SIR

by R. J. Lewis

  I find him in his office, and I join him, barely looking in his direction. I feel his eyes on me as I sit down. He’s looking over my pencil skirt—it’s still short because fuck it—and black top. Then his eyes are meeting mine. I don’t look into them long. I’m out of sorts. I spent the night wide awake, wondering if he was fucking her after he left my suite.

  It was slow torture.

  I am a fool for being here.

  Now my heart hurts and I’m physically exhausted.

  But one must carry on. I’m picking up the itty-bitty pieces of my heart and piecing them back together so they can be smashed up all over again.

  “Good morning, Miss Montcalm,” he says, but the greet feels follow. All signs of that playful, flirty man is gone like last night never happened. How professional.

  “Good morning, Mr West,” I respond quietly, my voice laced with melancholy. I need to snap out of that and toughen the fuck up.

  “Let’s do this again then,” he tells me, appearing refreshed but solemn. He’s got a folder open on his desk.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Propositions.”

  I give him a dry look.

  He looks back at me, no amusement. “Real ones.”

  I nod carefully. “Okay.”

  Looking down at the paperwork, he adds, “That requires your presence, Miss Montcalm.”

  “I’m right in front of you.”

  “I need you next to me.”

  I glance at the empty spot beside him. The desk is wider than I expected. It would easily fit me. My breathing slows because I’m not sure I can be that close to him. What new pains will be awaiting me?

  That’s just asking for it.

  “Is that necessary?” I ask, my voice giving away my hesitation.

  He’s annoyed again. “Why is it that every time I give you a simple instruction, you build barriers around it?”

  I resist rolling my eyes. “I wasn’t aware I was doing that, Mr West.”

  “Well now you’re aware.”

  I don’t respond.

  “Wouldn’t you say, Miss Montcalm, that now you’re aware?”

  I tilt my head to the side. Is he being serious?

  He stares back, brows raised, waiting for my response.

  “You’ve said that, Mr West.”

  “I’m waiting for an acknowledgement,” he retorts. “When a boss is asking you questions, you’re supposed to answer them. Are you not?”

  He is so annoying.

  I swallow a curse. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  A shiver runs through me. “Yes, sir.”

  He opens a drawer and pulls out a binder. He plops it down next to his folder, impatiently saying, “Miss Montcalm, your designated spot is behind my desk.”

  “I’m aware,” I say pointedly.

  “And yet you’re still sitting there.”

  Oh, my fucking God.

  “I just feel…” I pause, trying to stop this move from happening. He stares at me, waiting. “I feel like I would do better facing you.”

  “I’m not asking you what you feel, am I?”

  I frown. “No, sir.”

  He shoots me an expectant look. “You should never leave a man like me waiting, Miss Montcalm.”

  I’m shocked. If he only knew the meaning behind those words. How they relate to us. But he doesn’t, does he? He’s so fucking godly, he genuinely does not believe a man like him ought to wait.

  He’s being such a jerk.

  New Aidan stinks. I don’t like him very much. He’s really mean to me, and I want to tell him I need a fucking hug.

  I stand up instead. He’s not paying me anymore attention now, his focus solely reserved on the contents of that bloody folder. I mean, surely it can’t be that riveting.

  I grab my chair and try to pick it up, but it’s one of those super heavy wooden ones with the plush leather cushions. I don’t make it a step before I practically drop it. The legs slam against the floor, and it’s super loud. I whip my head in West’s direction. He’s writing something down in the binder now, but his nostrils are flared like he’s pissed.

  Don’t be a fucking gentleman and help me out, I want to hiss.

  Instead, I refocus my attention to the chair and start to slide it across the floor. It screeches along the hardwood, and I pause every so often to make sure it’s not scratching it. I think it is, though, so I quickly grab the nearest thing to me—a tissue box on West’s desk—and pull out a bunch of tissues. I’ll place them under the legs, sort of like a cushion against the hardwood so they don’t scratch while I slide it across the floor. It’s absolutely genius and I feel pretty chuffed with myself.

  Fuck this muscled suited version of Aidan West with his hard blinks and chiseled face and hard cock in those tight briefs; I don’t need him. Ivy Montcalm is creative when she wants to be…

  I think.

  I bend down and I’m probably flashing West my ass because this skirt is super short, but I’m more concerned about dinging the floor of his Georgian home and—

  Wait.

  Actually, no, I’m very concerned about flashing my ass now that I think about it. I drop down instantly and get to work. I’ve placed about ten tissues under one of the legs, and I’ve got a smug smile on my face as I begin to move onto the next leg when I hear a long, irritated sigh. Steps approach me. I’m on my knees when I look up. West is standing in front of me, staring down at me.

  I’m very aware of how I look.

  He must think I’m a special snowflake.

  “I assure you I’m all there,” I begin to tell him.

  “All there?” he repeats like he wants an explanation.

  “I’m, you know”—I point to my head— “all there.”

  “Where you are, Miss Montcalm, is bent over on the floor with tissues in your hand. Where you are, as I stand here, is at my feet, a position I’d normally not make too much of an issue about.”

  Well then.

