by Sarina Bowen
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I give her hand a squeeze before I reluctantly let go. She picks up her drink and I eat in silence for a moment.
It’s hard to pinpoint when I stopped looking at Bec like a friend and started dreaming about her. It started sometime after the Juliet fiasco, when I couldn’t help but notice how Rebecca was always there in my life, making every day better. I started leaning in when we talked, and the scent of her perfume began to distract me. Her husky laugh made me hard.
I’d wake up in the night and realize I’d been dreaming of undressing her. My conscience always woke me up right before we did the deed. One minute we’d be skin to skin, my hands wandering her body. And then I’d wake up sweaty and aching. And feeling guilty about it.
Here sits a big cliché, ladies. I’m just another lonely nerd who’s hopelessly in lust with his assistant. Oldest story in the world. “Want a beer?” I offer.
“I wish. But I’m not supposed to drink. Or read. Or watch TV. Or put myself in the position of being jostled.”
“Those are all my favorite things!” I joke. Besides, I know just how I’d jostle Rebecca. With my cock.
Giving myself a mental slap, I get up and open the refrigerator, scanning the contents. Mrs. Gray has a little too much time on her hands. The beverages are practically alphabetized. “Orange juice? Soda? Seven different flavors of sparkling water?”
“Surprise me,” she says.
I choose a can of raspberry seltzer for her and a lager for myself. “Want to play…?” I hesitate. Ping-Pong won’t work for someone who frequently loses her balance. “Scrabble?” I suggest instead. “It’s not a screen. And you won’t be jostled.”
“But I will be soundly beaten by your big brain,” she points out. “We’d better keep the betting to a minimum.”
I grab a package of cookies out of the pantry. “We’ll wager these.”
“That works,” Becca says, giving me a smile that melts my insides. She just does it for me, with her big personality in that curvy little body.
I get a plate for the cookies, and we go upstairs to the den. And maybe it’s sad, but this is the most fun I’ve had in ages.
7
Rebecca
That first night at Nate’s I eat too many Oreos and lose tragically at Scrabble.
My score isn’t improved by playing the word “burp.” But I do it anyway, because I have a very juvenile sense of humor. “There should also be style points,” I say, as Nate records my score.
“For what?” Nate asks.
“Anything cheeky. Bodily functions. Expletives. Double points for anything R-rated. Think of the marketing potential! Teenaged boys would play Scrabble instead of Call of Duty.”
Nate snorts and begins laying down letters. “I was the teenaged Scrabble player who was always trying for palindromes.”
“We can’t all have a dirty mind.” Then I realize it feels weird to make that joke when I’m alone with Nate on the couch in his cozy den. Guilty, I glance over at him just to make sure he knows I’m kidding.
He’s not smiling, though. His eyes are dark and serious. And—maybe I really am losing my mind—there’s an unfamiliar heat in his gaze. A split second later we both realize we’ve locked gazes in a way that isn’t normal for us.
And I feel a tug in my belly—an unusual yearning that I can’t name. Or won’t name. Meanwhile, we’re having a new kind of conversation with our eyes. His are on my mouth. Maybe it’s my head injury talking, but I could swear Nate is considering kissing me.
Me.
“Nathan, sir?” a disembodied voice says suddenly.
Bingley’s interruption causes me to jump, and then Nate and I both look away at the same time.
“Ramesh would like to know if you’re in for the night.”
He clears his throat. “Absolutely. Engage all security systems.”
“Systems engaged,” Bingley replies.
There is a long beat of silence until I speak. “So, game five tomorrow? I’m dying. We have to advance so I can see another game before it’s over.”
“We’ll advance,” he says, rearranging his tiles. “You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you? So I don’t hit that triple word score with quixotic.” His words are as light as always. I must have imagined that we just had a weird moment there.
“Listen, bitch,” I tease. Then I reach for another Oreo. “Do your worst. I can take it.”
He chuckles. “Are you sure?”
“O, Geronimo! No minor ego.” It’s a palindrome.
