I shower and dress in the clothes that were laid out. Everything fits to perfection and I have no idea how he does it. I French-braid my hair, leaving the long braid to hang over my shoulder, and I add some moisturizer to my face, finishing it off with lip gloss and mascara. I walk out to find him waiting in the living room.
He’s no longer wearing the suit he had on just moments ago. Now he’s wearing a pair of khaki pants, Sperrys, and a navy blue polo. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I reply.
He sets his newspaper down on the table and stands up, leading the way to the door.
On the ride, I want to ask where we’re going, but I have a feeling he won’t tell me anyway. So instead of driving him crazy with questions and trying to guess, I keep my mouth shut and just watch the signs on the side of the road, trying to guess where we’re headed. I should be more surprised than I am when we arrive at Groveland Park. Off in the distance, I see nothing but bright, sparkling water with rows and rows of boats.
“We’re going boating?” I ask, looking from the water, to him, and back.
“Yep.”
Okay . . . I think, but don’t say anything. I wonder what’s brought on this sudden change in him—why he’s suddenly more worried about me enjoying myself and not seeing our time together as a punishment. Before, he confused me because I couldn’t understand why he acted the way he did, but now I’m confused because I don’t understand how he can be two different people. There’s the hard-edged lawyer who expects everyone to fall at his feet, and then there’s this side of him. It’s the side I got to see last week before our silent treatment set in—the guy he’s been since he broke said treatment. He’s so back and forth all the time that I feel like I may get whiplash from trying to keep up with him.
Once we’re on the boat, I take a seat with a glass of champagne in hand. I’m sipping it slowly, not wanting to get a buzz, but needing to relax myself. He walks out and joins me—his own glass of something brown in hand.
“I’m sure you’re probably confused,” he says, looking out over the water with the sun beating down on it, “so let me explain.” He finally turns to face me. “Growing up, we spent a lot of summers on the water. I wasn’t here often—mostly back in Florida at my grandparents’ estate there, but the sentiment is the same. You and I were on the same page when we agreed to get to know each other, but somehow, we ended up at opposite ends of the book. So this is me, taking us back to the same page—at the beginning, starting over. And I’m hoping we read at the same pace this time, instead of you jumping so far ahead.”
I nod, now understanding. He wants a fresh start . . . again.
“I’ve rented the boat for the entire evening. It’s fully staffed and they can get you anything you need. They’re also preparing dinner for us as we speak. Tonight, I just want you to relax and enjoy being here. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
I nod, taking in his words.
“I know you said you didn’t want to fall for the role I was playing, so this is me not playing any role. I’m not your boss. I’m not some guy who’s tricked you into spending time with him. I’m just me, Matt . . . or Matthew, as you so like to call me.”
I giggle. “You don’t like it when I call you Matthew?”
He glances over at me with a serious edge to his expression. “Only my grandmother calls me Matthew.”
I smile wider. “Your grandmother and me. I think Matthew is much softer and kinder.”
He looks over at me again with a smile. “Call me whatever you wish.”
That sentence right there makes my stomach muscles tighten. In an attempt to push away the passion suddenly flooding my body, I turn it into a joke. “Can I call you Daddy?” I bat my lashes and grin.
He lets out a deep laugh. “If you wish,” he agrees. “I can only imagine what the clients would think at work.” His smile doesn’t fade, as if he’s seriously considering it.
“I think I’ll stick with Matthew,” I state, not even able to imagine the looks we’d get if I really did call him that.
“I think that’s a good call,” he agrees.
There’s a long, drawn-out silence as we both watch the water and the skyscrapers we pass. I loll my head to the side, watching him and finding him more entertaining than any city scene before me. “Tell me something about your childhood. Did you like spending time on the water like this?”
He takes a sip of his drink. “I did. I preferred sailing to traveling around in a yacht. But sailing takes time to learn, and I didn’t want to put either of us in danger with you being untrained. The lake can get pretty rough when the winds pick up. And salt water is more dense than fresh water. Boating here and in Florida are two completely different experiences.”
“So you took sailing lessons?”
“Yes, my father thought that anyone who was anyone knew how to sail. It was mandatory in my household. I was also on the rowing team in high school. I’ve just always found myself drawn to the water. I’ll admit, the first few lessons were pushed upon me, but I quickly fell in love with the water and the lifestyle, so every class I took from there on out was because I wanted to.”
“That sounds nice. I always wanted to take lessons, but my parents couldn’t afford it.”
“What kind of lessons did you want?”
I snort. “Almost anything. I felt a little too ordinary, so I wanted to be different—special in any way, really. I remember begging for piano lessons, gymnastics, dance, painting . . . but I was told ‘no.’ That is, until I found a youth center nearby that did these things for free. I quickly found out that I suck at almost everything. I hurt myself too many times in the dance class, and I even sprained my ankle and had to go to the hospital. After that bill, my parents forced me to quit dance.” I laugh. “But I enjoyed the art classes and the few piano lessons I took.”
“I didn’t know you could paint and play the piano.”
