by Vesper Young
Of course, when he looked at me, I studiously gazed ahead as if lost in my own thoughts. And the second he moved on to another exercise, I was once more transfixed by the way he worked his powerful body. There was a grace to his movements I’d never associated with weightlifting.
After a while, I shut the machine off and stretched. Deacon was back at the free weights, examining me in the mirror set on the wall.
“How heavy are those?” I asked.
He lifted a dumbbell in a curl to get a look at the number. “Fifty.”
“Fifty pounds?” I exclaimed.
He gave me a cocky grin. “Want to feel?”
The giant brick he was holding? No thanks. The bulging bicep holding up the brick? Yes, please. No, no, monkey brain, don’t touch the husband.
“Pass,” I said, forcibly tearing my eyes away from his arms. And abs. And chest.
Deacon shrugged and set the weights down on the rack like they were nothing.
“What weight do you use?” he asked.
“I don’t use weights,” I said.
“Cardio bunny?” he teased.
I hadn’t had time until now to fulfill any gym-going stereotype. And the treadmill was dummy-proof.
“Don’t really know how.” I shifted on my feet. “Well, um, happy lifting. I’m gonna go take a shower.” My gaze dipped down. A painfully cold shower. Or maybe hot one if I felt brave.
I took a step back, about to spin on my heel and go, when Deacon spoke.
“If you want, I can show you some basics,” he offered.
“Oh. Um, thanks,” I said.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
Turn away from sweaty, sexy former boss or spend a little more time together? Well, what was the harm, really, I figured. “Yes.”
He moved to the other end of the rack and handed me two small dumbells. They looked like the babies of the other set, comically small.
I took one in each hand. They were heavy. Not impossibly so, but definitely required effort to lift.
I glanced at the label. Five pounds. One-tenth of the weight he’d been using effortlessly.
Deacon grabbed two weights nearby, smaller ones probably to make me feel better. Not that I thought Deacon was the type to worry about my ego. He certainly hadn’t been in the past. Now, though, he almost seemed like he was trying to compromise. Giving me running shoes, and showing me how to use weights.
Or maybe he wanted a wife who made a more believable trophy for a billionaire, I thought with a smirk.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
I moved the dumbells in my hand, still getting a feel for them. “Just wondering if this is your way of telling me to get in shape. Though if you wanted a size four, you should’ve specified so in the contract. Not sure I’ll pass for a trophy wife.”
“Cute. It’s not people look at you and think, ah, yes, she’d be prettier if her ass and tits were smaller.”
His crude words caught me off guard. Heat flooded my cheeks, though I hoped it could pass for the result of my “cardio bunnying.” Guess the testosterone pulled away his business-like veneer. “Wait, are you saying my, err, assets are too small instead?”
He rolled his eyes. “Your assets are perfect. Working with weights helps with posture, confidence, and mental health.”
“Is that why you lift? For good posture?”
“It clears my head,” he said. “Now, let me show you how to do a basic curl.”
He modeled a slow up and down motion on each arm.
“Oh, I can do that,” I said.
I did a quick imitation with my kiddy weights.
“Not so fast.”
He set his weights down and moved behind me. I met his gaze in the mirror.
“Go slower and keep your scapula retracted.”
I lifted the weights more slowly.
He shook his head. “Not quite. You’re leaning. Feel where my hand is and keep contact. Don’t lean.”
He pressed his hand lightly against my shoulder. His palm was warm through the fabric. As I lifted the weight again, I felt my body start to lean and fought the urge. I pressed my shoulder back against his hand, stumbling a half step back. We hadn’t broken contact.
“Better,” he praised.
We were now much closer together than before. Instead of simply feeling his palm on my shoulder, part of his torso met my back, the front of his quad meeting my butt. Deacon seemed unphased by the contact, simply switching sides so I could lift my other weight.
“Good. Nine more,” he said. He gave me an encouraging smile, and my heart fluttered.
And that was how the morning went. He showed me a range of basic exercises, adjusting my technique as needed. By the end of the session, I wasn’t afraid of the weights anymore; it would be easy enough to incorporate them into my own routines.
Instead, I was scared of how much I was letting him in. Marriage was one thing, between us. But he was getting through my walls. Him giving gifts, me accepting, and us becoming gym buddies.
But in six months, this would all come crashing down. It would be smarter to keep my feelings on ice.
Unfortunately, the only thing I had to cool them was the shower and it wasn’t going to do much.
***
I woke up the next morning, once again in a cold, empty bed.
I don’t know why I expected otherwise. I hadn’t, really. But the cool air against my cheek stung all the same.
I sat up, immediately feeling the results of yesterday's workout. I’d liked the weights. I’d liked working out near Deacon. With Deacon. But I could’ve lived without the soreness that penetrated every inch of my muscles, including ones I hadn’t even known about.
My morning passed the same way the rest had. I wandered aimlessly through activities, reading, eating, running, unsure of what to do. Then, as I went to change out of my workout gear, I spied the shiny key on my nightstand.
