by Maria Monroe
I can handle this. I can.
Except my body is trembling as his eyes meet mine.
For a second I see surprise and shock in his—was he unaware that he was going to be my new boss?—yet somehow he manages to portray calmness immediately.
"Lia," he says, extending his hand toward me.
I get up and take a step forward on shaky legs. I grasp his hand and he holds mine with more force than I expected.
"Julian," I say, my voice hoarse. I clear my throat. "Julian," I repeat, clearer and louder this time. I force a smile on my face, trying to look as pleasant as possible.
"So, I understand you two know each other?" Connor looks back and forth between us, rocking on his heels slightly, a fake smile plastered on his face. I mentioned it briefly at the Executive Dining Room as soon as I finished choking on my coffee.
I realize I'm still holding Julian's hand. Or he's still holding mine. I pull mine away quickly, shocked at how cool the air feels now that it's out of his heated grasp. He smirks, like he knows exactly what his touch does to me.
Still looking into my eyes he speaks to Connor. "College," he says simply.
"Right, right. In Maine. Great program there," says Connor.
"It is." Julian's eyes still hold mine; it's a challenge, as though he's waiting for me to look away first. I won't. Even though any second now Michelle, Darren, and Connor are going to notice the tension between us. Even though they probably already have. It seems impossible that this moment could be filled with so much emotion for me while everyone else is just going about their business like nothing's happening.
Finally, Julian blinks, like he's waking up from a dream or a trance and smiles, the intensity of a second ago disappearing in a charismatic grin at everyone. "I'm really looking forward to getting to know all of you and hearing about your current projects. Connor," he continues, putting his arm around Connor's shoulders, "let's go talk somewhere. We have some planning to do."
Connor straightens up like he's trying to be even with Julian, but next to Julian, Connor almost looks like a cartoon character, a caricature of a real man. Any guy would, I think despairingly, as I watch Julian's back retreat. OK, so it's not his back I'm looking at, though he does have a nice one. It might be his butt I'm watching, remembering how it felt under my hands when we were naked together in his bed…
Lia, stop! I take a deep breath and turn around to find Darren and Michelle smirking at me. Michelle's got her eyebrow cocked like she always does when something's interesting to her, and I guess I'm the interesting thing right now.
"That?" she says. "Was intense."
"What?" I pretend I don't know what she's talking about.
"Seriously? Please, Lia. Even you're not that clueless." She combs through her long black hair with the deep red manicured fingernails of one hand and gives me a you-can't-fool-me look.
I sigh and drop into my chair. "What am I going to do?" I whisper loudly enough for Darren and Michelle to hear, but hopefully not loud enough for anyone farther away.
"Him. Duh." Michelle grins.
"No! I can't. And he wouldn't, anyway," I protest.
"He's a guy, Lia." Darren rides his desk chair closer to me. "And the way he was looking at you was the way a guy looks at a girl when he wants to eat. Her. Up."
Michelle nods.
"He has a girlfriend," I respond. "Who not only is gorgeous, but is exceptionally kind as well. So I can't even hate her!"
"I'll hate her for you. I don't mind hating nice people," offers Michelle, and I can't help laughing.
"It is messed up, though," says Darren. "He has a girlfriend. Strike one. You used to date and you dumped him without warning so he kind of hates you now. Strike two. He's suddenly become your boss. Strike three. You are kind of fucked."
I know he's kidding—sort of—but it doesn't help at all.
"Hold up, Darren," says Michelle. "Who's the sports reporter here? None of those count as full on strikes, OK? Girlfriends are expendable. Previous experiences won't keep you apart if you really want it. And the boss bit? Just makes it even hotter." She picks at one of her fingernails.
"I think I'm going to ask for a transfer," I moan.
"That's the coward's way out," says Darren.
I shoot him an irritated look. "You're being really wishy-washy, Darren," I grumble. "Anyway, cowards don't get hurt."
