone thinks the best way to deal with grief is to just never mention the person again. Like they never existed. It sucks.”
“You can always talk to me.” I go completely still. I didn’t mean to say it, but now that I have, I know it’s true. “I—I’d love to hear about him. Or you…you can tell me anything. I mean, I know about the panic attacks already. How much worse could it get? We also—er—there was this thing. The nothing thing which we are never going to talk about. But I feel like I…well, I thought about it. All week.” Shut up. Seriously. “I’m just trying to say that if you need me, I’m here. But not like that. Shit. No. God. I just mean we’ve already been through some things, and we’ve known each other for a while, and if you’re struggling, I promise I would always keep everything confidential.”
Philippe swivels around in his seat to face me, and my hands fall away automatically. “Would you massage my shoulders too? Brush my hair back? I liked that. It was nice.”
“I shouldn’t. That nothing thing can’t happen again. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t be…that was very—uh—forward. This is work. We’re at work. I would never have—before…”
“By confidential, do you mean you’d write it down in your electronic diary therapy thingy as a scathing rant and accidentally send it out?”
My face flames and I cross my arms, but at the same time, I know what he’s doing, and I’m thankful for it. He’s not talking about it. The nothing. The thing that wasn’t a thing. “No. I’m done with that.”
“Good. I think we’re set then. Can I pick you up at one on Saturday?”
“Sure. If you bring Granny some more of those doughnuts, I think she’d love you forever.”
“They didn’t have a gluten-free option. I was disappointed.”
This I can do. This I can handle. I stalk towards the door, but just before I open it, I turn around. “I’ll find you one somewhere if you really want one. It’s probably the least odious of all the demands you’ve given me.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
I let myself out of the office and stride briskly back to mine. I walk as fast as I can go without raising suspicion as to why I’m actually running through the office with my face burning like it’s on fire. I swear if anyone stopped me now, they’d be able to tell I’m a total and utter wreck on the inside. In a messy, aroused, and longing sort of way.
When I get back to my office, I shut the door and pick up the soft dress with all the feathers. I hug it to my chest and breathe it in. It doesn’t smell like new clothes smell. Instead, it smells just like how it feels. Soft. Beautiful. A little bit like fresh air.
“I hope you do,” I whisper into it, hating myself, because all of a sudden, I know what I’ve been continually denying all week is both true and utterly undeniable.
I have a crush on my boss.
CHAPTER 8
Sutton
“You’re looking at him like you’re thinking about things.”
I whirl away from the living room bay window where I’ve been watching the street and driveway for the past thirty minutes. Contrary to what Philippe thinks, some women are actually ready on time and even early. I’m pretty sure when he said that, he was just trying to piss me off. I think.
“I’m not!” I hope the curtains aren’t swirling and that Philippe wasn’t looking at the window to see me creeping.
“You are.” Granny crowds in behind me. I angle away so she can’t see me blushing.
“I—I’m not.”
“Why’re you just standing here gaping after he pulled up instead of rushing to the door like you normally do?”
“Because,” I hiss. “He’s not wearing a suit. I was just doing a double-take and frantically trying to figure out if I’m overdressed.”
Granny’s lips purse. “Doesn’t matter if you’re overdressed. He spent a fortune on that dress and those shoes, so you’re wearing it.”
“But he’s in jeans!”
Granny titters away. “Ooh, and doesn’t he look fine in those skinny things. They cup his bottom just right. A bottom of steel it is. If I was fifty years younger—-”
“Granny!” I wail. “For the love of—”
“I’m just saying.” Granny grips my hand. “He’s an attractive man. I know you’re doing this for a raise, and we’ve already talked about what I think about that and how you think this is fake and you’re not attracted to him, but I’ve been around long enough to recognize desire when I see it, and I don’t need to be a great-grandma anytime soon.”
“He’s wearing, like, combat boots,” I say to try and divert Granny’s attention off the subject of desire and babies. “To a wedding? We aren’t going to match at all. I’m wearing feathers for goodness sake.”
“He came in a cab, which means he plans on getting drunk, with you too probably. He’s definitely aiming for a late night, and he’s probably planning on his place too.”
“Granny!”
“I’m just saying.” Granny blinks at me innocently. She’s wearing neon green polyester pants and a bright pink oversized sweater that has flamingos on the front. She looks entirely adorable, even in the strange color pairing.
“Granny, if he got a cab, he did the responsible thing. It’s a wedding. They run late, and people drink. It doesn’t mean babies are going to get made. I don’t like him. And even if I did, he’s my boss, which makes him off-limits.”
“So you say.”
Granny and I break apart when the doorbell rings. I suck in a raspy breath. She titters away as she walks through the living room to the kitchen to answer the door. I wanted to beat her to it so she couldn’t say anything inappropriate to Philippe, but she’s already opening it and inviting him in.
Game time.
