The Intern: An MM Office Romance

by Akeroyd , Serena

  I snorted, then leaned back against the limo before saying, “I’d be terrible at my job if I didn’t, Kurt. It was all the PR department bitched about for months.”

  His smile was sheepish. “Sorry.”

  “Yes, you could have given us a head’s up.”

  “Not that feckin’ easy when the press decide to make your world implode. Wasnae like we had much say in it.” He sneered at me. “Thought ye’d have figured that out in yer current position.”

  I conceded that with a crinkle of my nose, then I tilted slightly when Micah’s head popped out from the doorway. He stared up at Kurt, then rasped, “Are you Kurt Jenner?”

  Kurt shot me a look, and because this was the most interested Micah had been in anything in weeks, I widened my eyes at him, dipping my chin in encouragement to make him speak.

  “I am,” was all Kurt said, the words awkward.

  “This is Micah Nygard,” I introduced, watching as Micah scrambled out of the back of the car. “That’s Kurt and his friend is Sawyer Bennett.”

  Micah’s gaze darted between both men, but his cheeks were flushed, bright pink with excitement.

  To say I felt relieved to behold that level of energy he’d been lacking since the attack, was an understatement. The relief was unreal, to the point where I allowed the limo to take more of my weight, because I hadn’t really known what to do with him.

  I’d resented how little time we’d had together before the attack, because it meant I was incapable of helping him through this. And the entire situation wasn’t aided by the fact that his parents hadn’t called even though news of his situation had to have hit the West Coast, and the friends who’d cast him aside since his coming out hadn’t bothered to get in touch either. Sadie and Rachel had visited a handful of times, but when he’d been sullen and quite unwelcoming, they hadn’t bothered to return even though I knew they wanted to. He’d just seemed uninterested in their presence.

  At those moments, his isolation had revealed itself to me. Most of it imposed upon him by the daring steps he’d taken to be free to live his life how he wanted. When I’d seen the toll of that, what had surprised me the most was that it didn’t make me shy away from things as I might have expected.

  There was no doubt in my mind that I’d stick with him through this—for as long as he let me. There was no doubt in my mind that, when I returned to the UK, he’d be coming with me. There was no doubt in my mind that, when I visited my family, he’d be there too. That I’d introduce him as what he was to me. I just hadn’t decided how to verbalize that yet.

  Mine felt a little too possessive. Especially in his current state.

  Boyfriend? What was I, fifteen?

  Partner? We hadn’t known each other long enough.

  See? Verbalizing was hard.

  Because Micah was evidently star struck, I left him to his gawping and prompted, “The running?” I knew Kurt well enough to know that he wasn’t a runner.

  “I had to get fit for the next book tour,” he said glumly, his cheeks still bright pink from exertion, but his breathing was calmer. “Sawyer’s helping me. When Sascha, she’s my... you know, well, when she had our twins, I had a—”

  “Sympathetic pregnancy,” Sawyer inserted dryly when Kurt hesitated.

  My lips twitched. “Really? I didn’t think that was a thing.”

  “It is. He got a gut and everything,” Sawyer said cheerfully. “The doctor said it’d disappear, only it didnae because most of that gut was feckin’ pretzels. The bastard went through ‘em faster than Sascha went through jelly beans.”

  Kurt glowered at him. “It wasn’t all pretzels.” His tone was harder, revealing his roots as his German accent was stronger now his irritation was bleeding through.

  “Just most of it,” Sawyer teased, smirking at Kurt’s disgruntled glower.

  “I didn’t realize your... wife was pregnant again. I’m sorry, I’d have sent flowers.”

  Kurt wafted a hand. “We kept it as quiet as we were able. You’ll have to visit some time. Come meet her. I think you’d like her.”

  “I’d like that,” I said, surprising myself by meaning it. Any woman who could take on two Nobel-prize winning mathematicians, a quantitative analyst, a criminologist, and an author was a woman I wanted to meet. “I can pop around—”

  Kurt shook his head. “She’s in Surrey. We have an estate there.”

