by Ivy Carter
The pay is good enough to cover Robert’s out-of-pocket therapy, since my insurance won’t cover him and his unemployment doesn’t cover enough, so I can’t complain. Not to mention this job is in my dream industry, business interior décor and renovation. Since I started at Rossi Design six months ago, I’ve been on my best behavior, quietly soaking up everything I can.
“I’ll be home soon,” I promise my brother, who responds with a disappointed huff.
“Sure. Yeah, fine.”
Maybe I can approach Dane just this once and ask to leave early, with a promise to not make this a habit. I’ve been good about his wishes so far. I can hear an undertone in Robert’s voice that makes my stomach flip over itself. He’s been so cheery lately, more like his old self. I don’t want him to sink back into that darkness. It took me weeks to pull him out of it last time.
I force my tone to sound upbeat. “Hey, I’ll bring takeout home with me, too. What do you want?”
“Not hungry.”
I bite my lower lip to fight off the wave of frustration and draw in a slow breath through my nostrils. His doctor warned me about these mood swings, and I just need to ride it through. I have to be patient. He’ll come out of it, eventually. Me getting snippy about his sullenness will only make it worse. “Gimme five minutes, and I’ll head home. And I’m bringing pizza, no argument. You have to eat. Besides, you promised we’d watch our show tonight. You can’t bail on me.”
His voice takes on a bit lighter of a tone, though grudgingly. “Well, yeah, I did remember to DVR it for you. Looks like a good one tonight.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” Between work and grad school and studying, I rarely watch TV anymore. But I make an effort to watch recorded shows with Robert when I can. “Okay, I’m gonna go. I’ll see you soon. Get your appetite up, because I’m bringing home the biggest pizza I can find. I’m betting I can eat more slices than you can.”
That earns a laugh from my brother. “Guess I have to defend my title. Fine. You’re on.”
Some of the pressure in my chest eases, and I can breathe smoothly once more.
We hang up, and I cram my phone in my pants pocket. I draw in another breath to steady myself. I’ve been a dedicated employee since I started. Surely this one time will be okay, right? I’ve worked hard to keep my personal life and work life separate, so no one knows about Robert’s condition. God knows he doesn’t want the pity, and I don’t either. But it’s my responsibility to take care of him, and life is about more than just work. My brother needs me.
I gather my stuff, toss on my coat, and knock on Dane’s door, my excuse right on the tip of my tongue.
No answer to my knock.
Did he leave already? The light is still on, but maybe he forgot to shut it off. Or maybe he left when I was in the bathroom.
Dane’s usually good about telling me good-bye when he goes, but it’s possible our paths didn’t cross. Perhaps he’s gone already and I can just leave. Before I can talk myself out of it, I head to the elevators and press the button, sliding into my coat. After a moment, the doors ding open, and I step in, wrap my scarf around my neck.
I’ll send him an email as soon as I get home, explaining I had to go. And if Dane gives me any shit about taking off, well, I’ll just tell him I thought he’s already left, since I knocked on his door and he didn’t answer. Let him argue with me about that. I ignore the sick swirl in my stomach and tell myself it will be fine. He’s a reasonable man, and I had nothing left to do, anyway. Why would he want to pay me for sitting around?
I stroll through the empty parking lot, bathed in a golden glow of overhead lights, hop in my small sedan, and shiver. The air’s getting that October bite in it that warns a cold New England winter is on its way. My breath puffs out in front of my face as I crank the engine on and turn up the heat.
Then I pull out of the parking lot and head home.
“I saw online what happens at the end of the episode. Just you wait,” my brother says with a smug smile as he digs himself deeper into the corner of our worn gray couch. With his right hand, he folds another slice of pizza and chows down.
I flip through the DVR menu options and select the show. The screen changes as a commercial about bathroom cleaner comes on.
“Don’t you dare spoil this for me,” I say with narrowed eyes and mock consternation, taking a massive bite of cheesy pizza. “You’re the worst for that.” Still, I’m glad to see his funk didn’t last long and seems to be ebbing fast. Maybe it was just a mild, temporary flare-up. It makes me feel better about following my gut and coming home, though.
Before I can forget, I grab my phone and send Dane a quick email explaining what time I left. I use the excuse that I thought he might have left for the day too, and then apologize profusely just to cover my backside. I tell him I’ll be in extra early tomorrow and will make up any time he feels I need to, then sign off and send.
I drop my phone on the end table and curl my feet up in our big comfy chair, which has to be a good ten years old now. Our apartment isn’t filled with expensive things, but it’s warm and it’s home. Our mom made the quilted green-and-blue blanket on my lap before she died a few years ago. A real family heirloom, one I treasure. It’s soft and worn, the last project she did to distract her during a brutal round of chemo.
My brother cringes and puts his pizza slice on his plate, rubbing the stump of his left arm, which was removed just below the elbow.
“You okay?” I toss the blanket aside and jump up. “Need some pain meds? I can grab—”
“It’s fine,” he says with a groan as he rubs the knotted, scarred flesh. “I took some ibuprofen before you got home. It just takes a little more time to kick in.”
I frown, but settle down into the chair.