Nate smiles at his wooden tiles as he gathers a few of them in the palm of his hand. He’s about to crush me like a bug. I can feel it. “Good to hear you making jokes over there, Bec.”
When he lifts his chin to smile at me again, whatever I thought I saw in his eyes is gone. He puts down a word that’s worth sixty points.
Half an hour later I yawn and concede the game. “I can’t believe I’m tired already. All I did this afternoon was sleep.”
“Good,” he says, sweeping the tiles up. “Do that again tomorrow, too.”
“I wish I was going to DC for hockey.” Just take me with you! I miss my job. I miss my life.
“You can’t come,” he says. “If you’re there, the guys will put you to work. They’re used to asking things of you, and you’re too efficient to say no. “
I frown because he’s right. “But I’m not sure how to pass the time. The no-reading thing is kind of tricky. And no screens? I feel cut off from everyone, and I’ve been really bored.”
“Hmm.” Nate says. “You can chat with Bingley.”
“At your service!” the gentleman’s voice says, his screen lighting up across the room. “What do we need, chaps?”
“Tell Rebecca a joke,” Nate prompts.
“Rightio! Why did the scarecrow get a promotion?” Bingley quips. “He was outstanding in his field.”
We both burst out laughing. Not because the joke was funny, but because it isn’t. And maybe we both need the laugh.
“Another one,” Nate demands.
“If life gives you melons, you’re probably dyslexic!”
“Jesus. The humor module needs some work,” Nate admits. “I’ll tell my programmers.”
“There’s a humor module?” I ask. But I guess there must be. “If only people could be taught to be funnier. Now there’s a real innovation.”
Nate snorts, which sets me off again.
“I hate Russian dolls,” Bingley says. “So full of themselves.”
I die. Actual tears are leaking from my eyes. “Time for b-bed,” I hiccup, and Nate just grins.
* * *
That first night I wonder if it will be hard to fall asleep in Nate’s house. After I tuck myself into the four-poster bed with the million-thread-count sheets, I can hear him moving around. Water rushes through prewar pipes in his bathroom, and footsteps pace across the grand old wooden floors.
“Lights out, Bingley,” he says from somewhere.
“Goodnight, sweet prince,” a voice answers.
“Hamlet? That’s a little dark.”
“Sorry, sir. Sleep with the angels. All security systems are engaged.”
A few minutes later, a lovely hush comes over the mansion. I picture Nate in bed with one report or another on his tablet, his reading glasses on his nose.
I lie back against the pillows, feeling cared for. It’s unfamiliar. And I drift asleep wondering how I got to be so lucky to work for the world’s best guy.
* * *
The next morning, by the time I manage to shower and pull myself together, Nate’s already left for the airport. It’s just as well. I would have begged to go with him to DC.
When I descend the stairs, Mrs. Gray is in the kitchen. And when she spots me, her smile is as wide as a kid’s on Christmas morning. “Rebecca! Did you sleep well? How do you like your eggs? Coffee?”
She is overjoyed to see me. I might not be the only one who’s a little lonely thes
e days. “I slept fine,” I told her. And it was true. “You really don’t have to cook for me.”
“Nice try, cutie. Eggs? There’s bacon.”
“Well, in that case…”
Two thousand calories later, Mrs. Gray accepts a delivery at the back door. “Ah!” she says, carrying the box inside. There’s a bow on it. “This is for you. Nate told me to expect it.”
Even though Nate isn’t here, I feel self-conscious tugging off the ribbon and opening the box. What I find inside is completely unexpected—a pair of those expensive noise-cancelling headphones. And there’s a note.
Rebecca—Please check your phone. You’ll see that it has updated overnight. There are two new apps. One is Bingley—so you can control your phone completely by voice. And the other is an audiobook app, where you will find two books downloaded and ready to go. Feel better. —N.
“Oh my God.” I click my phone to life and find the apps. The audiobooks—Pride and Prejudice and Outlander—are more than forty hours long in total. “This is because I complained about being bored.”