  I give him a forced smile. “I’d normally have no issue with this sort of position either.”

  I catch the amusement in his eyes as he looks me over. “Normally you’d be okay on your knees before a man, Miss Montcalm? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “It sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

  He gives me a stern look. “I ask the questions, not you.”

  “Then I guess yeah, that’s sort of what I said.”

  “Sort of, or yes?”

  Gosh, he’s pushy. “Yes,” I force out.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.” My voice is quieter because I’m staring up at him, looking him directly in the eyes as I call him a word I used to scream during an orgasm he’d given me.

  He senses something.

  His blinks slow down, and his brows come together slowly. In a bizarre move, he takes a step closer to me, bridging the gap between us. Before I can register how close he is, so close his suit pants are brushing along my bare arm, so close his cock is inches from my face, I feel his hand on my head. I freeze, my heart already leaping through my chest as he…caresses my hair, pinning me with a searing look, and I’m looking back, my eyelids heavy, his touch filled with gentleness.

  “Trouble,” he whispers then, swallowing hard, his expression conflicted now as he adds, “That’s what you are. Trouble.”

  My mouth is dry, my body tight. I feel my pulse quicken as he stares expectantly at me. I glance at the zipper of his pants and then back at him. There’s a pause in the stillness, like time has stopped and we’re both wondering the same thing.

  Would he pull himself out?

  Would I taste him if he asked?

  Would he even need to ask?

  I…

  I let out a shuddering breath.

  I

  am

  weak.

  Just as quickly, he drops his hand and looks away from me. The pause has been severed. My heart is still racing in my chest when he grabs the chair. In one easy
move, he picks it up and effortlessly takes it around the desk, dropping it down next to his.

  He doesn’t look at me, but his nostrils are flaring.

  He’s unsettled.

  “Stop wasting time, Miss Montcalm,” he says in a hard tone, like he didn’t just run a hand through my hair or stand so close, my face was inches from his cock. “The longer you fuck about, the more I begin to question your commitment to being here.”

  I gather the tissues and stand up, feeling wobbly. I toss them in the trash can beside his desk and make my way around to my chair. I slide into it and glance at him. He’s really close. We both take a moment. The tension is overwhelming, and I fidget nervously, thinking about his hand in my hair and his cock in my mouth.

  I shut my eyes. I can still taste him on my tongue. Can remember his thickness, his length, the harsh noises he made when he fucked my mouth.

  Fuck.

  I am unprepared. Severely drowning here with impulses that I suddenly am finding great difficulty controlling.

  He doesn’t look at me as he slides the binder in front of me.

  “Grab a pen,” he orders gruffly. “You’ll be taking notes for me.”

  I grab a pen from a container on his desk and avert my gaze to the paper in the binder. He’s already started on the notes. I read them quickly. They’re all calculations. He’s calculating the profit and net profit from gross income. I sort of know what that means after Steven’s help.

  Like he can read my mind, he slides a calculator in front of me.

  “Alright,” he begins. “We’ve got a company here with a total revenue of eight hundred and forty thousand a year. Of that, the cost of goods sold is—”

  “Do you want me to put down eight hundred and forty thousand in the calculator or on the paper?” I cut in, looking at him anxiously.

  He looks up from the folder, blinking hard. I’ve fucked up already. “Miss Montcalm—”

  “I’ll write that down on the piece of paper, and then we’ll work it out after,” I say quickly, scribbling it down. “Continue please, Mr West.”

  His eyes land on mine. I plaster a smile on my face and give him a thumbs up.

  I’m doomed.

  *

  It is not going well at all. I’m struggling to keep up. West spits out the numbers at me like I’m the freaking calculator. I find it’s easier to write down what he’s saying instead of using the calculator. I tell myself I’m simply the recorder and he just needs to read the notes and be able to plug in the right numbers, right?

  Well, I fuck up the numbers on occasion too.

  “Ivy,” he tells me, and you know shit is serious when he’s using my first name, “we’ve been calculating net profit for most of the morning.”

  “Right,” I respond, pretending like I know what he’s talking about.

  “Right,” he repeats, “so you should know the formula by now.”

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  I blink at him slowly. “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

  He looks at me. “Tell me it.”

  West is seriously assuming I was paying attention? What a madman. How can one pay attention when they’re burning a finger on that calculator? How does one pay attention when they have the most gorgeous man sitting next to them, and you love that man, and he treats you like a carpet beetle he wants to step all over?

  I tap the pen against the binder, staring at the numbers. “You’ve been telling me a lot of numbers, Mr West—”

  “What’s the formula, Miss Montcalm?”

  “The formula…” I pause and idly scratch my neck. “I personally believe…the formula to be…”

  “Gross profit…” he begins, waiting for me to finish.

  “Uh-huh, gross profit…”

  “Minus…”

  “Minus…”

  “Minus what, Miss Montcalm?”

  “Minus something very important like…” I search my brain, recalling all the words he spat out between the numbers and hard blinks. Honestly, it’s all a blur, and I’m really tired so it’s not fair to pick on me right now, but I think hard, looking over the numbers and the company. In a tiny voice, I cringe when I guess. “Minus…expenses?”

