Aiden lifted his hands surrender style. “Come on Bailey, let’s go annoy someone else.” He ushered her to one of the meeting rooms with a quick detour past his desk to pick up the Bitters file. When they were settled he said, “What are you thinking?”
“Not much until you brief me.” Her answer was out before she realised she’d misunderstood the question. From the way he looked at her, she knew he was casting a bigger net, fishing for what—feedback on the exchange with Roberta, or something more personal? But the moment was gone.
He said, “Right, of course,” dropping his eyes and opening the file, spinning it so it was right way around for Bailey to see. An hour later she was fully briefed and raring to go. She hoped he might throw out a baited line again and give her an opening to talk more generally, but he was all business. They agreed next steps and he was gone, chasing the next whale, leaving her feeling beached, her head swimming with mixed emotions about him.
They worked together for part of every day for the next two weeks, comfortable they’d meet the deadline to submit the proposal for the launch. It was more fun than Bailey had experienced in a long time, probably since working with Blake at Bellingen Hart. It was hard to admit that. Having her own business was meant to be what got her leaping out of bed in the morning, but working with Aiden was addictive. He had inspired ideas, he challenged her thinking, he made her laugh. He made her want to stand next to him and hold his hand for a whole other reason than feeling his pain. And that was hard to admit as well.
The flutter of excitement she’d felt when they’d first met was back, but this time it wasn’t the vicarious thrill of having the attention of an attractive man. This time it wasn’t sixteen and dreaming, shy and scheming irresponsibly about a colleague. This was a grown-up passion, fully developed, mature and sharp. This was wanting Aiden’s smile, craving his accidental touch, revelling in making him laugh, thrilling when his eyes followed her, flirting hard, damn the consequences and enjoying every minute of it.
This was making excuses to run into him and knowing he’d respond with pleasure to see her, turning everyday communication into a long running tease, and trying to have the last word. This was beginning every morning hoping he’d like her daily pic and ending every night wondering about him. She was gone on him, hopelessly fallen for him.
This was trouble.
It was secrets and lies, compromised professionalism and trampled personal principles. He was a colleague and he had a girlfriend, and she was an idiot who should’ve known better than to deliberately seek to mix business with pleasure.
Who cares!
There was no way to turn this infatuation off. No point trying. Once the job was over, she’d be back out on her own again and his attention would bounce to the next big thing, and she’d be forgotten, because she was under no illusion she meant anything to Aiden other than a good time at work.
Oh sure, he was playing the game as well. He was a look that created atmospheric pressure, he was the voice that made, ‘that could be better’, sound like the softest caress. He was lean over your shoulder so he could see easier and ‘let’s talk about it over lunch’.
But catch him when he wasn’t ready and you saw something different. And that’s how Bailey knew for Aiden this flirtation was just a game, and she needed to keep her guard up.
The first time she saw it was late one evening. She came back to Heed after being in a meeting with one of her own clients for part of the day and wanted to catch up. She didn’t expect anyone to be around. His was the only lamp burning, and in the moments before he was aware of her she saw this other Aiden, the one who was tired and worried, the one who was angry and in pain. It made her hesitate to approach him, but he’d looked up and composed himself, and she was stuck wanting to back away, but knowing that would be too odd.
They’d had a stilted conversation. She’d asked if everything was alright, a generic question when she’d been too hesitant to ask directly if he was ok. And wasn’t that like a sixteen year old. All ineffective action until there was a real chance of reaction, then it was all insecure, run and hide.
He’d rubbed his eyes and given her a bright answer that belied his tired gesture and made a liar out of him. It was like seeing backstage after a stage show and realising the pieces of the set that appeared to float magically were controlled by heavy machinery hidden by clever lighting.
She saw it again in a meeting with Blake and Dominic about half yearly results. Aiden was there, but as a ghost of his usual engaged self. He didn’t stay standing like he often did. He sat at the meeting table, but his attention was somewhere else completely. Twice Blake got into him about losing the thread of the conversation. The second time he waved Blake off, got up abruptly and left, though they were only midway through the discussion.
Blake said, “Bad date for him,” made a joke of it with Dominic, but Bailey guessed the date had nothing to do with a night out with his girlfriend, and everything to do with his private pain. He went missing for the rest of that day. Cara covered for him, but people were annoyed he’d stood them up or been unresponsive. And the next day, he’d made jokes about having a headache and wimping out. Apologising and working a doubly long day to make it up.
So she’d take it as it came.
Flirt with his magic and try not to fall any further under his spell, and remember that behind his smile there was something heavy and dark and best avoided.
30: Warm
“Aid, I’m freezing cold, I can’t think straight.”
He looked up to see Bailey huddled into herself, hunched over her laptop. It was after midnight, and they had hours to go before they could call it quits.
Those bastards at Bitters pulling that stunt with the deadline. Bringing it forward by two days, with no notice. He’d been inclined to tell them where they could stuff their new deadline, and their real life test of how well Heed could respond to sudden pressure. A place where the sun didn’t shine came to mind. But Bailey had worked so hard on it, coming up with such a unique concept it would be throwing away the genius of her work.
