by Ash, Ingrid
“Yes?” she replies, complete with that seductive half smile that makes me want to do all kind of unspeakable things to her.
My lids lower and my voice grows deep. “Don't call me Mr. Cartwright.”
She knows better than to protest. Instead, she nods innocently before I slip inside my office. Was this a good idea? God, how are the two of us ever going to get any work done around here?
I close the door tight, almost completely forgetting about my surprise early appointment. But I'm quickly reminded the second I hear the door click.
“I surely do hope you have room on your roster for a weathered old chap like me,” says a deep, accented voice. A familiar, warm and friendly voice I would know anywhere. And the very last one I expected to hear when I walked into this room.
“Ronald?” I whisper, my voice jumping at least ten octaves.
He rises from his chair and steps towards me, looking positively the same as he did the last time I saw him, on his last day of service to me. Here he is, with that same comforting smile that told me everything would be alright, when everything was indeed falling apart.
“It's very good to see you again, Master Cartwright,” he says to me softly, extending his hand.
I hesitate, but ultimately take it. On the outside, he remains cool and collected, as always, and so do I. There's a silent, resigned understanding between the two of us, and nothing more than that is needed. Some people know how much they mean to you, even without saying it.
“Don't call me that, please,” I say to him as I let go of his withered hand.
He lets out a laugh as he takes his seat. “As you wish.” His eyes travel down me and he asks, “Rather casual, are we?”
I shrug as I make my way around to the other side of the desk.
“Well I like it. Clothes don't make the man, regardless of what some may say.”
I can't disagree with that.
I take my seat and peer at him for a long moment. “Why are you here, Ronald?” I ask.
He crosses his legs and replies, “Good to know you're happy to see me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I need a job.”
“You're supposed to be enjoying your retirement.”
“Yes, and the absurdly generous severance package you gave me has made it most enjoyable. However, idle minds are dangerous minds,” he says, pushing his CV across the table towards me.
I look down at it and shake my head. “I'm not going to hire you.”
“Not enough work experience?” he jests. “I assure you I can provide a top notch reference.”
“You've wasted far too many years working for me.”
His brows arch. “Working for you, is that what you think I'll be doing? Well, from the way I see it, this is a huge under taking and where would you two kids be without me? You need me.”
I lean my chair back, chuckling to myself. That pretty much goes without saying.
“So when can I start?” he asks with a devious smile.
I press my hands together in front of my face as I pretend to think. “I'll hire you on one condition.”
“And what's that?”
“I need your opinion on something. Right here and right now”
He looks slightly taken aback. “Anything mas—“He cuts himself off right in time.
I breathe out nervously before fishing my hand into my pocket and pulling out the small box. His eyes light up, and a smile creeps across his face when he sees the contents.
“She'll love it,” he says. He looks back up at me and adds, “She will.”
I nod slowly as I eye it myself for a moment. “And what if she doesn't,” I mutter.
“You probably know her better than anyone. And she knows you, well, almost better than anyone,” he says. “You'll know when it's the right time.”
“So I have to trust my gut,” I say as I close the box shut.
“No, you have to trust your heart.”
*
It's ten past the hour when I emerge from my office to see Tamara standing by the door, clearly hesitating. “Everything alright?” I ask with concern.
She takes in a deep breath, and for the first time I see a look of worry in her eye. Not even worry—it looks more like dread. I'd never admit it but it scares me. Despite expressing her nerves on multiple occasions, I never thought she actually felt nervous.
“What's wrong?”
I notice her throat bobbing and she says, “I'm nervous.”
“About?”
She looks at me like I'm a mad man. “I mean...what if this....”
I shake my head and quickly put a finger on her lips, silencing her. “Don't.”
Her shoulders slump as she lets out a breath. “You aren't nervous at all?”
“I don't get nervous. It's a waste of time,” I reply. It's half true, at least.
“Bullshit,” she says with a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Everyone gets nervous sometimes.”
“Nerves are a choice.” And right now, I have bigger things to be nervous about than a bunch of giggling models. Making this agency work? Piece of cake.
She turns to me and her eyes narrow. “No, how you react to nerves is a choice. Being nervous is healthy.”
“Touche,” I reply as I twist my mouth, pondering her words for a moment. “This is why I love you.”
She smirks. “I know you do,” she says as she tries to slip past me.
“Tamara,” I say, taking her by the hand and stopping her. I notice her breathing deepen when I touch her. I pull her close, until she's tuck tight against my chest. “Saying how you feel is also healthy,” I whisper, leaning in close enough for my breath to tickle her skin.
Her lips tremble. She looks up at me with wide watery eyes. “You know I do.”
I don't let her go. “Then say it.”
She pulls back slightly with fear in her eyes. I'm afraid she's going to pull away and my heart beats faster. Every second goes by like an hour, as her lips part but nothing comes out. Mending our relationship over the past year hasn't been easy, and the last thing I want to do is push her to the point of slipping away. And right now, I can feel her slipping away...
But then, she says to me in her small and broken voice, “I love you too.” She lets out a breath like the world has finally been removed from her shoulders, and her formerly weary face turns into one filled with joy.
I've never considered myself to be a fragile man, not by any stretch of the word. As I stand here holding her for far too long, I realize just how easily this woman could break me if she wanted to. But she's more than worth the risk.
THE END
ABOUT INGRID ASH
Hi, I’m Ingrid! Thank you for reading and enjoying AT MR. CARTWRIGHT'S COMMAND. For those of you who would like to know a little bit more about me — I’ve had a passion for writing since childhood and I was always encouraged to pursue it by my teachers and family. Sadly life got in the way for a while, which led to an unused sociology degree and a slew of desk jobs that I really did not enjoy. Creative minds rarely thrive at pushing paper! Eventually I realized life is much too short to not pursue your passions — in or out of the bedroom — and the rest was history.
I live in Alabama with my new husband and our blended family of pets — cats, dogs, and a cockatoo or two. I’m an avid swimmer. I love sketching as a hobby, as well as graphic design. I’m not a fashionista, although I wish I was. I hate cooking but I love to eat (luckily the hubby is the opposite). I like to wind down each night with a great story, whether it be a good book or a new episode of The Walking Dead.
Want to get in touch? You can contact me at [email protected] or interact with me via my facebook page!
BY INGRID THE NEWSLETTER
One more thing! My newsletter is called BY INGRID. I'll be sharing exclusive shorts, previews of my upcoming publications, and giving away prizes to lucky subscribers every single month. Hurry now—get on the list before it's too late!
JOIN THE B
Y INGRID MAILING LIST