  West looks back at me, his eyes falling to my mouth. A fleeting look of amusement crosses his features before he nods once. “That’s right, Miss Montcalm.”

  “I got it right?”

  “You did.”

  My shoulders relax, and I look nonchalant. “Of course, because…that is the answer.”

  He smirks slowly. “We’ve said that already.”

  You’d think I’d have won brownie points after that painful dialogue, but…no such luck. I’m still struggling, and the world would have exploded if it counted on me to do this shit right.

  West is rightfully exasperated, and I keep waiting for the man known as the Asshole of the East to butcher me on the spot, but he just does that hard blink thing and carries on. I can’t help but feel he is taking it easy on me, even though “taking it easy” still entails being barked at.

  By afternoon, he discards me completely and jots everything down himself, leaving me to sit there and watch him. I’d rather be fucking up his paperwork though, because at least then I don’t get to drown in the sight of him. I stare at him too intently, unable to break away. I look over his face, at the stubble he needs to shave off, the hair he needs to cut, the suit he needs to change, and yet…it all works for him.

  He’s gorgeous.

  Painfully so.

  It’s not that I’m being superficial. It’s just that the longer I stare at him, the more I miss him. I miss us. I miss the man I fell in love with.

  Eventually, I break the silence because it would not bode well just watching him all afternoon.

  “I can start up the computer and go through your emails, if you’d like.”

  He barely glances at me. “So do it.”

  I turn the computer on, waiting for it to boot up. “Is it automatically logged in?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t turned this computer on since…” His words trail away as he glances to his side for a moment.

  Since his accident.

  I don’t say that. He doesn’t want to talk about it for obvious reasons, but imagine if he did. Like,’ hey, assistant girl who sucks, I don’t remember the last three years of my life, and I want you terribly, and god, I think you’re my soulmate, and come sit on my face—'

  Okay, that fantasy will not come to fruition anytime soon.

  I look at the screen, heart beating quicker now because I think this was the original computer he owned in Ottawa. I don’t know if there’s anything on it—don’t know if he ever stored personal information, but I’m suddenly sweating.

  I feel…a little triggered.

  For a split second, I have a flood of emotions of what it was like touching any of Derek’s electronics. The feeling of dread was heavy, like I wasn’t sure what I would find lurking there—messages to girls, pictures…

  But this is a work computer, and this belonged to the other Aidan—the one that had nothing to hide. When a password screen comes up, I glance in his direction and he notices. He leans to my side and taps his password out and presses enter.

  “I’ll have it written down for you,” he murmurs before refocusing on his task.

  I watch in surprise as the password works and I’m directed to his desktop.

  “Isn’t that odd?” I wonder aloud, before I can stop myself. “You remember your passwords and not…”

  I swallow the rest of my words down, and this time when I glance at West, he’s staring back at me, understanding what I mean.

  “It is,” he simply acknowledges. “Don’t ask me how the human mind works, Miss Montcalm, because the only answer I can give is that it clearly doesn’t. What you hold dear in one breath can be wiped out in the next. But the trivial matters…they linger like permanent fixtures, don’t they?”

  Hmm.

  T
his isn’t the first time he’s remembered small things then. I wonder if that’s a hopeful sign that his mind isn’t completely lost.

  “That’s sort of fascinating,” I mutter, shaking my head quickly. “I mean, from an outsider’s perspective.”

  He listens to my words, not one bit perturbed and nods once. “I imagine it would be.”

  His expression is soft for once as he continues to glance at me, looking like he wants to say more. I give him a gentle smile, and his eyes lock to my mouth, brows furrowing slightly as thoughts blaze through him.

  Then, just like that, he pulls away, refocusing on his work, though his breaths are slower than they were moments ago.

  I look away, wondering what he might have said if he didn’t hold himself back.

  Anxiety pools in my lower belly as I navigate his desktop. The mouse runs straight to the folders, and I leaf through them all, quickly and furtively, wondering if there’s any evidence of us in there.

  His folders are empty, except for a few that are heavy in old S.P.P. work matters. I close them and check the internet. It’s not connected yet, and I’ll have to get the WIFI password, but I check the history quickly, wondering if he ever went on to browse.

  He did.

  But, again, it’s all work related.

  My mouse pauses midway down, and I catch my name in one of the searches.

  Ivy Montcalm. Ottawa, Ontario.

  I glance quickly next to me. West is punching numbers into the calculator, clueless. I return my gaze to the screen, checking the date of the search.

  It was three weeks after we met on the plane.

  He was thinking of me the exact moment I was thinking of him.

  Oh, my heart. I let out a pained breath.

  He checked me out on Facebook, went through my pictures, and my heart hiccups in my chest at that, and then I wonder what in the hell I had done to have given him such a lasting impression.

  Because it sure as hell ain’t happening now.

  I close the tabs just as a knock interrupts us, and Tilda pokes her head in.

  “Mr West,” she says pleasantly, “Dr Brown is here to see you.”

  He nods once, his lips pinching together briefly. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  She leaves, and I look at him again as he wraps up. “Are you feeling sick?” I ask casually.