“Oh,” I laugh, “I can’t. I suck at drawing and painting, but I still like to do it from time to time just to get the creative juices flowing. Piano was fun, but I only learned one song. The class was supposed to teach you the basics so you could teach yourself after learning to read music, but we didn’t have a piano at home, so I never got to practice.”
“Well, there’s still plenty of time to learn,” he says. The sun shines against his face and creates a little twinkle in his eye. I can’t help but look at him in awe as I marvel at how it must feel to think everything is within reach.
Twelve
Matthew
After hearing her talk about her lower-class upbringing, I know the one thing I want to do for her more than anything is get her a piano. I know the perfect place to put it too: in the living room, right in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall. There’s nothing there now other than some uncomfortable chairs I keep handy in case I have too many guests at once, but I can push them off on one of the staff members. I remember Karen liked them quite a bit when I had them brought in.
There’s a music shop here in town, owned by Daniel’s rock-star fiancée. I’ll ask him if he could help me acquire a grand piano for her. I’ll have it delivered to the house while we’re at work—that way, when we come home, she’ll be surprised. I’ll even find someone to give her lessons. This has been my best idea yet.
Poppy and I sit on the boat deck, having a few drinks and watching the world we pass by. Around 7 p.m., dinner is served and we both go inside to have a seat at the table. The table is small—meant to be romantic by keeping us together. I’ve been so close to her today that I could smell her, and that only teased my senses in ways I wish it hadn’t. I feel tightly-wound, on edge, and ready to pull her against me and kiss her at any moment. I don’t know how I’ve managed to hold it back this long; I just pray for the strength I need to keep my distance. I’ve only just gotten her back, and I don’t want to go chasing her off yet again.
The longer I’m near her, the more I want her. And it kills m
e that I could’ve had her and I turned her down. But I keep telling myself that it was for the best. Instead of looking at her and finding everything I consider attractive about her, I focus all my energy on reminding myself why I hated her for so long. She usually talks too much. She doesn’t listen—I mean, how can she when she does all that talking? She’s lazy at work—well, at least she was before this whole arrangement started. We fight over every single thing. We come from different worlds. Everything that seems right to me is wrong to her, and everything that seems right to her is ludicrous to me. It’s like her brain is the opposite of mine. I can never tell when she’s being serious or when she’s joking. Oftentimes, I think she’s joking and she’s being completely serious. When I think she’s being serious, she’s joking. This woman keeps me on my toes and I feel like I’m always off guard, waiting to catch the next curve ball she throws my way. As I was growing up, I learned to always be prepared, so this is more frustrating to me than anything else.
And even though I know all these things—that we couldn’t possibly work out, that she has no feelings for me, and that reaching out and taking her would only end in disaster—none if it calms the longing that’s swimming through my veins.
That plan clearly didn’t work, so I direct my attention to the table and the food before us. There’s a white tablecloth on the small, square table, and a candle in the center, the flame flickering and dancing. We each have a glass of wine and a plate filled with steak, salad, and a dinner roll. The steak is tender—slightly pink inside—and the salad is fresh and crisp. It’s easy to keep my focus on the food when she’s across from me trying just as hard to keep her attention off of me.
“Do you have any plans for tomorrow?” she asks, cutting through the silence like a sharp knife.
My head pops up and my eyes find hers. “No. Got something in mind?”
She smiles but tries holding it back. “Well, I don’t know how you’d feel about it, but I thought that since you brought me here to show me a small part of your childhood, that I could take you to a piece of mine. What do you think?”
I let out a nervous laugh, wondering what in the world she could have in store. “Am I going to die?”
She laughs. “No, it’s not dangerous at all . . . well, unless you’re extremely uncoordinated. But I think you’ll do fine.”
“Okay,” I agree, more than happy to spend more time with her—and this time, in her element. That might just be the key to getting her to view me differently. Here I am, trying to force her into my world. I never considered visiting hers. “What time will we be leaving?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Around noon, I guess.”
“And the attire?”
“Casual. In fact, wear the worst clothes you have. Don’t want to ruin something expensive.”
I don’t tell her that everything I own is expensive. It would feel pointless—like rubbing it in her face or something. But I can do jeans and a T-shirt.
We finish eating and head back out on the deck to look at the night sky as we make our way back to shore. One of the staff members turns on some music, and it filters through the outdoor speakers hanging above our heads. It’s a soft, slow song—something romantic, just like the dinner we had. I look over at her and hold out my hand. “Dance?”
She lets out a quiet laugh. “Okay,” she agrees, setting her still-full wine glass down on the table between us.
We both stand and she slides her hand into mine. I lead her out to the center of the deck and spin her around to face me. She falls into my chest and a puff of air whooshes out of her mouth, blowing across my jaw and neck. My eyes want to close at the heat and closeness, but I hold it back as I steady her.
I start leading her around the deck with her in my arms. She’s awkward at first, stiff and unsure, but the longer we dance, the looser she gets. “Let me guess, you took ballroom dancing classes as well?” she asks.
I know she’s being a smart-ass, but I laugh. “I did. Does it show?”
She rolls her dark eyes. “A little.”
