The Intern: An MM Office Romance

by Akeroyd , Serena

  “It probably should. Ordinarily would. But that fucking mouth of yours...” His nostrils flared. “Those eyes...” He shook his head. “Somehow, when I opened that door to the dark room last night, I opened my personal version of Pandora’s box, and I can’t even be fucking mad about it.”

  “You unleashed all the known evils on the world, did you?”

  “My own personal demons more like.”

  “You’re definitely not living up to the charming reputation you’re supposed to have.”

  He wafted a hand. “That’s all press.”

  “I’d never know,” I said dryly, before my tone deepened, and I whispered, “You’re my first, Devlin. The first guy I’ve been with, the first guy I’ve kissed or sucked or fucked... whatever this is to you, whether it’s just sex or whatever, you could probably hurt me. I’d ask that you at least try not to.”

  My words triggered a darker scowl than before. “For God’s sake, I don’t want to hurt you. Not intentionally.”

  I snickered at his addition of the word ‘intentionally.’ “I suppose I should be thankful?”

  “Probably.” He cleared his throat. “This is just... Well, it’s normal, isn’t it? We’re two consenting adults. It’s only awkward because I’m not used to this.”

  “And because you’re my boss,” I pointed out.

  “That has nothing to do with it. I own the company, but Rhode is your boss.” He reached up and played with his bottom lip. “I scanned your emails. You do too much work.”

  “We’re really going to talk about that now? After you’ve just fed me a fine carbonara and a beautiful Merlot.”

  “You know your wines.” He arched a brow. “How?”

  “My dad used to collect it.” Before he’d become an alcoholic. “He was of the French persuasion. Watered it down and gave me some for special occasions. Taught me a lot of boring stuff about it as well.” I tipped my glass at him then swirled the ruby red liquid around the bottom of the domed bowl and raised it to the light where it gleamed like garnet. “Fruity, with grassy notes... It’s definitely a Merlot, and definitely from New Zealand. Probably Auckland.”

  “You may have just talked dirty to me,” he rasped, drawing my startled glance his way.

  I laughed. “Really? The way to your cock is through wine?”

  “And the way you handle the glass.”

  “It’s all in the wrist action,” I said wryly, batting away his comment with a soft smile.

  “What’s your favorite fruit?” he blurted out.

  I frowned a little. “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  Okaaaay.

  When I told him, he bit his lip and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” I asked warily.

  “For being useless at this. I just—” He scowled. “I wanted to see you again.”

  “That’s not something to be sorry about,” I told him gently. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “I guess. If you’re normal. But I’m not.”

  “Maybe I don’t like normal,” I told him softly.

  He licked his lips as he stared at mine, then quickly caught my eye. “Would you like to watch something on TV?”

  I blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Like what?”

  “I don’t care. I don’t watch TV.”

  Amused, I curled my lips inward. “Then why would you want to watch it?”

  His gaze was earnest, his words were too. “Because then I can put my arm around you and it won’t be odd.”

  It was stupid for my heart to go ‘thunk,’ stupid to want his arm around me. Devlin Astley wasn’t a wise prospect. He had heartache written all over him. Not just from the way he was so ill-at-ease on a simple date in his own kitchen, to the fact he was bi, to how, by the sounds of it, every sexual encounter he’d had had come with a transaction... None of that stopped me from getting to my feet, holding out my hand, tightening my fingers around his and letting him lead me to the sofa, though.

  Sometimes, in life, you had to make bad decisions along the way otherwise there’d be no fun, would there?

  What was it Shakespeare said?

  Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

  At least, when Devlin was done with me, I’d be better prepared for what was out there in the big pond that was the dating scene in New York. In the interim, I’d Netflix and chill with him. Any day of the damn week...

  Twelve

  Micah

  I was thirteen when I realized my reason for appreciating One Direction had nothing to do with their melodies but because Harry Styles was cute. That was the day that I recognized I was different from my parents.

  Different from all the other couples in church, from all the kids in Sunday School too.

  I realized that hell and brimstone were my fate if I didn’t stop my disgusting urges. Recognized that I could stop myself from falling into temptation if I really tried… it was hard work, but worth it.

  Until it stopped being worth it.

  Until the urges weren’t just a form of temptation, but agonizing to avoid.

  Until my desires were torture, my needs painful.

  I denied myself for so long that even when I freed myself from the closet, I was still halfway in there. That was probably why last night’s debacle didn’t have me running for the hills.

  It was also why I Google searched Devlin again.

  I was used to drooling over my crushes from afar, and while Devlin had been within my touch, he was as far from my grasp as Harry or Zac Efron were. Especially with him on the top floor of Astley Tower.

  “What would you say’s the hardest part of being a Brit in America?” asked a talk show host to a very cool and very calm Devlin.

  If I hadn’t seen him for myself last night, I’d never have believed that the two men were the same person. It was like that guy in the Men In Black movie, the good one. Where the cockroach had lived inside the dude’s skin.

  I mean, Devlin could never look like a cockroach, but talk about night and day.

  The YouTube video was paused as that annoying ad for Premium popped up, and I reverted my attention to the screen.