"Yeah, but they don't have much fun either," shoots Michelle. "Wow, that was amazing, said no coward ever. Anyway, do you think he knew you were going to be his brand new employee?"
I shake my head. "He looked really surprised for a second before he got all cool and confident. I think it was a shock for him too."
"Remember, Lia," says Michelle, "he may not show it, but he's got feelings too."
"It's probably not easy for him either," adds Darren.
"Well he does a good job hiding it," I mutter. "I guess I'll just have to do a better one."
For the rest of the day I only see Julian once when he walks past with some high-up executive person to go out for lunch. I get all clammy and shaky, but he doesn't even glance my way. It's like I don't exist. I pretend I didn't notice him either, but it's too late. He's pretty much all I notice. And all I can think about during the day.
After work Michelle and Darren try to convince me to go out to Joot, but what I really need is time alone to just sit around in my pajamas, eat ice cream, have some wine, and watch bad TV. I've got some binge watching to do on Netflix, and tonight will be the perfect night for that.
I grab my laptop bag and head to the elevators, looking forward to getting out of this place where my life has become so crazy all of a sudden. On impulse, I decide to take the stairs instead. It’s only sixteen floors, and I’m going down, not up. I could use some exercise to clear my mind, and I don’t feel like being boxed in with other people right now, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
Pulling open the stairwell door, I actually sigh in relief to be alone. “Finally,” I mutter to myself, readjusting my laptop bag as I head for the steps.
When the door opens suddenly behind me, I spin around.
And there’s Julian.
Without a word, he stalks toward me as the door clicks shut, pushing me up against the stairwell wall with his hands on my shoulders. His eyes are on fire, staring into mine so hard I can’t breathe.
He bends his head, moving his lips closer to mine. I can feel his warm breath on my mouth, and then he kisses me once, almost chastely. I hold back because this is wrong. So wrong. And so messed up.
But when he kisses me a second time, I feel his tongue trace my bottom lip, then gently, oh so gently, bite it, and a moan leaves my throat.
I open my lips to his, feeling his desire in the way his tongue finds mine, in the way a low growl emanates from somewhere deep down inside him. One of his hands moves to my waist, his palm so hot through my clothes, and I press my body up to his against my will.
This. I’ve missed this. The way he kisses. The way he makes my entire body on edge. I haven’t felt this way since we broke up, and it’s almost like coming home, like being completed, like the final piece of a puzzle fitting into place and finishing the picture at last.
Then he pulls away. One finger traces over my lips as he stares at me, unspeaking. I don’t say anything either. I can’t. All I can do is watch as he turns, pulling open the door and leaving me alone in the stairwell without a glance back.
The centerpiece of my living room is a big comfy brown couch I bought off Craigslist, and my dad helped me pick it up and move it into my place. There's a coffee table in front of it that's got a plain black journal and a pen on top of it, and I use it for taking notes about, well, anything, really. If I'm working on a story, I jot down ideas. When I'm talking on the phone, I doodle. Sometimes I write down story ideas or, I'm embarrassed to admit, terrible poems that, in the moment, I'm positive are Pulitzer-prize worthy. (Later, of course, I realize I should never, ever write poetry. At all. Ever.)
Against one wall is a flat-screen TV; everyone who visits says it's too small, but seriously? I don't need a super huge screen to watch Orphan Black or reruns of Gossip Girl, so I'm happy with what I've got. On the wall I have two framed pictures, one a blown up book cover of an old edition of The Great Gatsby, the other a blown up photo that I took on my phone and, luckily, turned out amazing. I am by no stretch of the imagination a photographer, but every once in a while I get really lucky with pointing and clicking, and this was one such occasion. The photo is of trees around my college campus in the fall, when the colors were the most stunning array of shades imaginable. People talk about visiting Maine in the fall, but until you do it, you can't even really imagine how beautiful it is. For me now, though, the photograph is also a bitter reminder of what I left behind and what I lost. No—what I gave up. And the consequences are all too real and painful.
