Beautiful Deep

by Jordyn White

  I check the time, cursing myself for feeling disappointed yet again.

  I got here just sixteen minutes ago and it’s already over.

  Chapter 9

  Rayce

  Today has been the longest day of my life. Usually, time flies when I’m at work. I love it here. I love everything about it, from overseeing meetings with our excellent management staff to analyzing cash flow projections. Business is in my blood, and when I stay too late or work too long, I never mind it.

  But today? The minutes are crawling toward six o’clock. Time is playing tricks on me. It feels like an hour goes by, but when I look at the time in the corner of my screen, I’m lucky if fifteen minutes have passed.

  Between the time I agreed to let Emma be my personal chef to when I saw her this morning, I came to two conclusions.

  One, I saw her before I knew she was an employee, and would have spoken to her if she hadn’t disappeared on me. That makes her fair game.

  Two, the fact that she is an employee is definitely a problem that needs to be solved. But there must be a solution, and I intend to find it. This is a temporary glitch. A momentary obstacle. I smooth out glitches and overcome obstacles all day long. I get paid handsomely to do it, too.

  This isn’t anything I can’t fix.

  So yes, I have a plan with Emma. And no, I won’t feel guilty about it.

  She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  The farther along I get on this path, the less I care that she’s an employee. I should care. I want to care. But even when I try to feel guilty, to make myself stop what I know I’m doing, I can’t get it to stick.

  Because if I thought I wanted to know more about this woman before, it’s even worse now. We had maybe five minutes together this morning, and what did she do? She drew me in even more. She moved through my kitchen with a graceful confidence I can’t describe. She smiled at me with such openness and not a trace of guile. And she’s so damned beautiful.

  She stood up to me, too. God, her spunk is attractive as hell. She’s not like other women I know, whose tactics are varying degrees of annoying. She doesn’t cower before me. She doesn’t pout and manipulate like a spoiled princess. She doesn’t try to lure me in with sexual prowess.

  She faces me like an equal.

  So, yes, six o’clock can’t come quickly enough. Because if there’s one thing I want from Emma Swanson, it’s more.

  Chapter 10

  Emma

  Even though dinner is at six, I start anticipating his return well before then. He said dinner was at six, but does that mean he comes home at six, or sooner? It’s not unreasonable to think he might come home at five, is it? Because that’s exactly when I start listening for the side door.

  Okay, 4:42, but no earlier, I swear.

  I’m at the gas stove in his gorgeous kitchen, using a top-of-the-line, eight-inch, All-Clad, stainless steel skillet for the first time. This is seriously nice cookware. The pork tenderloin filet is browning perfectly, sizzling and smelling divine.

  I’m in the house alone. Before Lilith left this morning, she gave me a sealed envelope with my name on the front. Inside were instructions to operate the security keypad, as well as a code that’s just for me.

  I find the way he’s handling things a little confusing. In some ways, he’s kept his distance. He didn’t answer the door, and left it to Lilith to give me instructions upon my arrival and a way to get back in before she left. But he also insisted I don’t wear a uniform and call him by his first name.

  Maybe he really does just want to feel comfortable in his own home? Maybe he doesn’t want to be served dinner by someone in uniform? I can understand that.

  Then there’s the whole thing about figuring out the menu. That would have given him the perfect excuse to talk to me, if that’s what he wanted to do. But instead he said, ‘Anything but spinach.’ If he really does intend to leave it up to me, that gives us nothing else to talk about.

  Did I imagine everything that happened in his office? I mean, what was it really? He didn’t overtly say much of anything.

  Well, other than asking me if I have a boyfriend. And he did say Pierce was an idiot to think I’m not his type. And that his being gay was no excuse.

  Maybe he was just trying to give me a compliment? Maybe I misinterpreted his looks, both in his office and in the parking garage?

  No. I turn off the heat and transfer the skillet directly into the preheated oven, shaking my head. No, I’m not doing this. That’s when I get into trouble, when I start questioning myself.