  Back-in-May Devlin was just as gorgeous as August-Devlin. He had eyes like burning embers—without the glow, the guy wasn’t a vampire—but they were rich and warm, and reminded me of Fall. Of the leaves scattering from the trees in the wind, of gray skies and nights in front of the fire. Fall, for me, wasn’t like that, not being a California native, but it was what I always dreamed of seeing, the changing of the seasons in Massachusetts.

  Well, Devlin was that.

  He was crazy good-looking with his rich, espresso brown hair that gleamed with dark auburn tones under the studio lights. His tanned skin that was prickled with stubble from his chin to his upper jaw—he had a killer five o’clock shadow—and lips that were severe when flattened, but were quick to quirk into a smile. At least, they had been on this talk show.

  Neither did he look constipated.

  So, what the hell had happened last night?

  I rubbed my bottom lip as I leaned on my desk, trying not to sigh over how handsome he was.

  His suits were impeccable, and I knew enough to recognize a good cut. I’d worn custom tailoring myself before I’d sold all my suits off to raise money for what I called my liberation.

  But Devlin’s suits surpassed the quality of mine. I saw hints of Savile Row, of tailors that had been around for hundreds of years in the exquisite lines that helped shape him into a man who was handsome into a walking God. One who owned everything he surveyed.

  Beneath the navy sports coat, the matching trousers clung to strong legs, and a white shirt lay flat against his torso, revealing abs you could bounce a coin on. He wore no tie, but the collar was open, and it made me wonder if he’d gone straight from the office to the talk show because there were lines of weariness around his eyes, even if he looked calm and at ease. Utterly unaffected at being the center of attention.


  With his legs crossed, one ankle propped on his knee, and his arms spread out along the back of the Chesterfield sofa he was sitting on, there was no denying his attraction.

  My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth as I stared at him, and that was through a screen. I could see his cock bulging from the way he sat, and the slight gaping of his shirt as the buttons stretched thanks to his position, made me wish I could slide my hand over his abs, unfasten those buttons and feast on the flesh beneath.

  Christ.

  I was getting an erection.

  Over a man I’d already fucked. But that man and the one from last night weren’t the same. And that was what confused the hell out of me.

  “The most difficult part of living in the States is asking for water.” With his accent, it came out sounding like the name—Walter.

  Devlin’s answer drew my attention, and my lips twitched as the host, one of the many Jimmies, tilted his head to the side. “Walter?” he mocked. “Why would you be asking for him, then?”

  Devlin’s grin was like a one-two punch to the dick. Only, without the agony afterward. Although my erection was definitely fucking painful.

  “Yeah, Walter,” he overenunciated. “I mean, every Brit knows a Walter. It’s Raleigh’s fault. Such a popular name. As popular as the potato.”

  Jimmy snorted. “I’ve heard that before but thought it was a joke.”

  “Trust me, it isn’t. I thought it was a joke until I almost died of dehydration at Burning Man twenty years ago.”

  “You?” Jimmy sputtered. “Went to Burning Man?”

  “I wasn’t born in a suit,” he retorted with a laugh. “Nor do I live in one permanently.”

  “You just use ‘nor’ to start sentences?” Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “Are you an alien? I mean, they say the Queen is really a reptile. You’ve met her, haven’t you? Is she?”

  “Well, she’s many things, but I highly doubt she’s a reptile—”

  The quick humor, the ability to take an insult or to bat away a potential ‘roast’ was a part of his charm. Something I’d seen time and time again on several videos like this one, where he was promoting something to do with the company. My only question was—where had that disappeared when he talked to me?

  The awkward meal had given way to us watching my show of choice—Brooklyn Nine Nine—but instead of us relaxing like I’d thought, he’d sat there as stiff as cardboard. It had been surreal and uncomfortable, though I’d admit I’d enjoyed his big screen and the comfort of his luxurious pad.

  A part of me had wondered if it was the Brit in him, but seeing him here, I didn’t think so.

  I almost wanted to pout, but the interview gave me hope because damn, I wanted to see him again. When we were fucking, everything went to the wind. It was like he forgot who he was, and that was the Devlin I wanted.

  He was so clearly discomfited by his sexuality that, there’d been points during last night’s dinner, where I’d wondered if I could deal with the way he was. It was why I’d asked if he just wanted to fuck. Better that than suffer through stretches of silence, or weird questions about how I took my soup before we’d dined on carbonara.

  I mean, how many ways were there to take soup?

  Hot? Tepid? Cold?

  Christ.

  Then he’d asked me about fruit. Fucking fruit!

  It was like one of those weird getting to know you sessions where you asked twenty random questions.

  The sound of brisk, tapping footsteps had me shutting down Chrome, before I cast a quick look over Cassandra’s way. She’d been in and out of the restroom more times than a Jack-in-the-box bounced. I was getting whiplash from how often she headed in there, but this time, it wasn’t Cassandra. She was just looking green around the edges over at her desk as Rachel, my friend, headed to my desk with a carton in her hands.

  I stared at it, then her, arching my brow as she moved right over toward me. Cassandra shot me a disapproving glare, but I ignored her. This was supposed to be my lunch break but, not only wasn’t there time to take off thirty minutes, I’d taken a quick five minutes to down a coffee and research the oddity that was my first.