  “Oh Christ, I remember.” My lips quirked. “You really have given the PR department enough work to keep them on their toes for a lifetime.”

  “I’m sure you’ve forgiven me though. Black Blood’s sales are through the roof, are they not?”

  “The movie deal certainly helped swing things,” I agreed. Then, I grinned. “Congrats on the Oscar nominations.”

  “Shut up, Devlin, Christ. He’s already git a big enough head as it is. He dinnae need ye fillin’ it wi’more shite.”

  “I don’t have a big head.” Kurt smirked. “For an Academy-Award nominated screenwriter…”

  Laughing when Sawyer scowled at me, I asked, “What are you doing in London?”

  “Meetings with the producers.” He pulled a face. “We won’t be here for long.”

  “Neither will we,” I said.

  “Just long enough for the story to have blown away?” Sawyer nodded. “Best way. The press are like feckin’ vermin. Cannae get rid ‘er the bastards, and there’s always a smell of shite lingering around after they’ve supposedly fecked off.” He grunted, then slapped Kurt on the shoulder. “Come on. We havnae finished.”

  Kurt scowled at him, then as Sawyer took off, to us, he muttered, “Wouldn’t think the bastard had been at death’s door last year, would you?” He rolled his eyes then shot Micah a smile before he ran about thirty yards down to their house.

  The Astleys had lived on York Crescent in Kensington since its construction. Though we were a duchy, back then, we hadn’t been as wealthy and had been unable to afford a mansion in the capital.

  Instead, we’d had to make do with a twenty-two room terraced house—yes, worthy of anyone’s pity.

  The Crescent was a pleasant enough estate, with only fourteen or so houses to the block. It looked onto a small, gated park which, if memory served, housed a duck pond. At least, it had the last time I’d been here. I didn’t often visit, as this was where my parents lived when they were in London.

  Staring up at my childhood home, I pulled a face at the bad memories of summers spent here, bitter arguments between my father and I over my bad behavior at school. All those arguments had, of course, culminated in my being tossed out for six months.

  Micah wasn’t the only son to have been exiled from his family.

  Pursing my lips at the thought, I turned to him, saw he was peering around as well.

  “You’re a fan of Kurt’s then?” I asked softly, not wanting to jolt him—he was quick to startle. Who the hell could blame him?

  “Yes. Ever since his early works.” He shook his head, a smile dancing on his lips. “I can’t believe I’m going to be staying next door to him.”

  A foreign desire hit me.

  One so startling, I raised my arm and just let it hover there, long enough for Micah to notice. For him to arch a brow at me.

  When I didn’t say anything, he sighed, shuffled toward me, and dipped down so my arm could settle on his shoulders.

  My gulp had him retorting, “I thought we’d got past this?”

  “I’ve just never wanted to hug someone before. Not in public.”

  He shook his head. “What do they do to you in boarding school?”

  “Nothing fun, I can assure you,” I muttered bitterly. “And that’s when you’re popular. It’s even worse if you’re a misfit.”

  “Which you weren’t. You’re too cool to be a misfit.”

  “How you can pick up on that when I act like a dork around you is beyond me,” I said dryly.

  “I consider myself blessed,” was his rueful reply. “But I’ve seen you with other
people. You’re charm itself. I can’t imagine you’ve changed much since.”

  My nose crinkled because he was right. “I suppose you really should take it as a compliment.”

  “I do,” he told me simply. “You don’t mess me around with bullshit anymore. That’s all charm is when it boils down to it. BS.”

  He wasn’t wrong.

  “At first, I thought you were weird, and now I still do, but I’d prefer you like this than to constantly have you licking my ass.”

  I snorted. “And there was me thinking you’d be into that.” It was the first innuendo we’d shared since his attack, so I wasn’t sure how he’d take it. A part of me waited with bated breath, but he just chuckled, turned into me, and after a second’s hesitation, leaned closer and pressed his lips to my jaw.

  “I definitely wouldn’t complain.”

