Right

by Jana Aston

  “That’s really sexist, Mother. Maybe Sawyer should make lasagna for me.” I kick Sawyer in the shin as I deliver this edict.

  “Fair point, Everly.” My mom nods. “Maybe you can make it together?” She brightens with this solution and passes the rolls to my dad on her left.

  “I’d be happy to make it for you, Everly.” Sawyer jumps in. “I’ll even drop it off at school. I’ll call first,” he adds without batting an eye. “Make sure you’re in.”

  “How lovely!” My mom is positively glowing over Sawyer’s perfection right now while I am plotting revenge. I am never breaking into anyone’s apartment and making them lasagna again, that’s for sure.

  After dinner we gather around the tree in the living room, plates of cookies on the coffee table, mugs of coffee and hot chocolate all around. My younger cousin Bonnie distributes gifts from under the tree. Viv hands me a small package with a tag reading that it’s from Sawyer. We’re sitting on the couch next to each other, his arm wrapped over the back of the couch behind me.

  I place it on my lap, waiting for Bonnie to finish passing around gifts, but obviously that’s not going to do for everyone else.

  “Open it,” my mom prods. It’s clearly a necklace box, and I slip my finger under the tape, then peel back the paper revealing a blue Tiffany box. I pop open the lid and start to laugh, which I don’t want to have to explain, so I try to suppress the laugh and it turns into a weird snort. My mom gives me a funny look but must decide I’m trying to hold back tears instead of laughter and doesn’t say anything.

  “Pretty!” Erin leans over and examines the necklace and Vivian jumps up wanting a look.

  “I’ll put it on,” I tell everyone, lifting it out of the box and holding up to my neck, leaning forward a little so Sawyer can clasp it for me.

  “Keys!” Vivian says, getting a close-up look at the trio of silver keys hanging from a delicate silver chain around my throat. “Aww, that’s so sweet,” she coos and I try again not to laugh.

  Of course he finds a necklace with three keys instead of just one. Of course. He tugs softly on the end of my ponytail so I’ll look at him, and I do, his dimple firmly in place as he enjoys watching me try not to laugh. It’s okay, he hasn’t opened his present yet.

  On cue, Bonnie hands him a box. It’s about the size of a shoe box, and I smile at him in anticipation.

  He frees his arm from behind my neck on the couch and rips the paper off with abandon. He pops the lid open and digs through the tissue, pulling out a mug with a picture of a cat on it, and below that it says, ‘I just freaking love cats, okay.’

  “I’m taking this to work,” he says with a grin.

  “Oh, there’s more, darling,” I tell him, patting him on the knee.

  He digs back in and comes up with a pair of silver cufflinks, shaped like cats. And finally, rolled up at the bottom, a tee shirt with a grey tabby cat wearing glasses and a backwards baseball cap. I grin from ear to ear.

  “Do you have a cat, Sawyer?” Eric peers over, an investigative look on his face.

  “No, but he really wants one,” I answer before Sawyer has a chance.

  Eric looks skeptical, like he suspects this is some kind of inside joke he shouldn’t approve of, but he sits back without saying anything else.

  “Sawyer, you didn’t have to bring anything for me,” my mom says, holding a flat package Bonnie has just placed in her lap.

  “It’s just something small; you might have them already,” Sawyer says, leaning back and wrapping an arm around my shoulders again.

  I am beyond curious as my mom delicately unwraps the present, and slightly fearful that it might be an inside joke that’s going to poke fun at some ridiculous thing I’ve done and make me laugh.

  “Oh, how lovely!” my mom exclaims, holding up what looks like a very old copy of 1, 2, 3 to the Zoo by Eric Carle, followed by an equally old-looking copy of Henry Huggins by Beverly Cleary. “They’re signed!” My mom is elated over any book, but Sawyer hit it out of the park with these two. “I’m surprised Everly admitted her namesake to you. She never lets anyone call her Beverly.”

  “And I’m not going to start,” I affirm, “but I’ll admit my name is adorable.”

  Sawyer’s pretty adorable too, I decide.

  Thirty-Five

  “You throw a New Year’s Eve party every year?”