  Maybe Mr. Rayce Rivers has lost interest in his little employee, but I’m not going to convince myself he wasn’t looking at me like he wanted me, when I know he did.

  But if he’s already bored with the idea? Well, that’s great. I don’t want things any other way.

  I look at the clock on the sleek, black microwave. Twenty-one minutes to six. There’s a fluttering in my chest. Probably just... pre-performance jitters. Well, the only way around jitters is through them. I don’t even have to think about it. I focus on what needs to be done.

  While the tenderloin is baking, I assemble the salad and clean up so there’s no sign of my prep work. I go to the refrigerator and pull out the bowl of date and cilantro relish I made ahead of time and set it by the stove.

  I glance at the clock. Eight minutes to six. The pork only needs another minute, and still no sign of Rayce. Maybe he’s going to be late. He certainly has plenty to do down there. I come up with a plan in case I need to keep his dinner warm, ignoring the foolish disappointment I feel at the possibility he may not be on time. I continue with my preparations in case he does, in fact, walk through the door when he said he would.

  When the pork is ready, I pull it out of the oven and lay the meat on a wooden cutting board to rest. Meanwhile, I set his place at the end of the bar. He has a few sets of dishes, and I chose the one that best complements his meal.

  I’ve been debating whether to set things for him here or in the dining room, but one person in that large dining room seems so lonely. I don’t like the idea of him eating by himself anywhere, but at least the kitchen feels more cozy.

  I turn the heat on the drippings in the pan to warm them, and this is when I hear the door open at the end of the hall. Gripping the handle of the skillet, I look toward the opening to the hallway, holding my breath. The tapping of his dress shoes on the floor gets closer and closer.

  Breathe, Emma.

  I turn back to the stove before he comes into view. For a split second I lose track of what I was doing... then gratefully remember. I scoot the bowl closer, and pour the pan drippings over the relish.

  “Good evening, Emma.”

  I keep my back to him. “Good evening.” I don’t call him Mr. Rivers, or Rayce. If he notices, or cares, he doesn’t comment.

  I glance at the time. Two minutes until six. Perfect. I’m right on schedule. I give the relish a quick toss. “Dinner is about ready.”

  There’s some sort of shuffling at the bar, which draws my attention. He’s placed a briefcase on one of the stools and is hanging his jacket on the seat back.

  I don’t remember him leaving with a briefcase, but maybe it had been by the door to the garage or in his car. He didn’t have a briefcase when I saw him in the parking garage either.

  “Working tonight?”

  I regret it as soon as the words come out of my mouth. It’s not my business what he does. I don’t need to get familiar with him. Stay focused.

  I retrieve his plate from his place at the bar.

  He places his phone face up on the counter. “There’s always work to be done.” He doesn’t sound unhappy about it. If anything, he sounds like he’s looking forward to it.

  I wonder if he’s going to disappear like he did this morning, but he lingers, one hand casually resting on the counter as he watches me work. “What are we having?”

  Does he mean ‘we’ as in ‘he and I’? Or ‘we’ as in the royal ‘w
e’?

  “Seared tenderloin with date and cilantro relish.” I’ve laid the tenderloin on his plate and am drizzling the colorful relish down the center. “The relish has dates, cilantro, orange juice, and a bit of sliced cranberries.” I grab the salad and begin placing it on his plate with tongs.

  I tuck the dirty dishes and tools in the dishwasher as I finish with them. I gave this some thought ahead of time. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t disturbing him with clean up while he was trying to eat. By the time I’ve placed his plate back on the placemat, the kitchen is clean. Other than the wooden cutting board, which I’ll wash by hand, there’s no sign that I’ve been here.

  He’s still standing, but looking over his meal. My jitters return with abandon. What if he doesn’t like it? I purposely picked a meal that was a favorite for many of our clients. It’s usually a no-fail option. But still, we always have the menu discussion with clients first. Always. All he gave me was “no spinach.”