  Because I knew why he’d hesitated, and everything inside me rejected it, I reached up, cupped his chin and held him in place as I bound our lips together.

  It felt so right, so fucking perfect to be in my home country, to stand outside the house that had been a source of a lot of misery throughout my life, and to feel, for the first time in England, happy.

  And that happiness was founded in Micah.

  Dangerous, to be sure, but better than the cold fish I was usually, no?

  As he parted his lips to let me in, a growl escaped me, clicking almost at the base of my throat as I tasted him for the first time in too long. I tipped my head to the side and allowed myself to explore him, to revel in his flavor because it might only have been three weeks, but it felt like a lifetime.

  His hand came up to cup the back of my head, and his fingers dug into my hair, tugging at the dark brown strands to the point of pain. When his hips jerked into me, I felt his erection, but that was when he pulled back, panting. His lips red, his face flushed, but his eyes were wild—and not with arousal.

  “It’s okay,” I hushed him, gently reaching up and pressing the tip of my finger to his bottom lip. “There’s no need to rush things.”

  The wildness faded some, not all of it disappearing but a good chunk of it. His breathing slowed, and the flush whispered away, as he gulped, “Why are you so patient with me?”

  My brows soared. “You’re asking me that? When you’re patient with me and the shit I do? Or don’t as the case may be.”

  He blinked. “That isn’t the same.”

  “Isn’t it?” I pursed my lips which were still tingling from the contact with his. I dropped my gaze to stare at them, feeling everything inside me clench down with regret that he wasn’t ready even as I totally accepted it.

  That was how I knew what I felt for Micah was different than anything I’d ever known before.

  I had patience. I had interest. It was twined together with want, strengthened with desire, but more importantly, there was—

  Christ.

  My heart was in on this, and there was no going back.

  I pushed my forehead against his, and whispered, “We’ll go at your pace, Micah. Always at your pace.”

  He swallowed. “I-It’s difficult.”

  “Of course it is. She took your arousal and used it against you.” I reached up and cupped the back of his neck, holding him to me. “We’ll get there.”

  His eyes fluttered to a close. “When you say that, I almost believe you.”

  “You should.” My mouth quirked up in a smirk. “I’m not in the habit of making promises I can’t keep.”

  “You didn’t make a promise,” he pointed out.

  I simply cocked a brow. “Didn’t I?”

  Twenty-Nine

  Micah

  The house was insane, mostly because it was so old. I had a feeling that it was furnished with items of furniture that hadn’t been moved in centuries, which was both cool and creepy at the same time.

  I couldn’t imagine never having to buy new things, just because you already had several lifetimes’ worth of furniture in storage. Generation after generation had stocked up on period pieces, making each room worth a small fortune.

  Money was something I’d been raised with, so it wasn’t the casual affluence that took me aback. Just the shocking disregard for history.

  Every room was full of it, and yet, it was treated cavalierly.

  We ate on dishes that had tiny brown creases in the porcelain, the gilt edges as rich as ever on, what appeared to be, a pristine Limoges collection. The utensils were heavy silver, and they were stamped with a hallmark that was beyond illegible, rubbed smooth over time and thousands of meals.

  We slept on a bed that had a canopy, which had sheltered only God knew how many Viscounts from the chill winter—because, even though it was early September, it was surprisingly cold here.

  Beside every fireplace, there was an antique guard. Even the utensils to stoke the fires and clear away the ashes appeared antique.

  The rugs were ancient, rich with color and patterns, that told me these were genuine Persian. Back when Persia had been a country.

  The windows had odd openings, ones Devlin had called a ‘sash.’ They were a bitch to open, a bitch to close, and every time, you almost lost your fingertips because once you managed to get it to move, gravity had them closing with a speed that’d make a guillotine appear slow.

  From the mugs we took coffee in, the armchairs that were stuffed with horse hair, and the walls that were so loaded down with paintings, I wasn’t sure if there was wallpaper or paint behind them, I was so overwhelmed with history that I was enchanted.

  I loved it here.