When he’d received the email about the deadline, she’d read it over his shoulder and given him a look that was determination wrapped around a kernel of irritation. She wanted this as badly as he did, no matter how shoddily they were being jerked around.
So here they were, freezing their butts off, the night before the deadline with hours to go before either of them could sleep.
“Can’t we turn the heat up?”
She shook her head. “It cuts out at 8pm—an energy saving thing.”
“In another half hour we’ll be ice blocks. We have to move.”
“Are you volunteering your house?”
That wasn’t a good idea. Bailey had been as far as his driveway, she’d seen him at his weakest and that was far enough. As long as he regarded her as work and nothing more he was able to get past his feelings and cope with spending time with her. He didn’t think he’d be able to keep the separate parts of himself going if she crossed his borders and made it thought his front door.
“Ah, no. My place is a mess.”
That used to be the truth. Now even the gardens were Don Bourke worthy. They could go to a hotel but that was a worse idea. Bailey was exactly the kind of girl he would’ve once spent all day talking to and all night thinking about, that’s if the all night hadn’t ended in a hotel where it wouldn’t be his thinking muscles that got exercised. He needed to be weaned off thoughts about Bailey and staying up all night with her in hastily procured hotel rooms. He could no sooner take Bailey to a hotel, and not want to forget about working than he could continue to sit where he was without his teeth starting to chatter.
“My place. It’s mess too, but I’m sure you’ll be a gentleman and pretend not to notice.”
“I’d say my eyes are sealed except I’m scared to blink in case they stay closed.” Her place, he could do her place, no derailing memories there. “Have you got anything to eat?”
“I specialise in out of use-by-date food. I’ll raid the kitchen here.”
Fifteen minutes later they’d packed up a picnic of leftovers from the fridge, both of their laptops and files and Aiden drove behind Bailey though the deserted city streets to her house. He imagined she had the heat up in her VW, thawing out. He expected to see her pink cheeked again when they regrouped. The problem was that wasn’t all he expected.
He’d started to expect a lot from her. He’d known she was talented; a quick thinker, a problem solver, so to have that proven wasn’t a surprise. What amazed him was how much fun she was to work with. She was quick-witted and good with a running joke, she was down with the details but good with the big picture. When he’d wanted to piss Bitters off, she’d taken it in her stride and then stiffened his spine. She was like bamboo. Incredibly flexible and reliably strong, growing like a weed you couldn’t kill no matter how hard you tried.
And yet she was hurting. She tried to hide it, the way she dragged her leg, had trouble sometimes transitioning from sitting to standing. If it was an old wound, it was making itself new again and the harder they’d had to work the more it was showing up. She didn’t deny it, it was too obvious now. But she laughed it off, reading him cranky text messages from her therapist Doug, and making jokes about waddling like a penguin.
He wished he had some superpower where he could hold her and take the hurt away. And he was tortured by the idea that while he was out of superhero prowess, she possessed it in abundance. There were times when she stood close and he could smell her perfume, or brushed against him and he felt her warmth, when he thought if she’d only hug him long enough she might heal the crack inside him.
She’s seen that crack all too well. Spilling out, roaring out. Bailey knew he wasn’t only Mr Happy, or Mr Mean. He was the much less loved character of Mr Split Personality, characterised by his special ability to show the world his better nature while dying inside. He’d tried to keep it from her. Bad enough Blake and Olivia knew his inner workings. But Bailey had those clear sighted eyes that could see behind the mask, and no matter how he’d tried to shelter her, she’d felt the sting.
She’d caught him one night, late in the office, consumed with grief, blasted from out of nowhere because it was Shannon’s birthday. She’d asked him if everything was alright and he’d been rude to her so she wouldn’t see he was too scared to go home in case he went mad with the misery of it.
That’s why she’d kissed him. Shocked the hell out of him and kissed him, in her car, in his driveway that night. She’d pitied him and he hadn’t given her any reason to forget that. Just more reasons to know he was splintered.
She was fumbling with the gas heater in her living room when he got to the front door. The trip home appeared to have revived her. She bustled about moving chairs and creating a workspace, then went to the kitchen to sort out snacks while he set up their equipment.
He hadn’t had the grand tour, but from what he could see of the living room, kitchen and bathroom, her house was old, comfortable and uniquely Bailey. There was colour everywhere, bright blues and vibrant reds, cheeky clashing oranges and mushy pinks in the rugs, window and furniture fabrics, and the artwork she had on her walls. It was like being at a riotous carnival compared to the subtle beige peace Shannon had designed for their home. It felt right that Bailey should be mistress of this colourful chaos. It made him smile.
It was hours later when he glanced at her over the lid of his laptop. Their deadline was 8am and pending disaster they’d make it. She looked exhausted, head resting on her hand, elbow propped on the wooden dining table. It was 3am and it occurred to him she might be done with her part and trying to stay awake for him.
“Hey Miss Sleepy, are you done?”
She yawned. “Almost. I’ve set up the rest of the content on Bitters’ proposal submission website. We need to add your pieces and we’re ready to send it off.” She yawned again and he followed her into one of his own. He’d forgotten about that part of the submission process. If he left, he’d have to set it up all over again. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t go to bed.