“Not anymore,” Mrs Gray chuckles. “Not with Jamie Fraser whispering in your ear. That wedding!” She makes a small gasp of approval. “Now off you go! Claire and that husband of hers bouncing the bed at the inn…” She sighs.
Mrs. Gray is really on top of her romantic pop culture. She refills my coffee cup and shoos me upstairs.
I go willingly, pushing play on the first book and reclining on that big sofa.
* * *
That night I’m alone in the mansion. The solitude is lovely. And I don’t feel as if I’ve spent the day alone, because the Outlander characters spoke to me for much of it.
But two hundred miles away, my hockey team is about to take the ice. And it kills me that I’m missing it. What’s more, I can’t find the remote control for the giant TV in Nate’s den.
“Bingley,” I say into the silence.
“Yes, miss?”
“How does a girl turn on that television? There must be a trick.”
“Nate has informed me that screens are against your best interests.”
“Seriously? He hid the remote.”
Bingley clicks his digital tongue. “Miss, there is no remote. I control the entertainment system.”
“Holy crap. You’re as pushy as Nate.”
“That’s because I am Nate. Nate’s mind. The deep learning he’s programmed is a very powerful thing.”
All the hair stands up on the back of my neck. I can’t believe I’m creeped out by a computer. But it’s like a British mash-up of my boss. I can almost hear Nate’s wheels turning.
Still, it’s hockey time. I will not give in to a machine. “Nate said I should ask you for anything I needed.”
“Absolutely.”
“Open the pod bay doors, Hal.”
“I’ve heard that joke before, miss.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “Bingley, I need you to play the Bruisers game. And I won’t look at the screen; I’ll just listen.”
“It’s a deal.”
The screen flickers to life immediately, and the channel counter in the corner advances as Bingley navigates to the game. A moment later, the roar of the DC crowd fills the room.
“There you are, dear one. Kindly seat yourself where the blue light cannot trouble your fair eyes.”
“Bingley, you’re a good man.” He isn’t a man at all, though. Which means I’m technically talking to myself. Or maybe I’m talking to Nate. Or an echo of Nate? Seriously, my head aches a little just trying to sort it out.
So I plop down on the sofa and lie back. “All right,” I say into the empty room. “Let the winning commence.”
Game five is a tense one. Nobody scores in the first period. But then DC puts in a goal just after the second period begins. And somehow the Bruisers quickly retaliate. The rest of the period is a slow grind, though. Apparently I’m not the only one who’s frustrated, either. The game gets chippy, and both teams start to rack up the penalty minutes.
I’m flopping around on the couch, trying not to look at the screen. But every time the crowd makes a noise of surprise, I want to peek. If not for my head injury, I’d be in Nate’s private box at the arena right now, having a glass of wine with Georgia, my bestie who is also the team publicist.
Instead, Lauren is there keeping Nate’s Diet Coke fresh and seeing the game live from a good seat. And scowling, probably.
“Life is so unfair,” I whine at Nate’s ornate paneled ceiling.
“Indeed,” Bingley agrees. “The hit on Trevi should have drawn a penalty. But Nate’s model shows we still have a sixty-seven percent chance of winning the game.”
I sit up. “It’s tied, Bingley. That means we both still have a fifty percent chance.”
“Not true. The model incorporates player stats in real time. And the Bruisers are dominating the puck control.”
I can’t believe I’m arguing with a machine. What I wouldn’t do for a glass of wine right now, dammit. There are less than three minutes left in the game.
“GOAL!” Bingley yells suddenly.
My eyes fly to the screen. I can’t help it. The lamp is lit, and O’Doul is celebrating. The camera cuts to Nate in the box, rubbing his hands together. There’s a smug little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t celebrate yet!” I shriek. “It’s too soon!”
“We now show a ninety-four-point-seven percent chance of winning,” Bingley adds.
“YOU shut up.”
He does. And for a second I wonder if I’ve hurt his feelings. Only he’s a machine.