  Hell, my first everything.

  Kiss. Fuck. Dark room lay. Blowjob—giving. Handjob—receiving.

  Just the thought made me bite the inside of my cheek. Better that than blush in front of Rachel who was worse than a barracuda scenting blood.

  “I have a gift for you,” she said in a singsong voice as she wiggled the carton in her hand. “Smells good, too.”

  Frowning at the box, I murmured, “I didn’t order anything.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” was her wry retort. “You think I bring takeout to every single employee on staff?” Her brow arched. “A PA of a PA of a PA of a PA asked me to take the order when it was delivered and bring it to you.” She leaned over. “Who’s got a crush on you?”

  “Didn’t you work it out from the chain of PAs?” I whispered back, smiling when she clucked her tongue irritably.

  “No. They didn’t give a name.” She pouted. “I just know it’s someone from a higher floor than this one. Maybe an executive?” Her eyes twinkled. “I always knew that pretty face of yours would catch someone’s eye up there.”

  “Because that’s exactly how I want to earn a position here. Bouncing my way around the executives?” I snorted as I started unpacking the carton, thinking that the only person who could have sent me this was Devlin.

  But... Why?

  I wouldn’t have thought he’d want to raise any attention to me, and even though it had been covered in a PA chain, it wouldn’t be that hard to figure it out. Like Rachel had said, it was someone from the executive level because only they had so many PAs.

  Rachel sniffed and murmured, “Smells like Pad Thai.”

  Nodding, I opened the carton wider and found an array of food that didn’t match at all.

  There was Pad Thai, then there was a Butterfinger, a can of coconut water, a carton cup that was hot to the touch and that revealed a vivid matcha when I tipped off the lid, then a small box of prepared fruit—all my favorites. Watermelon, mango, coconut, kiwi, and strawberries.

  He’d listened.

  He’d asked me all those questions on purpose last night, and they hadn’t been to cover up the silence. He’d wanted to know the answers. It was, I recognized, the first time someone had actually listened to me and acted on it.

  I was surrounded by people, both family and friends, old and new, who tended to refuse to hear what I was saying. Parents that couldn’t accept who I was, an ex-girlfriend who wouldn’t believe we weren’t getting back together when I finished my MBA, friends who dropped me because I couldn’t get them into the best clubs anymore.

  Only after I’d come out, had I realized how very alone I was. How very unheard.

  Just not now.

  He’d heard everything I said, down to the mango in the fruit salad and the matcha that, after I took a sip, was sweetened with Manuka honey.

  I gritted my teeth against the weird desire to cry, and instead, shoved my face into the Pad Thai.

  “Aren’t you going to share it?” Rachel demanded, pouting as I turned to look at her.

  It was easy to grin. “Nope.”

  When she huffed, then quickly leaned over and snapped up my Butterfinger, I didn’t chide her as she darted off, running like Usain Bolt across the Marketing floor.

  Cassandra tutted under her breath, but I ignored her, and returned my attention to my lunch.

  Even as I stuck my chopsticks into the noodles, I reached for my phone and tapped out:

  Me: Thank you for the food. I didn’t expect that.

  Devlin: You said you were going to be too busy to take a lunch break. What else was I supposed to do?

  Think that I could fend for myself?

  Somehow, his answer touched me all the more.

  Me: You have a good memory.

  Devlin: Like an elephant. I wasn’t sure if my peace offerin
g would be enough.

  Me: Enough for what?

  Devlin: Of an apology for last night.

  Finding myself wincing, I excused him. Me: It wasn’t that bad.

  Devlin: Wasn’t it? I’m surprised you want to text me again. I thought the conversation hit a particular low when I asked you about your soup preferences, but at least I’ll know what to feed you when you tell me you’re too busy for a lunch break again.

  Heart in my throat, I shoved a large portion of noodles into my mouth so I could focus on chewing and not getting emotional.

  Eventually, I wrote: Me: Meaning, there will be a next time?

  Devlin: That’s down to you. If you can forgive me for being a fucking idiot last night.

  Then, I thought of one question he hadn’t asked. Me: Maybe... How did you know I like coconut water?

  Devlin: You taste of it.

  Everything inside me clenched down at that. None of the parts that had been emotional either. This was all physical.

  Christ.

  Devlin: Is it any wonder I like the way you taste? I’ll keep you in a lifetime’s supply of the stuff if you’ll let me.

  I bit my lip. What was that supposed to mean?

  Wondering if he knew how many mixed signals he was tossing around, I thought about Devlin on that YouTube video, of his ease, of his casual assertiveness, of the way he dominated any scenario, then I thought about how he’d been last night.

  And I decided to give him a chance.

  Not just because he was so sexy he made my eyes cross, but for a man who remembered how I tasted, who thought about it enough to figure it out, who listened to my preference in fruit and soup, and who cared about my going hungry until dinner time... I’d be a fool to say no to another date, wouldn’t I?

  Thirteen

  Devlin

  Two days later

  “The evidence is purely circumstantial.”