“I don’t know how you’re still functioning, Aid. How are you thinking straight to write copy?”
“I don’t know that it’s good copy, but it will have to do for now. If we win this we can re-submit the detailed pieces.”
“We’re going to win this.”
“Love your optimism, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid, pops.”
Half an hour later, she said, “I’m done. I’ll wait for you, then we can send it off.”
“I need another—not sure—I’m not quite there.” He looked up, Bailey was weaving on her feet. “Why don’t you go lie down, sleep? Leave your laptop on and I’ll finish up, attach my documents and send it off. I’ll see myself out.”
“No, no. I’ll wait with you.”
“Bails.”
“You sound like Blake when you say it like that. Like I’m being naughty and should do what I’m told if I know what’s good for me.”
“Sorry.”
She yawed. “I should shut up and let you finish.”
He rolled his head forward, groaning slightly from the tightness accumulated from hours and hours at the keyboard. When he looked up again, Bailey had shifted behind him. She put her thumbs against the column of his neck and pressed hard. It hurt. It felt fantastic.
“Wow, that’s good. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Doug.”
“Go Doug. That’s amazing, just oh, yeah oh, right there.”
She laughed. It was a throaty, sexy grind that shot straight to his core and ramped the temperature in the room to way above safe.
“Ah, that’s so good, but any more of it and you’ll put me to sleep, then we’ll be in trouble.” It wasn’t sleep he was in danger of, but what she was doing was trouble.
She was leaning close now, reading over his shoulder. He could smell the faint trace of her perfume and that was trouble too. “The copy—it’s good.”
“You think. I can’t judge anymore.”
“It’s clever, Aid. You really are clever you know.”
“Well shucks.”
“Sorry, I’m stopping you from working.”
She stilled her hands and he missed them before she took them away. “Please go lay down.”
“Only if you lay down too when you’ve finished. You’re done in.”
That wasn’t smart. He needed to go home, but her couch did look like a lumpy blue heaven. “Yeah, if I need to I’ll crash on your couch, if that’s ok?”
“Ah-huh,” she yawned again. “Yell if you need me. If you want to go, switch the gas off and let yourself out. I’ll see you later tomorrow.”
She turned to leave the room and insanely after wanting her to sleep; he didn’t want her to go. “Bailey, I couldn’t have done this without you.” It was the truth and it made her look at him again, and better still, smile.
Her hair had tumbled out of its neat knot, random strands tickling her neck. There were dark circles under her eyes and her skin was pallid. She wore an ugly baggy brown cardigan over her rumpled clothes, her collar was sticking up funny and she’d swapped shoes for Ugg boots. She looked every bit like she’d slugged through a nineteen hour day.
She was utterly gorgeous.
She yawned a goodnight and left him with the lick of the fireplace for solace.
An hour later, the copy was as good as he could get it, and he was ready to submit their proposal. But Bailey’s laptop had timed out, its password protection screen blinked offensively at him. He’d forgotten it would do that. He’d have to wake her.
Her bedroom door was ajar and she’d left a small beside table lamp on. He hated to do this; at least he could do it gently. He peered around the door. She was snuggled under a warm quilt; her hair tumbled over the pillow. She really was a beautiful woman. Why the hell was she alone? It was such a shame to wake her. She’d surprised him with that massage. Sin
ce the night with David Millar when she’d held his hand, they’d flirted with physical contact, the occasional touch to a clothed shoulder or arm, but nothing to set tongues flapping, nothing he’d construed as anything other than collegiality.
Now that he could think about it without the deadline hanging over his head, he recognised Bailey’s massage as the first time a woman had touched him with his comfort in mind since Shannon. Olivia’s hugs were about grief and memory and Willow didn’t count. Her touches were tentative, inconsequential. Willow was all about wanting him touching her. He’d liked Bailey’s touch far more than he should have, not just because it was expert, but because it was personal. It reawakened the roar of desire for her.
The realisation brought him to his knees on her polished wood floor.
He propped himself up against her wardrobe and watched her sleep. He really did have to wake her, but for the moment he needed to collect his thoughts. What did their weeks of bantering and seeking each other out at work mean? What did it mean that the idea of coming to her house excited him? Why did he want to sit here and watch her sleep? She’d never been only the work. That was what he’d told himself to keep functioning. Did it mean he was better, less depressed?
No. It was more than that—and it rocked his world. He wanted to kiss her, seriously, deeply as a prelude to everything else. But she was Bailey and she was a colleague, and he had Willow for exercising that kind of purely physical want. And all of it was bound up with missing Shannon, in a way that could catch him off guard and make breathing hard. If he thought about Shannon now, he’d be undone.
He crawled over to the edge of Bailey’s double bed. “Bailey. Bailey, can you wake up?”
She came awake with a start, her blue eyes flashing open and staring at him. “Aid, what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I need your password.”
“Oh,” she smiled sleepily, “White Balance, one word. Cap W and the number one in place of the i.”
White Balance Page 21