  Loved leaving the house to head to the small, gated garden. A fence made up of iron ‘spikes’ painted black surrounded it, and the key to get into it was as ancient as the crescent. Inside, there were benches and flowerbeds and a small pond, and I liked sitting out here in the late afternoon, just before it grew cold, after I’d gone for a run around equally ancient streets.

  Which was what I was doing now.

  I’d had no desire to go running in New York in the days that led to our flight, but here? I wanted to explore the area.

  There was an atmosphere I’d never experienced before, and it made me happy. Happy when, I felt like the past three weeks had been one long round of disconcerting worry.

  It seemed incredible to me that I’d only known Devlin for around five weeks now, that I was here because of a chance meeting that should never have led to this. But I was grateful.

  Whether I’d met Devlin or not, Rhode would always have attacked me, and in the aftermath, I’d have been alone.

  All alone.

  No one to care if I ate, if I felt like hell. No one to watch over me. To hold me as I slept.

  Things I’d never have expected from a man like him—one who couldn’t express his feelings, who was more at ease in sharing his emotions with his PA rather than the person he felt them for.

  I knew, instinctively, he was ill-at-ease with affection and public displays of it, yet, upon arriving here two days ago, he’d kissed me out on the street, in front of everyone. And he’d tried to hug me. He’d only stopped because, I knew, he wasn’t sure if that was something men did.

  Was it strange that I questioned that too?

  I’d thought nothing of hugging Chelsea, even if I hadn’t wanted to fuck her. Had thought nothing of pressing my head to her lap if we were sitting outside in the yard on a picnic blanket. We’d held hands, and she’d usually gone shopping at the mall with her fingers slipped into the back pocket of my jeans.

  Devlin and I did none of those things. I grew up in SoCal, so I knew men did stuff like that together when they were in a relationship, but I’d just never envisaged myself being able to do that.

  Hell, I’d never really seen myself in a relationship with a man. The thought had me wincing as I veered around a woman pushing a stroller who was arguing on the phone while slowly walking her kid.

  Being in a relationship was something I’d dreamed of, but it had been relegated to things I never t
hought would actually happen.

  And that was officially the title of this. A relationship. He cared about me. And I cared about him.

  He’d made countless sacrifices on my behalf. I knew his conscience was raw—that he felt that he’d facilitated Rhode’s attack, and maybe the company had. By letting her remain on the prowl, she’d had access to me, hadn’t she? But fired or not, it didn’t take a predator off the streets. Only the police could do that, and it was the justice system that had failed Robert Llewelyn, not Devlin.

  But that was the burden every sexual assault victim carried, and it was a burden I’d never have imagined carrying myself.

  Certainly not with a woman as my rapist.

  Would I have done as Robert had if Devlin hadn’t found me?

  He hadn’t gone for a rape kit, had just gone to HR to move departments. When they’d refused his request, he’d explained why, and they’d thrown the lack of proof, the lack of criminal charges against him. Hadn’t even started an investigation into it. He’d tried to go to the police, but too much time had passed so his bloodwork had come back clear, and when HR had told them their decision was final, he’d made a final decision too.

  That was a failing, but it wasn’t Devlin’s fault even if he acted as if every minute part of his company’s management was his to personally oversee.

  God, I should never have stopped running. This mad tangle of thoughts, the jumble of them, were only ever allowed to be freed when I ran. It was like letting poison spill free—truly liberating.

  As I rounded the corner that took me back to the Crescent, I headed for the house, not the gated garden. I didn’t want to sit there today, my back buried in green grass that scented different than the stuff back home—I wanted to see Devlin.

  I wanted to tell him he wasn’t to blame.

  I hadn’t done that, and I knew it had to be wearing on him. The crazy thing was that I didn’t blame him. Not even the part of my brain that housed any- and everything irrational laid the fault on him.

  He needed to know that.

  A sports’ car whizzed past, making me jump, even as I twisted around to see who was driving. Devlin said a soccer player lived around here, and that his parents often complained about the noise. Even though I didn’t follow English soccer, I was still curious—that Ferrari? One of my personal favorites.