by Jordyn White
“Just this once,” I say in a teasing voice. “You have to practice if you want to get better.”
“I’ll practice all day long for the things that matter,” she says grinning.
“Oh yeah?” I get her past the Goombas and hand the controller back. “What matters more than this?”
“Mmmm...” She doesn’t answer for a moment, then finally gives a half shrug. She’s concentrating on the screen and moving along better now. It could be she’s just wrapped up in the game, but I think she didn’t answer that question on purpose.
She’s a mystery, this one. She gets tight-lipped about certain things and I’m trying to figure out the pattern.
There’s something Emma’s not telling me. Funny thing is, there aren’t any red flags going up about it. I still feel the way I have since the moment I first saw her: intrigued and captivated. I want to know more about her. What’s her story?
She finally gets to the flagpole and I watch her face light up as Mario slides down the flag pole and goes into the castle. She plops back in satisfaction as the little fireworks go off. “I have to admit. That was fun.”
“I told you.”
She leans her head back against the couch and looks at me, smiling. God, I could do this with her forever. I couldn’t even say how long we’ve been down here.
“Your turn.”
“Go ahead. I can play anytime. Can I get you anything? More wine?”
She gives me the side eye. “Are you trying to get me drunk so you can break your promise and kiss me?”
I grin. I’m tempted to show her that I need no such assistance to get a willing kiss out of her, but I’m staying true to my word. “No. I’m trying to get you to relax so you’ll tell me more about yourself.”
“I’ve told you things about myself.”
“I mean without changing the subject.”
She sets the controller on the seat next to her and bites her bottom lip. She doesn’t admit it, but she doesn’t deny it either. “You don’t want me to go on and on.”
“Sure I do.”
She pulls her knees to her chest and turns toward me slightly, leaning against the back of the couch. “But why?”
Why? I mute the TV and turn toward her as well, resting my arm on the back. “Because you interest me, Emma. Ever since I saw you at the art show, I’ve wanted to get to know you.”
“Then why didn’t you come talk to me then? When it would have been...” She seems unwilling to finish her sentence. Suddenly she seems vulnerable. Worried.
I lightly brush the tip of my finger on her shoulder to nudge her. “What?”
“When it would’ve been okay.”
Ah. She thinks I didn’t approach her when I had the opportunity.
“I wanted to. I tried. But by the time I had the chance you were gone.”
She gives me a skeptical look.
“Really. I saw you across the room, then my brother cornered me with a potential client. By the time I got away, you were gone. I searched every floor looking for you.”
She chuckles, giving me a searching look. “Now I know you’re full of it. You don’t strike me as the kind of guy to search every floor for anybody.”
“I’m not.”
Our gaze locks, and her smile falls away. My body is throbbing with her presence. I want to brush my fingertips down her cheeks, run my fingers through her hair, pull her into my arms.
“You were standing at a table, alone, wearing a burgundy skirt and a silk top with a tie at the base.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“You were so calm and sure of yourself, in the middle of all those people.” So beautiful. Just like she is now. “I wish I would’ve gone over when I first saw you, but instead I just...” I shake my head slightly, my heart beating thickly in my chest. “...looked at you.”
Her lips part slightly, and her face softens with that look of longing and restraint I’m becoming so familiar with.
“I couldn’t look anywhere else.”
Chapter 16
Emma
I’m breathing shallowly, my heart thump thumping against my chest. I’m holding my knees close to my body, even though I want to unfold, open up, scoot closer and let him be right about the inevitable. But I don’t move.
I can’t keep the pleasure out of my voice though. How can I not be pleased at the idea of drawing the attention of this amazing man? “Really?”
He nods, and I believe him. Is that dangerous? Because I believe him. Oh, how I wish that night had gone differently. If only he’d come over sooner or I’d stayed longer, then we wouldn’t be in this situation.
“I thought sure I’d never see you again.” He smiles. “Now here you are, in my game room.”
“Yeah.” Thump, thump, thump. “But I shouldn’t be.” Dammit.
He doesn’t respond to that. We just keep looking at each other, and I am both glad and not glad that he made that promise about no kisses.
“I should go,” I say quietly.
He glances at the clock on the wall. I told myself, and Rayce, that I would only stay a few minutes down here. That was over an hour ago. Now I’m pushing right up against the time I have to leave to get Aaron from practice.
“Because you have to pick up your roommate, right?” He winks at me.
“I really do.” But I don’t move. “If I wait any longer, I’ll be late.”
Then he’ll ask questions.
“Well, we don’t want that.” He’s slow to get up, but he does it. He holds his hand out to me.
I look at his hand, so strong and inviting. I long to take it. But I dare not touch him. This is already hard enough.
“Thanks.” I stand up on my own.
He drops his hand easily, still looking so sure and confident. “Let me walk you out.” He retrieves his phone from the table, drops it in his pocket, and starts to take a step toward the stairs.
“No.” I raise my hand slightly and he stops.
Tell him this is as far as this goes. Tell him you’re not staying like this again or eating meals with him or doing anything other than being his employee. Tell him this just isn’t a line you’re going to cross, and to stop pushing things.