The rest of my apartment is fairly simple: a small kitchen that overlooks the living room via an open plan design. A bathroom. A bedroom that has only my bed, a dresser, a nightstand and the closet. Nothing else would fit.
As soon as I'm home, I kick off my shoes, massaging my feet for a second before I drop my bag onto the floor and head to my bedroom to change. I slip out of my work clothes—a silk camisole with a feminine suit jacket over it and a pencil skirt—letting them fall to the floor. I'll pick them up later. I strip off my underwear and bra as well—I definitely don’t need them for lounging around alone—and put on a pair of black yoga pants and a black tank top. And, only because it's cold, not at all because I'm thinking about him, I pull on Julian's hoodie. The one he gave me after I broke up with him.
Over the years it's lost his scent, but when I close my eyes, I can imagine it still smells like him, like warmth and soap and a hint of spice. I've read that the sense of smell is closely linked to memory, more so, maybe, than our other senses. I believe it, at least when it comes to Julian. Of course, I remember the way he tasted too, and the way his hands felt on my skin…
I force the thoughts out of my head and pull his sweatshirt tighter around me as I head to the living room. In college, Julian always wore this gray hoodie. I remember him in class, the hood pulled up on his head, his dark eyes glinting out at me. I can still see him, hands shoved deep into the pockets of the sweatshirt, striding across campus. Leaning against the wall, a cocky look on his face. Trapping me up against the door of his apartment, the conflict so clear in his eyes.
It was his prized possession, and he gave it to me as a good-bye present after I dumped him. Along with, I blush as I remember, the vibrator I bought with him at the Pleasure Place in college. I've known for a long time I should get rid of it, and probably the sweatshirt too. It's not like I need reminders of the past when I'm trying so hard to move forward. Or should be, at least. But the thought of throwing them away makes me inexplicably sad, even though I know I'm just holding on to useless memories.
Fuck it all, I whisper. I don't want to be sad or maudlin. I want to enjoy a glass of wine and some chocolate, because I'm out of ice cream and don't feel like getting any right now, and not move for at least two hours from my place on the couch. I gather my supplies and sink down to relax. I'm in the middle of an episode of Veronica Mars, a series I've watched twice already, imaging that I'm as bad-ass as she is, when my doorbell rings.
I pause the show and sit still, hoping that it's nobody important and whoever it is will just go away. But the bell rings again.
Dammit! I mutter out loud as I put down my wine and trudge over to the intercom that lets me speak to whoever is outside ringing my bell and annoying me in the middle of a night of lazy television watching. Before the person has a chance to ring again, I push the intercom button.
"What?" I ask. I don't care if I sound rude. This is my place, and chances are it's nobody important. The little girl down the street who sells Girl Scout cookies already visited last week, and there's nobody else I want to see.
"Lia. Buzz me in."
I recognize that voice immediately. It's not just my mind that knows it's Julian, it's my entire body. Instantly my pulse kicks into high gear, and for a second I think I'm going to stop breathing. I'm standing completely still, shocked into stiffness, yet I'm shaking too. What is he doing here? What does he want? I say nothing, but I slowly raise my finger to the buzzer that will unlock the front door and push it.
I open my apartment door a crack. I can hear him make his way up the stairs to the second floor where I live. My heart's pounding and my chest is filled with a fluttery feeling. Part of me thinks Julian's going to get here only to find me unconscious, perhaps dead, on the floor right near the door. But I manage to breathe in enough air to keep me going and step back from the door as I hear him approach.
Julian pulls the door open, and there he is, standing in my hallway. He's changed out of his GQ work clothes and looks more like the Julian I remember in worn jeans and a dark-gray T-shirt under his open wool coat. OK, so the wool coat is way more formal than anything he wore in college. And what can I expect, really? We're no longer in school. We're actual, real grown-ups now. I take a deep breath and resolve to act like one.