  I’m sitting on Sawyer’s vanity, wrapped in a robe, watching him shave. I’m not sure how I’ve never watched him shave before, but it’s definitely my new favorite thing. He’s just gotten out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, baring his chest, my other favorite thing. My poor eyes can’t decide what to focus on.

  “Yes. It’s our annual party for the company.”

  “What if they don’t want to hang out with you for New Year’s Eve?” I ask, swinging my dangling feet. My toes are painted in Romantically Involved red. Fingers too.

  Sawyer rinses the razor under the tap and then brings it back to his face and I am downright mesmerized. I clear my throat and shift on the marble counter.

  “The party is optional, Everly. No one is required to ‘hang out’ with me. They can bring whoever they want, enjoy the free food and alcohol, or they can do whatever they want for the evening.” He glances at me as he repeats the rinsing of the razor. “You okay there, Boots?”

  “No, I’m kinda wet.”

  He glances down at the countertop surrounding the sink, devoid of a single splash, and then back to me. He tilts his head in question and makes another swipe with the razor.

  “This shaving thing.” I wave a hand at his face before fanning myself. “It’s fucking hot.”

  He pauses, a towel in his hand, and shakes his head. “I really am never sure what’s coming out of your mouth next.” He wipes the remnants of the shaving cream off his face and tosses the towel on the counter, dropping his hands on either side of my hips, caging me in.

  “Neither do I, to be honest,” I admit.

  He’s laughing as he tugs at my robe’s belt and it falls open.

  “No way,” I protest, pushing him off. “I’m almost ready to go.”

  “I can’t bring you to a party when you’re horny. There’s no telling what you’ll do.”

  “My hair is done.”

  “I’ll barely touch you.”

  I lean back against the mirror, dubious. “Barely?”

  “One-handed,” he replies, holding up his left, his right still planted on the counter next to my hip.

  My robe is already gaping open and he slides the tip of his index finger from my belly button down to my clit. I gasp, and he knows he’s got me.

  “Feet up, heels on the counter,” he instructs and I lift my knees, eager to comply. My eyelids are already heavy and I’m flushed with desire everywhere.

  “Just the one hand?”

  “A couple of fingers and a thumb.”

  My breathing increases as he slides his finger lower, circling my opening.

  “You really are wet,” he notes. He’s standing over me, arm braced on the counter, our bodies only touching at the spot where his finger is rimming me. His face is less than a foot from mine, but he doesn’t make any moves to kiss me or touch me in any other way. His finger slides in an inch and continues the rimming motion, the stretch satisfying. The contact is made more erotic somehow without him touching me in any other way. Our eyes are locked while he touches me so intimately.

  He adds his thumb to my clit and I jerk. I feel his fingertip withdraw, then he’s brushing it across my clit, paving the way for his thumb to return, smoothing the wetness around in small circles.

  My breasts are heaving and I want a rough hand on them so badly. But he’s resolved in his one-handed promise so I grab them myself. I’m not gentle, my hands cupped underneath, holding the weight of them, my fingers grappling at my flesh before pinching my nipples as hard as I can stand.

  His thumb continues circling my clit as he drives two fingers into me, sliding deep. He ti
lts his wrist and drags his fingertips forward while pressing down on my clit with his thumb and I come, panting and incoherent. I grab his forearms with my hands, supporting myself as my toes bend over the edge of the counter and my back arches.

  “Less than two minutes,” he boasts, sliding his fingers out and holding up his hand. I can see myself coating his fingers, my eyes trailing their path to his mouth, where he sucks them clean. “One-handed,” he adds, completely unnecessarily.

  “Maybe I’m just a slut, you braggart,” I call out as he heads out of the bathroom. I grab the towel he tossed on the vanity earlier and clean myself up, my thighs a damp mess. “You just made it worse!” I yell as he crosses the bathroom threshold.

  “I know,” he responds, tossing a grin over his shoulder.

  I follow him to the walk-in closet. I’ve brought over half a dozen outfit options and they’re all hanging in Sawyer’s closet. He’s already got his pants on and is buttoning his shirt by the time I get there. I drop my robe on the floor and then dig through one of the built-in drawers in the closet.