I don’t say any of that.
“I’ll let myself out.”
He doesn’t argue and I don’t say any of the things I should. I go up the carpeted stairs, cross the beautiful living room with windows darkened by the night, and head for the side door. It doesn’t feel like a fantasy house anymore. It feels more like a home, maybe because I’m getting to know better the man who lives in it.
I climb into Aaron’s little Hatchback, drive out of the luxurious neighborhood, and hurry across town. I am, in fact, late picking him up, and lie as to the reason why. I lie to Pierce about where I was all night.
I don’t feel as guilty about this as I should, and know it will hit me later when the high from my evening with Rayce wears off and I’m left with the reality of the situation.
I’ll straighten myself out tomorrow. Tonight I let my exhilaration linger.
The fantasy of Rayce Rivers feels too good to chase away just yet.
I was right. The guilt did kick in later. It’s Saturday, and I’ve spent all morning and afternoon oscillating between texting Mr. Rayce Rivers to say I quit, and counting down the minutes until I get to see him again.
Especially because this time when I arrive to cook dinner, he won’t be at work. He’ll be home.
Two words keep crashing around my head: inevitable and eventually.
But he made a promise, too, so there’s that.
I want to quit, but I need the money.
I want to see him, but I don’t want to make another mistake when I haven’t even recovered from the last one yet.
I finally devise a compromise. I can’t walk away from this job—I’ve started to scrounge through apartment listings and found a few I might be able to afford after paying Aaron back if I stick this out—but I don’t want to be the
re cooking dinner when he’s there, too. And I really shouldn’t eat with him again. I’d hate for him to eat alone, but... I shouldn’t.
I can’t accept that making the same damned mistake all over again is inevitable. I just can’t. Anyway, it’ll probably be different once we’re not in such close proximity all the time. Maybe once I’m back in banquet, I won’t really see him anymore.
My heart squeezes painfully at this thought.
I head to the store yet again for ingredients and fresh bread, and put together a lasagna in the nicest baking dish we have. It’ll be enough to feed him tomorrow night too, my night off, and all I’ll have to do is throw it in the oven when I get there and tell him to take it out when the timer dings.
In. Out.
I’ll barely see him.
Which is completely depressing.
Chapter 17
Emma
When I get to Rayce’s house, there’s no sign of him. I put the lasagna on the counter and the salad in the fridge, then turn on the oven to preheat.
The house is still. I cross the living room to the stairs leading to the basement, listening for video game sounds coming up from below. Nothing.
I walk lightly across the intricate foyer floor, and even go so far as to peek into the room across from the dining room. It’s an office, elegant and impressive and full of light from the front windows. But he’s not here either.
I’m not bold enough to explore different levels of the house, but as I head back into the living room, I notice the patio door is unlocked. He’s not in his backyard paradise, as far as I can tell, but decide to go out anyway. I’ve been in his basement. Surely he wouldn’t care if I took a look around his patio.
I step outside and am greeted by fresh sea air, calm blue sky, and sparkling ocean reaching back to the horizon. I can actually feel my blood pressure drop.
The patio furniture is topped with luxuriously thick, colorful cushions and I damn near sink into one of the lounges as if I owned the place. I don’t think he’d care. I really don’t. But I’m not crossing any more lines with him. No more.
I’m going to just stick this out so I can get my apartment money and see what happens when we’re not in each other’s path so much. One more week. I can do that.
As I circle around the side of the pristine pool, the sound of crashing waves far below the cliff’s edge drifts up in a soothing rhythm. When I get to the end of the massive patio, I see what I couldn’t before: stone steps leading down the cliff side. I can’t see how far down they go, and don’t have a chance to find out, because I hear footsteps coming up.
I hustle back into the house. Once I’m safely inside, I watch him ascend the steps and cross the patio. He’s clearly been working out.
He’s wearing black, athletic shorts and his white shirt clings to his muscular body in a V of sweat.
He hasn’t seen me, or at least I think he hasn’t, but I’m seeing plenty of him. He lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow, giving me a perfect view of tightly honed abs, firm pecs, tanned skin.
I can’t stop staring. And I thought he looked good in a suit. I just want to take a bite out of him.
I take several steps backwards as he comes in the house and spots me. I’m a flustered mess, trying to not look like I’ve been looking. “Ah.” His face lights up in a panty-melting smile. “I wondered when you’d get here.”
He grabs a towel that was sitting on one of the bar stools—a detail I’d missed earlier—then uses it to dry the dampness in his hair. His bicep flexes as he moves.
“What’s for dinner tonight?”
His shirt is still clinging to his amazing chest, and now I can smell him. That deep masculine scent of a man who’s just had a hard workout.
My thighs clench.
“Uh... Emma?”
My eyes snap to his. Oh shit. I’ve been staring at his chest. “Lasagna! It’s lasagna.”
He’s grinning. He’s on to me. Shit.
“There’s enough for you to have leftovers tomorrow.” My tongue feels awkward in my own mouth, like speaking is too much of a challenge after the sights I’ve just seen.
He’s giving me a knowing look.