I put on a brave face and walk silently into the kitchen. When I reach the kitchen, Philippe turns his head and notices me. His eyes sweep over me, and they light up with appreciation, but it’s probably just the dress. It’s beautiful, the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn. It fits perfectly. The top part is modest even though it is tight, and the dress defines the flare of my waist and hips before flowing out from there. The feathers are also surprisingly understated but still very classy. The pearl earrings dangle from my ears, and the single pearl on the necklace sits just below the collar of my throat. I curled my hair into flowy ringlets, and I have the flats on, which fit perfectly. I remember complaining about my heels at Philippe’s house, and he remembered. I opted for a clutch for my phone, some money, and my driver’s license because you never know, and right now, I grip it hard in both hands.
“I baked some cookies for you.” Granny retrieves a bag of chocolate chip cookies from the counter and thrusts them at Philippe. I’m not sure where we’re supposed to put those, seeing as we’re going to a wedding.
“He can’t eat those,” I remind Granny gently. “He can’t eat gluten.”
“What the hell is gluten?”
“Flour and stuff.”
“I know.” Granny grins deviously at me. “I know all about the gluten thing. I baked them with rice flour.”
Philippe takes the bag and breaks into a smile I’ve never seen before. His whole face lights up and crinkles with it. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen him smile with his teeth before. It reaches his eyes, which literally sparkle as it becomes wider and ro
under.
“That’s very kind.” He tucks the bag at his side.
“Kind!” Granny scoffs. “I made those as a bribe. You eat my cookies; you don’t poke my granddaughter.”
“Granny!” I wail. I rush to the door, grab Philippe’s arm, and quickly steer him out. “Bye Granny, I’ll see you later. And I mean later. Don’t wait up, and don’t get worried. I’ll have my phone on. Don’t blow it up.”
The door bangs shut behind us, but I still hear Granny muttering something to herself. Philippe seems to be in a good mood because he’s still smiling when I dare a look at him halfway down the driveway.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Usually, no one speaks their mind. It’s refreshing.”
“I could do without it at the moment.” I gulp. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Like what?” Philippe blinks at me.
“Like a…like…you’re wearing combat boots!”
“Do you feel overdressed?”
“You’re also wearing jeans. To a wedding.”
“You haven’t met my sister. Trust me. She’ll appreciate it. This is more me than what I wear to work every day. I actually dress normally outside the office.”
Since I’m standing beside him, I don’t have to try very hard not to study him. I noticed enough from the window, including what Granny mentioned about his rear end looking quite nice in the tighter-fitting jeans. He really is wearing black skinny jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black blazer. The combat boots are brown, so they really stand out. They’re not actual combat boots, but they’re worn leather, and they look like a fancy, expensive version of something much more utilitarian.
“Don’t worry.” Philippe holds the cab’s rear door open for me. “The boots cost more than your whole outfit. I won’t be underdressed.”
I’m not very surprised, but I wisely zip it and slide into the back seat. Philippe gets in beside me. He gives the driver instructions, and after we get going, he opens up the bag of cookies and samples one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat sweets, but after the first one, he jams another three into his mouth. The rest of the bag disappears pretty fast after that, and now we don’t have to worry about what to do with it when we get there.
“Those were amazing.” He pats his stomach. “Thank your grandma for me.”
“I will.”
He’s smiling that crinkly faced smile again, and I can’t take it, so I turn away for the rest of the drive.
I’m surprised when we pull up in front of a luxurious looking hotel. Philippe is paying the driver, so the wedding is clearly here. The ceremony too.
I can’t say it’s not nice. The rooms probably cost four or five hundred dollars a night, and the interior is dripping with fancy lighting and plush red carpets. There’s a big sign at the front that announces the Wilson/Hatford wedding in Ballroom A.
Philippe leans in. “Showtime,” he whispers. His warm breath curls over my ear and the sweet spot between my neck and shoulder. He sets a hand at the small of my back, and it’s all I can do to keep my toes from curling up in my shoes. In a good way.
When we enter the hotel, he steers me up a winding staircase with fancy metal railing. There is a crowd milling around on the landing upstairs, and they’re all dressed up, so I’m assuming they’re here for the wedding. Philippe doesn’t stop to chat with anyone, which I appreciate since my stomach is a mess of nasty butterflies, and my tongue feels so dry and thick in my mouth. I doubt I could say anything anyway, even if I wanted to.
Inside, the ballroom is set up with rows and rows of white slipcovered chairs. And the aisle seats are all decorated with boughs of greenery with sprays of baby’s breath added in.
“Since we are running a little late, we should probably get to our seats right away and meet the family later.”
“How do we know where to sit?”
“My sister probably wants us to sit in the front rows because they’re reserved for family.”
“Great,” I groan. “Everyone is going to be looking at us.”
“Don’t worry.” Philippe is so calm that I have to do a double-take. I kind of thought he’d be so nervous, I’d have to worry about him giving himself another panic attack, but so far, he just looks…good.
Composed. Calm. Gorgeous.