  Why couldn’t he have given me ten minutes to talk? About the menu, I mean. Now I get to wonder day after day if I’m giving him what he wants.

  He bends over slightly, getting a closer look. “This is beautiful, Emma. If it tastes as good as it looks, you could work in one of our kitchens.”

  His words swell inside my chest more than I’d like them to. He catches me smiling at his complement and rewards me with a smile of his own. That handsome smile does something it shouldn’t to my chest.

  Grateful for something to do, I take the cutting board to the sink and begin rinsing it off. “I already have more work for you than I can handle.”

  “It seems you’re handling things fine. It’s a shame there’s not enough for two. You should be able to enjoy the fruits of your labors.”

  My heart flutters at the idea of having dinner with him. It’s such a pretty image, the two of us sitting together, talking and enjoying a meal like we were on a date. Knowing this could never happen, and would be trouble if it did, I try to push the image from my mind.

  I’m having zero luck with this.

  “Well, as long as you eat it, I’ll be happy.” If I made something like this at home Aaron would never touch it.

  “I promise to eat every bite.”

  I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s taken his seat, in front of the only plate in the kitchen.

  I don’t like this. I don’t want to leave him to eat his dinner by himself. Maybe I should join him, just to keep him company. But that’s stupid. He lives alone. He eats alone all the time. I’m sure he doesn’t give it a second thought.

  That’s not really why you want to join him, anyway.

  God, why can’t I just keep my head screwed on straight?

  I tap the faucet off, snatch the dishtowel, and start forcefully drying the cutting board. I can pretend to myself that I don’t know why I’m irritated, but I do.

  I’ve been looking forward to seeing him all day, and here I am just seconds away from leaving. I’ve been wondering what would happen the next time we saw his other, and the answer is nothing. I made his dinner, and now I’m going home.

  It’s exactly how it should be. But I wish it weren’t.

  Because I’m a fucking moron. I still can’t believe I’m fantasizing about my boss again.

  Not that I exactly fantasized about Chad. It was different. Very different. I mean, Rayce still has sometimes seemed like a spider spinning a web. But the difference is, this time I want to get caught.

  Is it because there’s so much more to desire about this man?

  Or am I just hell-bent on self-destruction, and that’s what’s really drawing me in?

  As I’m putting the cutting board away, the clink of his silverware on the plate tells me he’s cutting into his meat. Preparing to take a bite.

  Jitters again. I really want him to like this.

  “Damn, Emma.”

  I turn, towel still in my hand. He’s nodding appreciatively, cutting off his next bite while still chewing.

  “You like it?” I didn’t mean to sound so vulnerable.

  He gives me a warm smile. This isn’t the sexy, devious smile I’ve seen before. This is open and friendly and reassuring. “It’s fantastic.”

  I smile back, bouncing on my toes slightly. I’ve always cared whether or not a client was happy with their meal, but I’ve never cared this much.

  “How long have you been cooking?” He takes another bite.

  “A little over a year.”

  His eyebrows raise. “Is that all? What were you doing before?”

  My heart thumps uncomfortably in my chest. Not because he asked, but because I almost told him. “I know you said you’re not picky, but I’d feel better if we could talk about menus. It’s kind of stressful to have to guess.”

  “Hmm. That makes sense.” He sets his fork and knife on the edge of his plate with a soft clink, and gets up from his chair, heading for the wine cooler beneath one end of the counter. “Have a seat. We can talk about it now. And don’t think I didn’t notice the subject change.”

  “Now?” Don’t sit down, Emma. Don’t you do it. “But you’re eating.”

  He pulls a bottle of red out of the cooler, then retrieves two long stemmed wine glasses hanging upside down from the rack above it.

  He starts to pour a glass. “Don’t you want me to eat?”

  “I don’t want to disturb your meal. No, none for me thanks.” I hold out my hand to stop him from pouring the second glass. He gives me a smirk like he knows I really do want that glass of wine, but doesn’t press.