The show comes back on after another minute, and my mind wanders as I think about all the things I need to do tomorrow. I should make a list—I gotta start my paper, plus go to the grocery store and pick up stuff for dinner for the rest of the week. Plus there are the bills I haven’t paid yet, and the tires on the car seem to be a bit low…
I reach for my purse by the side of the chair to get out a pen and paper. Then I pause, hand stuck in the middle part of the purse.
Where is my journal?
I open the large handbag and peer inside, my stomach squeezed in a tight knot of anxiety. Oh God, I didn’t. I didn’t leave it at work. No, I couldn’t have.
My throat closes.
Yup, I did.
Shit. Shit.
With stiff limbs, I put my purse down and stare blindly at the TV, not wanting my brother to see my worry. I can’t believe I did that. How stupid could I be?
Maybe Dane won’t see it. Or if he does, maybe he’s a gentleman and won’t look inside. Surely he would respect my privacy, right?
Plus, there’s still the chance he left before I did, and if I get in early enough tomorrow, I can reclaim my journal before anyone knows about its existence.
Part of me is tempted to drive all the way back just to get it, but I convince myself to stay put. It’s just after nine PM. There’s no way he’s still in the office—since I’ve started working for him, we’ve never been there that late, as he often opts to take work home with him and finish up there. I’m being paranoid. Besides, my building pass won’t work to let me back in after six PM, so I can’t sneak in anyway.
The die has been cast, and I just have to hope that everything’s safe.
That night in bed, I lie awake for hours until sleep’s seductive pull finally tugs me under. The last thing I imagine is Dane’s face, disgust and disappointment deep in his eyes over what he read in my journal. Right before he fires me from my job.
Dane
“Emme,” I holler as I carry a filled-to-the-brim mug of plain black coffee, turning the corner to head back to my office. “Will you bring the specs for the Sanderson remodel?” I blink when I see her desk is empty.
Did she leave? I didn’t tell her she could go.
My dress shoes clack across the tiled floor as I stop in front of her tidy work area. The lamp is still on, and there’s a red, leather bound book sitting on a stack of papers. I push it aside and see the Sanderson paperwork right on top. My mug of coffee is put down so I can scoop up the papers.
My eyes are drawn back to that red book. What is it? Did she leave some of her homework behind? I flip it open to a random page.
walked in yesterday wearing a pair of black pants that molded to his ass…and huge package. I couldn’t stop staring at him. I thought he busted me in the afternoon looking at his crotch when he got up from his desk, but I don’t think he did. Close call, whew!
I blink in surprise, pausing. Is this…a diary? Innocent, sweet-faced Emme Williams, writing about checking out some guy’s dick? Something about the shock of that realization makes my own dick stir, even as my stomach gives an uneasy surge.
I should stop. This isn’t any of my business, and clearly it’s personal. Some niggling part of my conscience pokes at me, tells me I should walk away and pretend I never saw this diary.
But ignoring things didn’t get me where I am now.
Plus, she left it on her desk, where anyone could pick it up and look inside. Who’s the guy she’s talking about? Someone at school? Could very well be…or a coworker here.
A mental image of her hunching over the journal, writing about some asshole in the office, soft brown curls falling over her brow as she tucks a strand behind her ear with her slender fingers, makes my chest tight. I shouldn’t care that she has a crush on someone. She’s my assistant, for fuck’s sake. She’s barely twenty-five, still in grad school, quiet and polite, practically fresh off the farm. Totally not my type.
None of that keeps me from grabbing the journal and adding it to the top of the Sanderson paperwork. I tell my conscience to shut the hell up and slam my office door behind me.
I manage to focus on my work for another good half hour, but the red journal keeps drawing my attention. All her secrets, right there and ripe for the plucking.
What do I know about Emme, other than she’s a hard worker? She’s in grad school for business administration after getting a Bachelor’s in interior design. She’s small and curvy, with a mess of brown hair that never seems to stay restrained. Her lips quirk in one corner, and she has deep dimples. She’s quiet but her eyes convey thoughtfulness, and I can tell she’s a quick learner.
And she’s spilled her guts in a book I can’t stop myself from reaching over to grab.
After a furtive glance at my office door, I open the diary and start to read.
A half hour later, my dick is so hard it’s screaming to be released from my pants. The blood is roaring in my veins, and my heart won’t stop racing. Holy fuck, the dirty shit Emme’s written about me…who knew? Who knew that quiet young girl has such intense fantasies?
Has anyone ever expressed such brutal, gut-wrenchingly honest feelings about me in their entire life? Sure as fuck not my ex-wife, or any of these women I date on and off. They’re always far too restrained, always so careful not to give their real selves away, not to drop their guard. No one pierces the façade; no vulnerabilities leak through.
Sounds familiar. Sounds like my people. We are smooth and polished and charming. Something I always praised myself on.
But not Emme. She bleeds her heart right on the page, no fears, no shame. Just raw emotion, right there in the smooth curves of her inked lines.
I’ve learned more about Emme and her life in these pages than I’ve bothered to learn about any other woman in ages. And the sudden numerous realizations about myself and the many flaws in my character humble me.
Bring a fresh stab of guilt.