  “Something I can help you find?” he asks. Because to be fair, I’m digging through his drawer.

  “Nope,” I tell him. “Found it.”

  “Everly, what in the hell are you doing?” He’s finished buttoning his shirt and is staring at me, hands on hips, the corners of his eyes creased as he frowns.

  “I’m putting on your underwear,” I tell him, stepping into a pair of his briefs. I was digging around for a black pair. Why the hell do they even sell them in white? Just, no.

  “Why?” He still looks bewildered, but he’s stopped staring at me to tuck in his shirt.

  “You got me all worked up and horny in there.” I point a thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

  “I gave you an orgasm.” He seems confused by my accusation.

  I snort. “Right. Which you know only makes me want your dick more.” I glance over at the clothing I brought, contemplating what will work with this underwear. I’ve been chatting with his assistant Sandra all week about what people wear to this party. Sawyer was zero help on that front. “Wear whatever you want,” he’d said. As if I can pick an outfit with that kind of direction. “I hope you’re wearing your new cufflinks with that shirt,” I tell him, eyeing his outfit of black slacks and grey dress shirt.

  He holds up the cat cufflinks I gave him at Christmas and fastens his left sleeve. “I still don’t understand what my underwear has to do with anything.”

  “Oh!” I pull a solid black sleeveless dress with a full skirt and a wide waistband off the hanger and step into it. “Because you’re obviously planning on having your way with me at this party. Probably gonna shove me into a coat closet and fuck me with your hand over my mouth so no one hears us. And if anyone’s panties are getting left behind at this party, it’s gonna be yours.”

  He nods slowly and fastens his right sleeve. “Do women your age still use the phrase ‘having your way with me?’”

  “I just did. Anyway, yours are more absorbent. Can you zip me?” I turn my back to him and swipe my hair over one shoulder, waiting.

  I feel his fingers on the zipper, the fabric gathering slowly up my back. He finishes and rests his thumbs on the back of my neck, rubbing small circles into my skin as he kisses the nape of my neck. I shudder, feeling his touch all the way to the black briefs. “That’s a pretty elaborate plan I came up with,” he murmurs.

  I turn and nod, sadly. “I know. You’re kind of a menace.”

  “It’s good of you to put up with me.”

  I shrug. “Someone’s got to.”

  “I’m not going to be able to rip those underwear off of you.”

  “Haha!” I point at him with one hand and slip a heel on with my other. “I knew it!”

  He grins and shakes his head. “Never a dull moment with you.”

  “I do my best.” I hop into the matching heels and head for the bathroom to add lipstick and finish fussing over my hair. “Thanks for letting me invite Chloe to the party.” I dig the red lipstick out of my makeup bag and slide it across my lips, then, realizing this dress has hidden pockets, ditch the clutch I was going to bring and pocket the lipstick instead. “She’d stay in tonight and watch a Criminal Minds marathon if I didn’t force her to come.”

  “No problem. I look forward to meeting her.”

  “Should I bring a condom or do you have it? My dress has pockets,” I add helpfully.

  He rolls his eyes. “Everly, we are not having sex during my annual company party.”

  “Right.” I wink and nod my head. “Anyway, is Gabe coming?”

  “Is Gabe coming?” he repeats back to me, a curious expression on his face. He leans against the door frame, arms crossed across his chest. “How do you know Gabe?”

  “I don’t,” I huff, and dust additional powder across my face. “Is he coming or not?”

  “He’ll be there. You care why?”

  “I’m working on something.”

  “You’re working on something,” he repeats. “Are you trying to set Gabe and Chloe up?” He doesn’t look impressed.

  “No!” Now I’m the one frowning. “That doesn’t even make any sense, Sawyer.” I smooth my hair over my shoulders. I had my hair professionally blown dry this afternoon. It’s smooth and straight, hanging past my shoulder blades without a hair out of place. The red lipstick and nails are the only pop of color, contrasting against my dark hair and the black dress. I scoot past him in the bathroom door, checking the clock on the bedroom wall. “Are you ready?”