  He’s sits back down and gestures with his fork that I’m to take a seat.

  Do. Not. Sit. Down.

  He begins to cut another bite.

  “Won’t you feel weird if I’m watching you eat?”

  “No. But if it helps you feel better, I could feed you bites from my fork. That way you’re eating, too.”

  Oh, he’s back to playing now, because he gives me a devilish look that makes my toes curl. “Now that’s exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t be saying!”

  He laughs. “Why not?”

  I cross my arms, thrown off guard by that laugh. It’s so light and free of malice. Not like Chad, who half the time seemed to be teasing and belittling me. Rayce is playing, having fun, full of confidence that I’m having fun, too.

  How does he know that?

  Still, we can’t keep doing... this. We need lines and can’t cross them. Well, he can’t cross them. I’m just doing my job.

  “You know why not.”

  He’s still chuckling, apparently realizing I’m not near as angry as I should be. His laugh is so warm and rumbly. It makes me want to squeeze him.

  I do want to sit with him. I don’t want him to be alone and I do want to sit with him and I don’t even care what we talk about. I want to ask him about his day and tell him about mine. Then I want him to pull me onto his lap and bring me into his arms and show me what it feel like to be attended to by Mr. Rayce Rivers.

  Jesus, how are we ever going to get through two weeks if he breaks down my walls so easily and I just let him?

  This is exactly what you want him to do.

  But what I want doesn’t matter. I need to stay strong.

  “I’m here to cook and serve your meals. That’s it.” I wanted to sound firm, but don’t think I pulled it off. If he tells me to sit down one more time, I know I will do it.

  Ask me.

  He’s unfazed, still in control. “Then we’ll talk menus in the morning. Does that suit you, Emma?”

  No, make me stay with you.

  Yes, let me out of here.

  I keep my arms tight in front of my chest and nod.

  “Good.”

  I don’t move. He sets down his silverware. He takes a sip of his wine, watching me over the rim of the glass.

  My breath shallows and my thighs clench. He has a bit of stubble on his jaw, just a hint of it, and I long to brush my fingertips over it.

  It would be so easy.
I know he wants it, too. All I have to do is give in.

  He puts down his glass and gets up slowly, his eyes still holding mine. My heart pounds and my skin tingles as he approaches. He stops just in front of me, close enough that I have to look up at him. Close enough that I smell the slightest hint of aftershave on his skin.

  I’m a whirlwind of thought and sensation. I crave the touch of his mouth against mine, and betray myself by licking my lips slightly.

  He notices me do this. I try to correct the mistake by pressing my lips together firmly, keeping my body in place. It’s only years of training my body to obey that keeps me from leaning into him like I want to.

  It’s unfair. If we had just talked at the art show, who he is wouldn’t matter. Who I am wouldn’t matter. I could’ve chased my desire for him in any direction.

  But would he have wanted me? Why didn’t he talk to me then, when he said he saw me? Why is he so interested now?

  My gut sinks a bit at this thought. Guys like forbidden fruit. That’s what Chad had said when I found out he was married.

  Those deep blue eyes are holding me in place, and there’s no question that Mr. Rayce Rivers wants me. But why does he want me? And why do I want him, after the hell I’ve been through?

  Yet.

  If he leaned down right now, what would I do?

  His eyes dart to my lips, but he doesn’t move. I’m barely breathing. I’m tortured wondering what he’s going to do next.

  When I speak, it’s almost a whisper. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  He nods slightly. “Eventually.”

  A little thrill skitters through me. I shake my head slowly. “You can’t.”

  That smile again. That smile that says he will do whatever damn thing he wants, and I’ll like it. I probably would, too.

  “You can’t,” I make myself say. “I work for you. That’s all.”

  I want to say, Don’t you know I’ve been down this path before? Don’t you know the only thing at the end of this road is heartbreak? Why do you have to be so sexy and charming and demanding and appealing?