His jaw is dark from evening scruff, and one side of his mouth turns up in a smile—or is it a sneer?—as he gazes into my eyes. "Are you going to let me in, Lia, or are we going to just stand here all night?"
I put one hand on my hip and meet his gaze, unfaltering. "What are you doing here, Julian?"
His eyes leave mine and travel quickly down my body, then back up again. "Nice sweatshirt," he says.
I fight the urge to blush, fight the urge to fall in a puddle at his feet, either out of nerves or fear or passion or all three. "Yeah," I say casually. "Someone gave it me a long time ago."
"Looks like he has good taste.”
I shrug nonchalantly and turn, heading into my apartment.
He takes that as in invitation to enter, and the sound of the door closing him in here with me makes my heart flutter again. I walk to the counter that separates the living room from the kitchen, then turn and lean my back against it. I'm trying to look comfortable and confident, but I'm pretty sure I'm failing. Probably miserably.
Julian slips off his coat, hanging it on the hook on the inside of my front door. Then he turns to me. For a second he just looks at me, then he takes a few steps closer. We're still separated by several feet, but the tension ratchets up a lot now that he's physically closer. His arms—I can see them now that his coat is off—are lean and hard. I know exactly how they'd feel if I ran my hands on them, if I gripped them as they caged me in on the bed, exactly how those biceps would feel straining under my fingers. Please, I think to myself, please don't let him be here to try something. Because I'm pretty sure I won't be able to resist.
"Julian, what are you doing here?" I ask again, finally able to find my voice.
"We need to talk." He picks up my wine glass from the coffee table and hands it to me. I take it with trembling fingers, surprised that the wine doesn't spill. Then he goes into the kitchen, opens cabinets until he finds another wine glass, and pours himself a glass of the merlot that's sitting on the counter. He stays on the kitchen side of the counter but turns to face me across the faux marble surface. He raises his glass in a toast. I don't raise mine back.
"You're welcome," I say, gesturing at the wine.
He grins, that bad-boy smile that's half apology half arrogance and lets him get away with anything he wants. "Thanks."
I roll my eyes. I want to be careful, to keep him at arm's length, but he's able to so easily wear me down so all I feel is confused. No, that's not all I feel. I'd be lying if I said my nipples weren't hard under the thin tank top I'm wearing, that my stomach's not filled with butterflies, that a throb hasn't begun between my legs, as though my body, even after all this time, remembers exactly how well we used to fit together.
Because we’re alone right now. And I remember all the things that used to happen when I was alone with Julian.
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"How did you even know where I live?" I ask, taking a huge gulp of my wine to hopefully help calm my nerves.
"I'm your new boss, or did you forget. I know everything about you, Lia."
"That's not weird and stalkerish at all."
He laughs loudly, then stops as his eyes force mine to look at his. "I don't stalk, Lia. I don't need to."
I force a scoff, though really my heart feels like it's in my throat.
"If I want someone, I don't keep it a secret."
"No?" I say, my voice coming out scratchy and low.
He shakes his head slowly, keeping his eyes focused on mine. He picks up his wine glass and swirls it around gently, studying the movement. I watch the red liquid stick to the sides for quick seconds before sliding back down into the glass. Contemplatively he sets the glass back on the counter and shrugs. "It's like a story, Lia, right? You know you've got something, you know there's something there. You don't sit around thinking about it. You go for it. You do it. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
I nod. Can he hear my heart hammering in my chest? Does he know that if he rounded the corner of the counter that separates us, that if he reached out for me, I wouldn't have the strength to refuse him?
"Good," he says, his voice suddenly business like. "I'm glad to hear it. Connor's said you have good instincts, and I like to know that the people working for me are capable."
"Capable. Yes. I am." The sudden switch in tone has left me reeling, and I'm trying to catch up with the conversation.
"Excellent. Of course, if you're not comfortable with the situation, I'm sure HR can transfer you."
"The situation?" Anger flares up in me. "And why should I get transferred?"