Enflame

by S. Layne

  His hand cups my cheek, his fingertips by my ear. The slight movement of his skin against mine creates a fluttering low in my belly.

  “I want nothing more than to take you to bed and make love to you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

  Make love. Not fuck. Not just sex.

  I smile coyly and say, “Then what are you waiting for?”

  “Do you need any help with this?” I ask, leaning over Jeremiah’s shoulder.

  He turns his head, looking up at me. “I think I got it.”

  His smirk tells me he wouldn’t accept my help anyway.

  As far as I’m concerned, math should never, under any circumstances, contain letters and numbers.

  I nudge his shoulder. “Thank goodness. I’ll be just outside if you need anything. Okay?”

  He nods, already back to scribbling pencil on paper and frantically erasing. Poor kid. I always hated math in school, too. As much as Jeremiah loves to read and write in one of his many worn notebooks I’ve seen him use, algebra comes about as easy to him as it does to me.

  Leaving him alone to do his work, I head out to Marisa’s desk and prop my backside on the edge.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, watching her look over a spreadsheet. It contains columns and rectangles filled with more numbers.

  I might never escape them today.

  “Just looking over our projected budget now that we have the funding.”

  My interest piques. “And?”

  The million dollars is sure to do everything we want, plus some. Even with the amount I’ve set aside to help my dad, there’s way more money than we could ever imagine.

  “You know that place on Beacon Street? The one next to the coffee shop?”

  I nod. It used to be a large exercise gym, one of those twenty-four-hour places, but apparently Denton doesn’t have the interest in our small population to maintain it, because it closed down six months ago. I’ve had my eye on it ever since as a place to expand our business.

  “What about it?”

  Marisa’s smile is huge and excited when she looks up at me. “We can buy it straight up. Even with the renovations, we’ll still have more space to add in another therapist and space for social services to have an office so they can meet with kids there.”

  I close my eyes, sighing gratefully. It’s what I’ve always wanted.

  I can see my dreams for the future taking shape in my mind, and it’s all thanks to Donovan. Twenty-one more days and I’ll have money beyond my wildest dreams, and all of it will go toward helping more teenagers.

  With how close we’ve become since our talk last weekend, it almost feels as if everything I’ve ever wanted, including Donovan Lore, is within my grasp.

  I don’t know what sort of look is on my face, but I can feel my cheeks heating when Marisa playfully punches the side of my leg.

  “What’s going on with you?” she asks. “You’ve been walking around here on cloud nine all week.”

  I shrug, not willing to admit anything yet. “Nothing. It’s just been a good week.”

  Her lips pull to the side. “All thanks to our favorite benefactor, I assume.”

  I scrunch my nose. “Shut up.”

  “It’s okay to fall in love with him, you know. He seems a lot different from how he used to be, from what you’ve said.”

  I finally broke down and admitted everything to Marisa over lunch at Sal’s Italian Restaurant on Monday. I couldn’t contain all the emotions rushing through me after Donovan’s confessions on Sunday night. She was kind and quiet as always, with a little bit of sexy sarcasm thrown in for good measure.

  She’s no substitute for Mrs. Bartol, whom I miss dearly, with her wicked sexual innuendos and conversations, but Marisa has been like an aunt to me for years, and she knew I just needed to process, out loud, everything I was feeling.

  It helped some. The fact that Donovan has been more relaxed at night, and more fierce in his bed at night when I join him there, has most likely helped more.

  But I’m still hesitant to admit to anyone that it’s not that I’m in danger of falling in love with Donovan all over again…

  It’s that I already have.

  “I should let you get back to work,” I tell her as my phone in my hand begins vibrating. I instantly recognize the number and slide my thumb across the screen to accept the call.

  “Hey,” I reply, blushing instantly.

  “Hello, T.” Donovan’s voice rumbles through the line. I can practically see his slight smile as he taps his pen against his desk. A desk I would love to see. If his house is new—and from what I’ve learned, he bought it fully furnished—I’m dying to see what his office looks like. “I just wanted you and Jeremiah to know I’m going to be here almost all night tonight. This new contract I’m trying to win is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

  “Okay.” I pout. I can’t help it. I was planning on cooking dinner for him tonight, doing something for him instead of him constantly being the one giving.

  “You’re upset.”

  “No.” I run a hand through my hair and saunter down the hall for privacy. “Just disappointed. I was looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Hmm. I like that. How about if I promise to make it up to you later?”

  That seductive tone. The deep timbre in his voice hits my ears and shoots straight to my sex. My body instantly heats and my breath catches.

  “I take it from your reaction that you like the way that sounds.”

  I nod, forgetting he can’t see me. “I do,” I finally admit. “I like that idea a lot.”

  “Wear something special for the occasion,” he says wickedly.

  The perfect outfit comes to mind. I saw it at a boutique lingerie store in town just the other day, clothing a mannequin. I had halted in my steps and peered at the scraps of white lace and satin with a matching garter belt. I had to force myself to keep walking so I didn’t stop in and buy it.

  “I have just the thing in mind.”

  He groans. “God, I’m not going to get anything done now, imagining you naked.”