If he was my real boyfriend…Don’t even go there. I mean, it’s hard not to when he looks so incredible and smells so good. He’s wearing a different cologne today. It’s lighter. But obviously expensive because it’s so complex that I can’t pick out a single individual note in it. His clothes fit him perfectly like they were made just for him, and knowing him, they might have been. The jacket shows off his broad shoulders, and those jeans…well, Granny was right about how they fit in the back end. His jet-black hair is combed back and tied at the nape of his neck with a black elastic. I’ve never seen him wear it that way before.
He’s clean-shaven, and the dark colors of his clothing bring out the steel grey of his eyes. I also took a moment in the cab, to appreciate his bone structure in a way I haven’t before. His face really is beautiful in a rugged masculine sort of way. His frame is way too big to pass for a male model, but god. Those cheekbones could cut something.
So could my nipples at the moment.
Damn.
I sit down heavily next to Philippe in the middle of the second row. Only a few other people are sitting down already, but Philippe doesn’t seem to mind or notice. I’m glad he’s not looking at me either. The dress has a built-in bra in the top, but I’m pretty sure there’d be some peaks sticking out at the moment. I cross my legs to try and cut off the flow of blood to my lady bits and to stop the strange shivery throbbing that’s going on down there, but it doesn’t work.
It gets worse when Philippe takes my hand and threads our fingers together. I have to admit, I really, really like his hands. They are strong. Capable. His fingers are long but powerful. His nails aren’t bitten at all, but they’re also not groomed. It looks like he cares for them the same way most of the rest of the world does—with a two-dollar set of nail clippers. I hate stuff on my nails, so I never paint them. I’m a fan of the nail clippers as well, and most of the time, I keep my nails trimmed fairly short. It’s annoying when they click on the keyboard at work. I hate that. Right now, though, I feel like I should have borrowed some of Granny’s nail polish and actually attempted painting them. Discreetly, I tuck my other hand into the feathers of my dress so that it’s not visible.
Eventually, the room fills up. There’s a really expensive-looking arch at the front, decorated with boughs of greenery and baby’s breath just like the aisles. The front of the ballroom is huge, with a massive set of floor to ceiling windows to let in natural light. It’s actually quite a pretty room for a hotel.
The buzz in the room immediately goes silent when the music starts playing over speakers that I didn’t notice before. All of a sudden, a row of guys in black tuxes walks up the aisle. I wonder, briefly, why Philippe isn’t in the wedding party. Maybe he was asked. He probably refused. He did say he’d pissed his mom off, so maybe that was part of it.
Philippe’s hand is still entangled with mine. He rubs his thumb over mine, and my skin breaks out in shivers. I didn’t throw a sweater or a shawl over the dress because I felt like it would be a waste of such a beautiful dress, but now I wish I had. He can probably see my goosebumps.
The guys line up at the front, and they’re followed by a trail of five bridesmaids who are absolutely gorgeous. They’re wearing beautiful flowy red dresses, have their hair done in the craziest, most selfie-worthy styles, and each sport a huge bouquet of greens and the signature tiny white flowers poking through that match the rest of the décor.
When the bride enters, everyone stands up. She’s on her mother’s arm. I don’t even notice the amazing dress first. No. I notice Philippe’s sister’s face. I know her name is Jennifer because I do know a little about his family. I’ve never seen her before, not even a picture, and no
w I’m stunned. She’s a goddess. Really tall. Somehow, she’s lithe and curvy at the same time. She has flawless skin and gorgeous dark hair that hangs in a fishtail braid down her back, and she’s radiant as she slowly walks down the aisle. She could definitely be a model. Philippe’s mom, who I have met once—around the same time I started at the company—is an older version of Jennifer, but she’s every bit as beautiful.
They walk down the aisle together, and when Philippe’s mom hands Jennifer off to her new husband, who is blond, tall, and athletic-looking, it made my eyes misty. I don’t even know them, but both of them look ridiculously in love.
I’ve never actually liked weddings. I think they’re expensive and overdone. Wasteful. I’m also pretty skeptical when it comes to marriage. My own parents are still together, and my Granny had a good, happy marriage, but I just don’t know if I really believe it’s possible for most people now. When they make a person promise forever, I do think it’s a little bit ridiculous, because no one knows what’s coming down the road. I’ve seen my friends, colleagues, and other acquaintances go through such heartbreaks with their supposedly significant others. So how can you make a promise now for the next fifty or sixty or even seventy years without knowing how you or your partner is going to change, or if it’s even possible to change together?
All of a sudden, Philippe basically tugs me down, and I realize no one else is standing. I flush hotly at getting lost in my own head, but when Philippe casually wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him protectively, my head spins. Things get foggy and shivery, and parts of me start doing a happy dance.
This is fake. This is fake. This is fake. This is fake. I chant to myself.
But my chanting does nothing to calm my racing heart rate or my hardened nipples or the furious throbbing emptiness at the center of me.
It’s impossible to concentrate while Philippe’s masculine scent tickles my nose, and also when he makes me feel like I’m wrapped up in strength.