Although it’s dark outside with the sun gone, there are small lights scattered around the boat. When I spin her around, the light shines against her eyes and I see that they’ve dark again. Midnight with a hint of blue. I can’t help but wonder what it means. When I brought it up before, she quickly changed the subject and ran off.
The last time I noticed the change in her eyes, we weren’t doing anything but eating cake. She was on one side of the island while I was on the other. We were both leaning against the island, with the cake between us. We were eye-to-eye. I remember how sweet she smelled after her shower, and how beautiful she looked with her soaking-wet hair and clean skin free of all makeup. I remember how turned on I was in that moment. Then it hits me: was she turned on like I was? Does the darkening of her eyes mean she wants me? God, I wish I could test that theory. The night we got too close, were her eyes like they are now? I try thinking back, but it was so dark in the living room that night that I didn’t notice . . . I couldn’t notice. The fire burning in the fireplace was the only light in the room. I remember seeing it reflecting in her eyes. They were big and dark, but I couldn’t see the color clearly enough.
If I leaned in right now, would she let me kiss her? Would she let me take it further? I can see myself pulling her against me and carrying her inside. I feel my body start to come to life and I push the thoughts away immediately. We’re so close right now, she’d surely feel it if I got excited. That would give it all away if nothing else did. I decide not to act on anything tonight. I don’t want to push her too far after I’ve just gotten her to talk to me again, but I will watch for this in the future—for any sign she may feel differently about me than she did before.
The song ends and she steps back. Her cheeks are burning, and her eyes are dark but sparkling. “Well, thank you for the dance, kind sir,” she jokes.
“Anytime, sweetheart,” I reply as I release her hand, watching her walk back to the table. She picks up her glass of wine and takes a drink. I wonder if she’s using it as a way to cool off after our dance. It wasn’t anything that would cause her to break a sweat, unless there were emotions bubbling to the surface she didn’t want to feel.
When we make it back to the penthouse, the living room is dark, with the exception of the flames dancing in the fireplace. I have to admit, this would be the perfect setting to try for that kiss. I’ve never considered myself a chicken before now, but something inside me doesn’t want to take the risk of losing her again, even if only for a few days. I finally have her where I want her. I have to move slowly and cautiously as if I were hunting an animal. Any sudden movements could scare her off and cause her to race away from me in the opposite direction. That’s exactly what I don’t want her to do. When she runs, I want her running toward me. Fuck, I’ve never had to work so hard in my life to get the girl before. But I guess that’s why I’m so attracted to her. She’s not easy. She doesn’t just fall at my feet. She fights every step of the way, and I like the fight she has in her.
“Well, good night. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
She nods her head with a smile in place but doesn’t reply. She stands in the same spot, watching me as I walk across the floor to my room. I step inside and turn around to close the door. I look up and she’s still standing there, eyes locked on mine. Our eye contact remains until I shut the door between us. Now that I’m alone, I let out a long breath and find myself relaxing more than I have all night. Why am I wound so tightly when it comes to her? That’s probably half the problem. I’m too uptight and she can feel it.
Tomorrow I’ll work on controlling myself better. I’ll teach myself how to be calm around her—how to relax and have fun. I’ve been uptight for too many years. In my world, you kind of have to be. Any sign of weakness is just another way to be torn down. Maybe I can trust Poppy enough to let my guard down.
I pull out my phone and call Foster. We haven’t gone out for that drink yet, but I jus
t need to clear my head and see what’s going on in his world. We talk about work and I eventually fill him in on Poppy—just that she’s my assistant and we’ve started something up. I can hear a tinge of disappointment in his voice when I ask him how things are going with his father and the Bianca situation. He never talks about how it’s not the life he wants, but I know him. He doesn’t want an arranged marriage or the life his family has set up for him. A few months back, we got a little too drunk at poker night and he let it slip that he wants to be able to find love on his terms—to date a woman knowing there’s potential for a real future and that he’s not wasting her time until he has to marry Bianca.
After our call, I take a shower and go to bed, staying in my room for the rest of the evening. When I wake in the morning, I feel ready to start the day. I’m well-rested and excited to see what she has in store for us. I dress as she advised in jeans and a T-shirt, and leave my room to find her already at the breakfast table. She’s wearing a pair of tight skinny jeans. They’re dark-washed and hug every curve. She’s wearing a pair of combat boots, laced tight. Her hair is in a ponytail and she’s wearing a black tank top that ends just above her belly button, showing me a small sliver of her tight and toned stomach.
“Good morning,” I say, walking into the room. “You look like you’re going to war,” I joke.
She smiles and looks at me from beneath her long, dark lashes. “I am. Eat up. You’ll need your strength.”
I laugh but take my seat, preparing to fix my plate. She sits down beside me and picks up a slice of bacon, putting it in her mouth and chewing slowly.
This is a first. I haven’t seen her eat bacon since she started her gym regimen. She’s been sticking to fruit, yogurt, and oatmeal.
She shrugs at my expression. “I need the protein if I’m going to take you to my old stomping grounds.”
I laugh. “Where are we going? The Hunger Games?” I joke, wondering if I need to break out a bulletproof vest.
Breaking up with My Boss: An Enemies to Lovers, Office Romance (Love You Forever Book 4) Page 8