“My” nightstand. I allowed myself a self-deprecating smile. The longer we played house, the easier it was to forget none of this was really mine, and the second it was socially acceptable in six months, I’d have to haul butt applying for a new soul-sucking job.
Delightful.
But for now, I got to live the fantasy. An apartment with every amenity imaginable, a sexy husband with a bank account that could’ve passed for a phone number, and the ability to sleep past six a.m.
I glanced at the clock. It was almost twelve. And what would a loving wife do while her husband returned to his insanely long hours? A husband who habitually skipped lunch?
I went to the kitchen to make sandwiches.
Forty-five minutes later, I finished following the walking GPS built into my new smartphone. Really, I shouldn’t have been surprised Deacon lived about ten blocks from his family’s office. I mean, he lived there more than he did at the apartment. The contrast of walking around the city midday instead of taking a series of connecting trains for the better part of an hour to get to the office was mind-boggling.
The security still recognized me, though the once-over they gave everyone constantly lasted an extra second when their attention landed on my left hand. I wiggled my fingers. I’d walked into the building hundreds of times before without a second thought, but I’d never gone there as the wife of the CEO.
The brown bag of sandwiches in my hand crinkled under my cycle of clenching and releasing. Clench, crinkle, clench, crinkle.
As I approached the elevator, I began to second guess the whole trip. Deacon probably wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Really. Though given the fact my arrival had already been noted, Deacon would probably ask why I had come.
Ha. If he stayed awake for more than thirty seconds once he came home.
That settled it. We’d agreed, Saturday, we had some sort of unusual friendship. Friends had lunch. I had lunch with Kara all the time! Deacon and I were just friends. Married friends. Formerly boss and secretary with a very cordial relationship friends. And I couldn’t talk to my friend if
I only ever saw him when he was dead tired.
Deacon 23
“Mr. Blake, your wife is here to see you.” My new secretary’s voice filled my office.
It was a similar set up to my previous position, in the sense there was a waiting area where my secretary, Claudia, worked. The rooms were incomparable beyond that. The executive’s office dwarfed my previous work station which in and of itself had been far from modest. This office, however, was fit for meeting multiple people and was furnished to give it an air of inviting civility. In front of my desk were three luxurious seats, and behind me were floor to ceiling windows that let the light in.
“Send her in,” I replied.
A moment later, Claudia opened the door and Mindy walked in. She dressed as if she might on any workday. Having only seen her in casual casual clothes for the past few weeks, it took me off guard to see her wear the same cardigan she usually wore, same slacks, same silhouette that obscured her figure. I could almost pretend we still worked together. That was, in our previous capacity.
“Are you alright?” I asked her. Why was she here?
“I’m good, just a bit sore from yesterday. I brought protein to refuel.”
Claudia made a face distinctly similar to that of a goldfish. “I’ll, err, leave you to it.” She hastily shut the door behind her.
I waited. Any second, Mindy would realize the double meaning Claudia had read into it, and then…
“That was odd,” she said, giving the door a funny look. “Is she always so skittish?”
She turned back to me and saw my smile. “What?”
I stayed silent.
“What is it? Something I said? Wait. Sore. Did she think I meant..?”
“Yup. And you even brought supplies to refuel.”
On cue, her cheeks blossomed into two scarlet blotches. Really, there wasn’t anything to be embarrassed by even in the dirtiest interpretation. But to Mindy, the entendre was mortifying.
I resisted telling her it definitely sounded like she was after an office quickie.
“Relax. If we had really just gotten married, the honeymoon hormones would be expected. How could you be expected to resist?”
“Honeymoon hormones?” Her blush deepened, though her expression was adorably indignant.
I decided to put her out of her misery. “Whatever she thinks, she thinks. Seriously, is everything alright? What brought you here?”
She held up a crumpled brown bag at her side. “Lunch. I figured knowing you, you’d stop to eat only once you collapsed, got hospitalized, and they force-fed you hospital food.”
“I’m not that bad,” I protested. Even though I’d had no plans to take a lunch break.
She gave me a long look. “Hospital food, Deacon. You should be thanking me for saving you.”
“You need to go to better hospitals.” While my father being sick had incurred a lot of unpleasantness, bad food wasn’t among it.
“Please, like I can afford bad ones. Anyway, do you want it or not?” The words were probably meant to sound fiery, but her glance back at door betrayed her insecurity.
I didn’t want her to leave. “Of course. Thank you for lunch.”
I cleared a space on the desk while she sat.
“This isn’t like you,” she said, gesturing to the piles of paper.
I shrugged. It wasn’t. Previously, my work had been kept in immaculate piles of papers. This, here, was a mess.
“It’s been rough,” I said.
She gave a sympathetic look. I ignored it. I would do whatever it took to keep this company, and enduring a less than orderly desk was the least of my issues.
We still needed to have that dinner with Dukas but he was still out of the country. As it was, the promise of such a meeting was a lifeline.
She pulled out two packets of foil. I unwrapped mine and breathed in the distinct smell of peanut butter, bread, and jelly.