Of course, a small part of me wonders if she left this on purpose for me to find. Perhaps this diary is a message to me, or whatever. But I don’t think so; it’s too illogical for her to do so. If she is sending me a message, I don’t believe she’d leave it out for anyone in the office to stumble upon. Not to mention the HR complications that come from her sharing such intense, sexual thoughts with her boss. She wouldn’t risk her job this way—I know that much.
Yeah, I really shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have invaded her privacy like this. Hell, I never even allowed myself to think about her like that—like…a flesh-and-blood woman. Anything other than just an employee. The office is not a place for fooling around; you don’t shit where you eat. After growing up and watching my dad stick his dick in more secretaries than I can count, I took that motto to heart.
And I’ve never been more tempted to break it than I am right now.
My gaze goes to a recent entry as I reread it, let the words soak in.
My fingers just can’t seem to satisfy me the way I need to be satisfied. It doesn’t help that when I’m at work and I see Dane’s hands, I pretend he follows me to the bathroom and locks us in a stall and shoves his hands in my panties while I bite his shoulder to stay quiet. And he makes me come and come all over his fingers, and then licks them clean.
Am I crazy or weird for wanting him so much?
The thing is…this isn’t even just physical. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s so hot. But he’s so damn smart too, and I find that just as sexy as his looks. He’s well-read and interesting, plus he has an intuitive sense of design that is flawless. Everyone wants to be the center of his attention, the object of his praise. Who can blame them? When those eyes focus on you, you’re swallowed whole by his intensity and intelligence.
Is it any wonder he’s always on my mind?
What I wouldn’t give for his attention to turn to me, just once. For him to tell me in that low, sultry voice of his all the wicked things he would do to me. From watching him, I can tell so much about him, how thorough he is in everything he does. I bet he’s like that as a lover. Methodical. Intense.
I bet he’d make me feel like the woman I am on the inside, not the one everyone sees on the outside.
I feel her emotion, her longing, pouring off the page, and my heart squeezes in discomfort. This is dangerous stuff I’m starting to think here. Because I can’t possibly be entertaining the idea of having sex with Emme. Of making her feel the way she deserves to feel. Beautiful. Wanted.
Has no man really taken the time to give her what she needs? What a damn shame. A crime, really.
I might be a nosy bastard for reading this book, but I’m a very good lover, and knowing I can give Emmy what she wants and needs—perhaps even more than she bargained for…stirs something deep in my chest.
“No,” I say under my breath, closing the journal. No fucking way. I’m not going to have sex with her. It’s unprofessional. It’s unethical. I’m her boss, for fuck’s sake. I can’t take advantage of her like that. She knows it, and I know it. Hell, she doesn’t expect it to ever happen, and rightly so.
Even though her words are practically begging me to give her everything she craves, show her how good it feels to have hot, dirty sex. For the rest of my life, I know I’ll never forget the things she’s written in here. The fantasies she’s had about her and me. Am I really supposed to be strong enough to resist such a delicious temptation?
Is this the struggle my dad faced? For the first time in forever, a part of me views him in a slightly less disdainful light, wondering if maybe we have more in common than I thought.
Then I remember the tear-stained face of his last secretarial conquest when he broke up with her—and subsequently fired her—and my stomach sours. Even my mother doesn’t know the extent of his philandering, though I bet she suspects. Just one of the reasons I quit working for his design firm and started my own several years ago. I
couldn’t be dragged into his sordid life choices anymore.
I swallow a big chug of coffee as my brain wars with itself on how to handle the situation. My email dings and, speak of the devil, there’s an apologetic email from Emme, explaining she had to leave early due to a sudden situation at home. No mention of the diary, not even a hint, and the explanation makes me believe her leaving the diary was accidental. Although perhaps unconsciously, she did want me to find it…
I huff a big sigh and rake my hands through my hair. What the hell am I going to do?
A gentleman, and honorable man, would put the journal back and pretend he never saw it. He’d go through each day with her, being polite and distant as usual. Or maybe he’d reassign her to another department in the company so there was no possible temptation to break all his important, self-imposed rules.
I want to be a gentleman, an honorable man.
But staring at the cover of the journal, I just don’t know if I am. Or if I really want to be in this specific case.
Still, I rise from my desk and put the book back on her desktop. I might be a snooping bastard, but I’m not a thief. I’ll sleep on the issue tonight, maybe let a nice glass of Scotch at home help me decide what to do.
I shut down my computer quickly, exit the building, and pull out of the lot, flying down darkened local streets to my condo. The whole time, Emme’s wicked words haunt me. I can’t get the images of us having sex out of my head. Bending her over her desk. Fucking her mouth in the conference room, fingers digging in her scalp, her curls twined around my hands. God, the dirty shit I want to do to her now…funny how I didn’t think about her to this degree, but seeing all her wicked thoughts on paper opened the floodgates of my own latent, surprising feelings.
There’s no fucking way I can go back to viewing her the way I used to. I know what simmers below that smooth, quiet surface of hers now.
And even more uncomfortable, she seems to know exactly what simmers below mine, or at least has a clue that there’s more to me than what I show everyone.