  “Everly, what exactly are you working on?” he asks as we head out. The party is being held in the Ritz-Carlton ballroom, so it’s a short walk to the party. Sawyer clasps my hand in his, this thumb rubbing over the back of my hand as we stroll.

  “Getting Gabe and Sandra together,” I respond, matter-of-factly.

  He tilts his head in my direction. “Gabe and… Sandra?”

  “Yeah, obviously. Why do you keep repeating everything I’m saying? Gabe and Sandra. It’s so obvious.”

  “My assistant and my Finance VP are not a thing, Everly.”

  “Yet.” I shake my head. “You are really short-sighted for an almost-billionaire.”

  “And you’re a human resources nightmare.” We’re on the elevator and he rubs a hand over his jaw and closes his eyes.

  “Wait, Gabe is your head of finance? I really had him pegged for a tech nerd.”

  “Because that matters right now?” He opens his eyes, looking bewildered.

  “Oh, he’s like one of the bosses! This just gets yummier and yummier.” I bounce on my toes and clap my hands in delight.

  “Everly, I don’t think Gabe and Sandra are attracted to each other. I don’t even think they’re compatible.”

  My jaw drops and then I throw up a hand, palm out. “I’ve got this.” I shake my head in disgust. How can he not see it? Then something occurs to me. “Does Gabe have a girlfriend?” I ask, eyes wide.

  “I don’t think I should encourage you by entertaining your questions.”

  “So that’s a no. Good.” I sigh in relief. We’ve reached the hotel tower of the Ritz-Carlton and we’re taking another elevator to the second floor, the entire space rented out for the party. “Is he into kinky shit?” I ask in a whisper, my eyebrows askance. “What am I working with here?”

  “Can we be done talking now?” He stole my line and he knows it, his dimple prominent as he gives me a wink.

  “Sure.” I shrug. “I’ve got it from here anyway.”

  We check in with the party planner running the event and Sawyer shows me around the space. Clemens Corporation has rented out the entire second-floor space. There’s a buffet set up in the pavilion rooms. Multiple video games are set up with couches and candy buffets in both the rooms on the other side of the rotunda. A bar is open between the two rooms with small round high-top tables stretching from the balcony space all the way to the ballroom, which has music blaring and a live DJ. Anot
her bar, a dance floor, waiters circulating with hors d’oeuvres and a variety of seating options cover the room. It’s already the best party I’ve ever been to.

  Then I spot Sandra and I remember I’ve got work to do tonight. Wait. What is she wearing? I blow out a breath as she approaches Sawyer and I, walking in her normal professional gait. Short, quick steps. No nonsense, chin up, back straight. And she’s wearing a suit. A pantsuit, not even a skirt. She might as well be carrying a clipboard. Why does everyone always fight me so hard on my schemes? I mean, I know I didn’t tell her my plans for tonight, but hello? New Year’s Eve party? Is there a better time for her to attempt to get into Gabe’s pants? No. No, there is not. I’m dealing with an amateur. I need to regroup.

  We had lunch last week when I stopped by to see Sawyer and found out he was at a meeting in New York. I dragged her out with me, telling her I needed all the details for tonight’s party and a fashion consultation. She’d told me it was an open dress code, meaning the guys showed up in everything from jeans to suits. The women mostly in party dresses, she’d said. So I’d thought we were on the same page.

  She greets us both with a wide smile and tells Sawyer the party planners have everything under control and she has her cell phone if he needs anything, as always. He reminds her the office is closed until January third.

  She’s so pretty, her blonde hair pulled back low on her neck, blue eyes huge on her face, framed by thick lashes and eyebrows with a perfect arch. She’s just shy, I decide, renewing the oath I’ve made to myself to get her under Gabe.

  “Sandra, I forgot my lipstick back at Sawyer’s. Walk with me to get it?” I pose it as a question, but I’m already grabbing her arm and turning her in the direction of the elevators.

  “Everly, you put your lipstick in your—”

  I whirl on Sawyer, the skirt of my dress twirling as I do, and make a motion with my fingers across my lips and mouth. “Zip it.”

  He throws up his hands and mutters something about finding a drink.

  I loop my arm in Sandra’s and make off for the apartment.