“This is good,” I said, swallowing a bite.
She munched on her own identical sandwich. “Thanks. It’s simple, but a classic.”
I nodded in agreement.
“How’s the soreness?”
“Well, reaching the jelly on the top shelf of the fridge was a special kind of hell. So not too bad.”
I laughed. “That DOMS hits you hard.”
She gave a confused look, so I explained the meaning of delayed onset muscle soreness. “It won’t be so bad if you work out regularly,” I explained.
“How do you know so much about this stuff?” she asked.
“It started as a hobby. But there’s so much bad information, you really need to research before working out. Grip style, shoe style, proper form, determining a program. All of it can be optimized for better results.”
“Grip style?”
I nodded and tried to explain the basics, though, with some prodding, I gave a more complete rundown of different styles.
We kept talking even after our food was gone. Distantly, I considered informing her I had to get back to work, then rejected the thought. I would work late, as always, even later to compensate, but I was enjoying myself too much to cut the conversation short. Between all the meetings and phone calls, I somehow still felt like this was the only time I got to speak to a real person.
An hour passed, and Mindy excused herself.
“I’ll bring lunch by tomorrow as well?” she asked.
“That’d be great,” I told her and turned back to the computer.
***
A week later, I was sitting in my office on a lunch break with Mindy. It was funny that she brought food every day considering when we’d last taken our lunches together, I’d had to pay her to give me the opportunity to feed her.
“Mr. Blake, Ms. Dukas is here to see you,” Claudia informed me through the intercom.
Mindy and I exchanged a glance. Something crossed her face, and I was tempted to cancel with Rose. But business had to come first. She folded up our trash.
“I need to take this meeting,” I told her.
She nodded, though she did seem a bit put out by it.
I flipped the intercom on. “Send her in in a minute.”
Mindy collected her cardigan from the back of the chair. “Hope she doesn’t mind if you already ate.”
I gave her an odd look as she exited, then wiped it off my face as Rose entered, plastering on a politely interested facade.
“Good afternoon, Deacon,” she chirped, not sparing a glance as Mindy left.
“Hello,” I replied. “How are you?”
Rose took that as an invitation to sit and launch into a highlight reel of her latest business exploits. It was, I suspected, a very flattering version of the actual events.
The conversation meandered until she decided to reveal the purpose of her visit.
“My father is flying back in six days and wanted to know if you would be available to have dinner the Thursday after this one.”
“That’s acceptable. Does he have a location in mind?”
She rattled off a quiet venue.
“Great. Mindy and I will be there at six.” If she was setting the date and location, I would control the time. Six would give ample time before the restaurant’s closing to maneuver the conversation towards business despite Elias’s reservations about business and pleasure.
Rose made a face. “Oh. Yes, he did mention the invitation was also to your wife. How is married life treating you?” she asked.
“It’s good,” I told her. A perk, I didn’t tell her, would be having Mindy at my side to pin down whatever wily conversation tactics Rose employed at the dinner. Why she made it so hard to reach a mutually beneficial deal between our two companies, I could only guess at. Given how her father reacted when I broached the subject, it would take the two of us to make any headway.
Rose gave me an expectant look; I returned it with a blank one. “Would you like Claudia to show you out?”
She frowned for a moment then quickly recovered. “No, I can find my own way.
I was just wondering if your wife minded you doing business with me. Alone. With the office door shut.”
“My wife understands business comes first,” I told her.
“Yes, it’s so good she’s so understanding. Probably a benefit of having employed her. The jealous types are the worst,” she confided.
I made a noncommittal noise. Jealousy could be an issue, but Mindy would understand. She had to.
***
I expected Mindy to show up the next day for lunch. All morning I found myself checking the time. That wasn’t normal for me. Normal would be immersing myself in my work until the hours drifted by in flashes.
Mindy did not come.
My afternoon was chewed up by senseless meetings, so once again I stayed late. By the time I got home, Mindy was asleep in the bed. Her worn workout clothes were tossed haphazardly on the floor as if she’d run herself to exhaustion and then collapsed.
Normally by now, I was exhausted, too. Tonight, however, I was keyed up, unable to stop wondering why she hadn’t come. Or better yet, why had she come the first time?
It hadn’t bothered me. At all. It was simply the case that inconsistent behavior irritated me. Like my father who for all my life had put the company, our legacy, first, yet in his last moments done a reversal. He’d left a letter. Perhaps that had all the answers but I doubted a letter could explain it all away so it remained sealed, probably still in my jacket pocket. Or like Rose, who seemed on some days set on negotiating a deal and on others thrived on stringing me along.
Though Rose was a mild nuisance. Mindy was infuriating.
My gaze roved the curves of her body under the covers. Her hair flowed behind her, her face turned towards the center of the bed. It was softened by sleep. I was tempted to simply shake her awake. To force her to explain herself. Eventually, I convinced myself it didn’t matter. She was here, in my bed, because I’d paid her to play the part. Maybe that’s what it was to her, her part of the act, a loving wife missing her husband and bringing lunch.