I’m losing my mind, but the pain only lasts another three minutes. And then it’s really true—the Bruisers have advanced to round two.
“I have to get better,” I say over the announcer’s glee. “This sitting at home crap isn’t for me.”
Bingley doesn’t answer, and I’m weirdly disappointed.
“Hey, Bingley.”
“Yes, miss?”
“Can you give Nate a message for me?”
“Voice or text?”
“Uh, text. Tell him Rebecca sends her congratulations.”
“Certainly, my dear. Are we adding any emojis?”
“No, because we’re not twelve.”
“Noted.”
The TV screen goes dark a minute later, and I pop off the couch. “Good night, Bingley.”
“Good night, miss. Shall I wake you for your doctor’s appointment tomorrow?”
“Sure. Thanks!”
“It’s my pleasure. Nate has replied to your text. He reminds you to get some rest.”
Of course he does.
8
Two Years Earlier
Nate’s kingdom grows into an empire. Once again his castle has been upsized—he now owns the entire midtown office building. He has relocated his office again—into the penthouse C-suite. As one does.
Gone is the Ping-Pong table. Gone are the jeans and the sneakers at work. (Except on weekends.) These days our prince must dress the part. He wears a suit, even if he rarely puts on a tie. His office has floor-to-ceiling windows offering a sweeping view of the East River and Brooklyn.
Some things haven’t changed, though. He takes the ferry to work each day, just like any commuter, because sitting in traffic is for suckers. And he’s still among friends at work, although most of them are wearing suits, too.
But not Rebecca. When Nate peeks through his office blinds to see her at her desk, she always looks terrific and professional. But never boring. She favors vintage skirts or brightly colored dresses. She puts a unique stamp on everything she touches. And her smile still lights up the room.
It’s a bright Tuesday in March, and Nate has a meeting in exactly twelve minutes. He sips his excellent coffee and skims the technology headlines.
Meetings are the real drawback of being the head of a Fortune 500 company. Our liege can no longer always shut the door to his office and demand to be left alone. KTech is so big now that the imp
ortant decisions eat up about half of his workweek. These days, when he has a groundbreaking new idea, he has to delegate the fun parts of it to other people.
It’s a drag. It really is. But the paycheck is some comfort. With KTech phones for sale on six continents, the royal coffers now overfloweth with money. Nate owns an historic mansion in Brooklyn, two cars, and a private jet. He eats the best food that money can buy, and chooses wines without looking at the price tag.
“Nate.”
Rebecca’s soft voice makes him look up from the screen. “Yes?” She’s wearing a wrap dress today that hugs her curves. It’s green, and the color makes her eyes pop. Her hair is longer than it used to be, and during meetings he spends more time than is healthy wondering what the texture would feel like if he ran his fingers through it.
He feels bad for fantasizing about her. This began sometime after Juliet left, and a while after he had a long string of one-night stands trying to feel okay about the whole thing.
At some point the trysts stopped being interesting. Right around the same time he began to find himself meditating on the shape of Becca’s curves, and closing his eyes when she stood near him. A well-timed deep breath could summon her lilac scent, sending it deep into his lonely chest.
The sound of her voice occasionally gives him goosebumps. When she laughs, he feels it in his chest.
But now he realizes he’s zoned out while she was talking, and has no idea what she has said. “Sorry,” he sighed. “One more time?”
Becca rolls her pretty eyes. “The caller. On your line one. Someone from an NHL hockey team? It doesn’t sound like a call you’d want to take, but the man insisted…”
“Oh, shit.” He checks the time. “I did ask him to call today. Push back the next meeting for ten minutes, okay?”
She takes this in stride, disappearing from his office doorway without comment. A ten-minute delay is nothing. Becca has entertained heads of state during moments when he’s double-booked. She’d flown cross-country just to bring him a prototype component he needed, because he hadn’t trusted anyone lower-ranking. She’s even endured harassment at the grabby hands of one of his Asian distributors. And because she didn’t want to sour the business deal, she only told Nate about it after the fact.