Oh, please don’t comment on what an idiot I’m being. Let me out of this gracefully.
“I figured it’d be nice for you to have extra since I’m not here for dinner tomorrow. I mean, I’m not here to cook your dinner tomorrow. I mean, not eating with you. Cooking. For you.” He’s grinning at me in amusement. “I mean, I just I thought it would be nice.”
You said that already. Stop talking, Emma.
I clamp my mouth shut.
He chuckles. “My family is having dinner here tomorrow but that’ll be perfect for lunch. Thank you.” He turns and heads up the stairs, trotting lightly and giving me an even better view of his lithe body. “Actually...” he turns and I snap my gaze from his rear to his face. “Is it a full-sized pan of lasagna?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again.
“How about we save that for tomorrow’s dinner? It’s as close to a home-cooked meal my family will ever get in this house. And that will give me a chance to brag about your cooking.” He winks. “Tonight, we can order something in.”
“Uh...”
We? In?
He turns and continues on up the stairs.
“But...” I say weakly.
“I’m taking a quick shower. Be down in ten.”
I stare at the place he disappeared with a pounding heart. This is getting out of hand. And I’m definitely not imagining him naked in the shower with water running down his bare chest... along his tight abs... and... other parts. I’m really not.
Two voices quibble in my head.
Aaron was right. This was a big mistake. This is starting to feel inevitable.
I’m just looking. It’s fine. We haven’t even touched each other.
Yeah, but you want to.
Shut up, you.
By the time he gets downstairs from his shower, I’ve pulled myself together and am ready to be firm about not staying here for dinner. I think I am.
No, I definitely am.
I’m just finishing up a little note with cooking instructions for tomorrow when he comes down the stairs and into the kitchen.
For the record, Mr. Rayce Rivers looks good in everything. Suit? Check. Athletic clothes? Check. Casual slacks and a short-sleeved maroon polo that hugs his chest just the right amount? Double fucking check.
“The lasagna’s in the fridge,” I say in my most professional voice. “Heating instructions are here.” I tap on the note. “The salad should be fine for tomorrow but you may want to pick up some fresh bread. This loaf won’t be as good.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“No. It’s your dinner. You can do whatever you want to with it. But about dinner tonight—”
“I was thinking Guido’s. It’s been too long.”
I forget to say no, and instead ask, “What’s Guido’s?”
He raises a disbelieving brow. “What’s Guido’s? Only the best pizza place in Swan Pointe.” He pulls out his phone. “You’re about to discover pure pizza heaven.” He seems to be sending a text or something.
“But...”
He puts his phone on the counter with a satisfied grin. “Should be here in 45 minutes or so. You don’t mind waiting, do you?”
“Do they have an app or something?”
“No. Guido is an old family friend. All I have to do is text him the usual and he sets it up for me. Except this time I told him to make it a large.”
“But, I’m not—”
“You’re going to love it.”
I cross my arms and scowl at him since I know he won’t let me speak until he’s sure he’s getting his way.
He grins, yet again seeming to sense I’m not really upset. Which I totally should be.
He heads to the pantry and pulls out a bottle of olive oil and another of balsamic vinegar. “I do owe you
an apology, though.”
Now this gets my attention. I drop my arms. “An apology? For what?”
He retrieves two beautiful little dipping bowls and pours a bit of olive oil into each. “For not inviting you to dinner tomorrow.” He follows the olive oil with balsamic vinegar. “I would love to, but my family wouldn’t approve. I’m not supposed to be involved with employees.”
“We’re not involved.”
“If we’re not, we should be.”
“But you just said you’re not supposed to.”
He tears off a piece of fresh French bread and holds it out for me. “This is different. You can’t tell me this doesn’t feel right.”
I’ve never known someone to just put things out there like that, with complete confidence it will be received in kind. He’s not dancing around things at all either. He hasn’t from the first time we talked.
Maybe that’s because he’s used to seeing what he wants and getting it. I don’t know. But I like that he goes after what he wants. I even like that what he wants is me, if I’m honest with myself.
And maybe it does feel different, like he says. But no matter how this feels, it has to be wrong.
I glance at the bread, but don’t take it. “It shouldn’t feel any way. We’re not even dating yet.”
“Ah!” His eyebrows shoot up and he raises one finger in victory. “You said ‘yet’.”
My stomach drops. “No. No, no, no. That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It is not.”
He laughs. He sets the bread in front of me and scoots one of the bowls closer. “You’re so fucking adorable.”
My heart swoops up inside my chest, but I throw my hands up. Surviving a week of this is starting to feel impossible. “Is there no line you’re not willing to cross?”
He was getting ready to tear off a piece of French bread for himself, but he sets it back down and gives me a serious look.
“Yes, Emma. There are lines I’m not willing to cross. The ones that matter. But here’s the thing.” He faces me, leaning one strong arm on the counter and gesturing between us with his other hand. “There shouldn’t be a line between us. It’s a temporary obstacle, this boss employee thing. There’s a solution to this problem and I intend to find it because pretending that some arbitrary line matters in this situation...” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t.”