  I lick my lips and rest my head against the wall. “I could come visit you later, show you what I have in mind.”

  He stumbles over his words for a moment, and I grin. It’s rare that I fluster him. “I wish you could, trust me. But I’m going to be in meetings and on conference calls for most of the night.”

  “Okay then, I’ll see you later. Can’t wait.”

  “Me neither, Talia.”

  I hang up then, loving that he said my name, and the way it sounds coming from him. He’s mostly stuck to calling me “T,” his old, tender name for me. It’s just a letter, but it’s the closeness it implies that I love. But when he calls me by name, on those rare instances like he just did, my entire body warms and I feel the need to curl my toes.

  I head back to my office, a plan forming in my mind, while I decide to completely ignore Donovan.

  A man needs to eat.

  When I reach my office, Jeremiah is standing and facing my wall where all my wood-painted quotes hang.

  I stop and watch as he gently brushes his finger, tracing the words It may be stormy now, but the rain doesn’t last forever.

  “That’s one of my favorites,” I say quietly, still standing in the entryway to my office.

  He jerks his finger back and I feel bad for startling him. “Where did you buy these?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

  “I made them.”

  His eyes widen in shock. I love that I can surprise him. I’m learning that underneath all this anger and scowling and classic teenage angst, Jeremiah is a really sweet kid with a big heart. He feels everything. Sees even more. Just like his uncle.

  “That’s so cool.”

  I enter my office and walk until I’m standing next to him. My finger traces a similar line on the distressed wooden plank, except mine follows the natural grooves in the wood. “When I was young, after my mom died, I used to spend a lot of time a
t my dad’s auto shop. There was this teenage kid who was working there part-time, mostly cleaning up and taking the trash out. But he loved art and when we had free time, he showed me how to do it.”

  We’re silent for a minute before I nudge his shoulder.

  “I could teach you. I have everything in my garage at my place, but maybe Bentley or Donovan could have someone bring it to his.”

  I expect him to jump at the opportunity, considering he’s not taking his eyes off the wood in front of us. Instead, he says, “I miss them.”

  Tears beckon, but I fight them back and place my arm gently around his shoulder. He freezes for a moment and then relaxes, so I pull him closer to me. He’s so tall that his head is above my shoulder. We’re almost eye-to-eye. I’m not that tall, at only five-foot four, but I know that soon I’m going to be looking up at him, even in my three-inch heels.

  “I miss my mom, too. Every day. She was amazing.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  I know what he’s asking. Only someone who has lost a parent can understand that kind of pain. “I was about your age, you know. And I was lucky because my dad was still around, loving me and helping me through it. But I know I hurt and was angry for a lot of years, especially when it came to birthdays and holidays and all the big things that a kid wants their mom for.”

  Tears fall from my eyes, clouding my vision. I wipe them away and my chin trembles.

  “But slowly, over time, I began to see her in everything. I remembered what she wanted for me. I held onto the wisdom she gave me when I was too young to understand it. All she ever told me was to chase my dreams, be who I wanted to be, and not worry about other people. And I found that as I grew up, if I could do that, I could keep her with me all the time.”

  His shoulders shake a bit and I hear him sniff, knowing he’s either crying or fighting back his own tears. I don’t look and I don’t ask, I just allow him time as the silence settles between us.

  Suddenly, he twists his body and throws his arms around me. His sobs fill the room and my own tears quietly fall as I watch this boy completely fall apart.

  I place my hand on the back of his head, holding him to me, and allow him to cry. I don’t whisper soothing platitudes that don’t really help. I simply allow him to feel whatever he’s feeling and to get it all out.

  Something tells me that he hasn’t done that much.

  “Sorry,” he says when he pulls away. He looks away and sniffs, his fingers rubbing furiously beneath his eyes.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him sincerely. I’m not overly gushy, knowing how much teenage boys mostly hate it, but I let him take his time. When he’s composed, I scoop up his backpack and slide his homework inside. “How about I take you out for some ice cream? We can finish your homework later.”

  The rest of my afternoon with Jeremiah went by quickly. After I plied him with a triple-scoop waffle cone that we devoured in a small ice cream parlor overlooking the pier and Lake Michigan, we slowly began sharing memories of our parents—things we remembered about them, places we went.

  None of it was serious, but I hope by helping Jeremiah remember how great his parents and little brother were, that it helps him think of the good times instead of dwelling so much on his loss.

  I know he’ll never get over it. I only hope that as he grows, he can heal from it in a healthy manner. I was fortunate to have my dad around when I lost my mom. From running the center, I have also learned how easy it is for people to become so lost in grief and despair that they are never able to pull themselves out, and their lives are ruined before they ever fully begin.

  I don’t want that for Jeremiah, and I let him know that regardless of how long I stay in his house, I would always be there for him.

  He nodded, seemed deep in thought at the realization that I won’t always be in his house with Donovan, but he didn’t say anything, so I let it go.

  After he ate dinner and went to play games in the game room, I made sure it was okay with him if I left for a few hours, only slightly hating that I was telling him I was going to run some errands.

  Now that I’m making my way into Donovan’s building, even though most of the employees have left for the day, my nerves are increasing.

  He told me not to come.

  I’m hoping that I can persuade him to take a few minutes to rest. I figure the delicious aroma of Cazador’s wafting from the plastic bags in my hands will help.

  I’m almost surprised to see his assistant, a man about my age with slicked-back black hair and a thick but neatly trimmed full beard, sitting behind his desk outside Donovan’s office.

  I know his name is Patrick because I’ve heard Donovan talk about him often.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks when I reach the desk.

  I hold up the bags of dinner, feeling bad that I didn’t think to get extras for him. If he’s working this late, he’s probably hungry, too.

  “Hi, I’m Talia. I stopped by to see Donovan for a minute and bring him some dinner.”

  His eyebrows pull together in confusion. “I...um...Mr. Donovan is busy right now. If you’d like to leave the food, I can ensure he gets it.”

  I don’t know him, but I don’t like the way his eyes flicker to Donovan’s office before returning to mine. “Can I wait for him?” I ask, thinking of the lingerie that is beneath my skirt and blouse.

  “Um. You can. But he might be awhile.” He stops, presses his lips together, and then nods. “Yes, that’s fine. You can wait.”

  Uncomfortable, I turn and slide into a seat just outside Donovan’s office. His office is fully enclosed, so I can neither hear nor see what’s going on. I knew he was going to be busy, but the way Patrick continues to look at me makes me feel like I shouldn’t be here.

  With each passing moment, unease spools in my gut, and I decide to give up. I stand up to leave the bags at the front desk, figuring I can leave my dinner for Patrick as well. I’ll just go home and wait for Donovan like he suggested.

  “Here,” I say, sliding the bags onto Patrick’s desk. “I need to get going, but perhaps you and Donovan can enjoy this when you have—”

  My sentence is immediately cut off when Donovan’s door opens. I shift, turning to face it, and then all the blood drains from my body when I see Cassandra walking through the doorway.

  She’s laughing, that grating laugh I remember so well, and smiling wide as she looks at the man who is gripping the door to his office.

  His scowl doesn’t match her laugh, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  I can’t move, and I don’t have time to decide what I should do before Donovan speaks.

  “I’ll see you later this week, Cassandra. Don’t be late.”

  She opens her mouth to speak when he notices me standing outside his office, gawking at him.

  Cassandra turns to me to see what’s taken his attention, and her brow furrows as she quickly scans my face.

  “Talia,” Donovan says, and recognition immediately lights in her eyes.

  They flash in confusion before they turn to cold blue steel.

  I can’t speak, but my eyes dart to Donovan and back to her.

  “Talia Merchant?” she asks, her voice practically a sneer. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  “That’s enough,” Donovan hisses. “Go, Cassandra. I’ll see you later.”

  “That’s right,” she says, and turns to him so I can only see their profiles. Donovan’s shocked green eyes stay on me, his back stiff and straight as she drags a perfectly manicured bright pink painted fingernail down his sternum. “Our appointment. How could I forget?”

  She leans up and presses her lips against his cheek, and when she drops back I fight the urge to gag at seeing lipstick on his skin.

  Sauntering by me, she quietly hisses, “I should have known he’d come to you.”

  “Go!” Donovan shouts, and Cassandra jumps slightly before glaring at me.

  She doesn’t say another word as she walks away.


  In fact, none of us do—and poor Patrick looks like he wants to vomit.

  “You told me that you shouldn’t be interrupted for any reason,” he begins, stuttering over his words and looking at Donovan.

  The poor boy. I almost want to soothe him. This wasn’t his fault.

  It was mine.

  For trusting Donovan.

  For believing that things were over with him and Cassandra.

  But if the lipstick on his cheek and at the top of his collar is any indication, I’m struck with the sudden realization that I’ve been the mistress all along.

  The paid whore.

  For one million dollars, I’ve warmed his bed.

  I close my eyes and take a step back. “I brought you dinner,” I say lamely. “I think I’ll just go, though.”

  “No,” Donovan says, and before I can open my eyes, his hand is on my wrist and he’s pulling me into his office. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I stumble on my feet from the sudden movement, and barely catch my balance before I’m inside his office and the door slams shut behind me.

  He stalks to his desk and presses an intercom button. “Patrick, cancel the teleconference we have in fifteen minutes. Reschedule for tomorrow.”

  I don’t hear a response before his finger releases, and he presses his hands flat against his dark wood desk. His gaze hits me with a ferociousness I’ve never seen, but I can feel his palpable anger as if he’s shooting solar flares from his eyes.

  “That is not what you’re thinking it was.”

  My lips twitch and I swallow my heart, which feels like it’s lodged in my throat. “It looks like your wife came by to see you while you’re working late.”

  His muscles tighten and his chest heaves with barely bridled fury. “What you saw is Cassandra trying to make a play when there’s none to be made.”

  I run my fingers across my lips. I no longer want to be here. The lingerie against my skin feels scratchy and uncomfortable.

  I blink, knowing he’s waiting for an answer, when he’s suddenly in front of me. Damn, he’s fast and quiet.

  His hands wrap around my upper arms, his fingers digging into my skin. And stupid me, I feel that touch radiate warmth beneath my waist.