by Paige North
The one time I did talk a couple of months ago, Carl pulled me aside after the meeting and suggested in his usual patronizing tone that I stick to what I’m good at—fetching coffee and taking notes. I was mad for days afterward. But it shut me up, reminded me that I have to earn respect.
Carl’s gaze roves over the pastries, then he looks at me with disappointment. “No donuts today?” It’s clear the lack of donuts has let him down, and therefore by extension, I let him down also. Shocker.
A snippy retort about his ability to buy his own damn donuts if he wants them so badly, is right on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back, make myself offer a stiff smile. “Nope. But we can get some later this week if you want.”
He’s already checked out halfway through my reply to him, turning his attention to the packet of notes in front of him. Whatever. Every company has an asshole like him, so I’d better get used to dealing with his like. Whether he knows it or not, he’s offering me valuable life experience.
Dane enters the conference room, and my heart hitches. I drag my attention to my iPad and open up the note-taking program.
“Morning, everyone,” Dane says in that smooth voice of his. “Let’s start the meeting by discussing the progress on our current accounts.”
For the next several minutes, I busy myself with typing on the iPad as fast as I can. The work draws me in, and I find my earlier tension slipping away. This is what it’s all about. Identifying client needs and addressing them the best way we can.
Dane mentions the Sanderson account and how the client liked the informal pitch he presented to them last week. When I finish writing his statement and Lauren’s voice chimes in with an update on the client she’s in the middle of working with, my eyes are drawn up and connect with Dane’s.
The way he’s staring at me, like I’m the only person in the room and he can see right through me into my head, into my soul, makes the air whoosh out of my lungs. Those chocolate-brown eyes are locked on mine with a knowing look. Right now, I can’t tear my own gaze away, even though my pulse is roaring in my head and my hands clench involuntarily.
Because I suddenly know that he knows.
It’s right there on his face, in his eyes, in the press of his lips and tension of his jaw. He read my journal. He saw my deepest, intimate secrets, and he’s letting me know it. And not just the secrets about him, but about my brother’s accident too, about my lingering sadness over Mom’s death. The loneliness. The guilt and anger and frustration I feel over the burden of being Robert’s caretaker. All my heart, ripped open and laid upon the page.
All there for him to see.
To judge.
My throat tightens so much that it hurts to swallow. I drop my gaze back to the tablet and struggle to listen past the painful throbbing of my heart, which is pumping blood to every extremity in a hot rush. My fingers shake as I type.
Oh God, oh God, he knows, and I just want to die. The words ricochet through my head in a panic. How am I going to get through the rest of this day? How will I get through the rest of my employment here, for that matter? How can I ever look him in the eye again, knowing that he’s aware of all the wicked things I want him to do to me?
I’ve never felt more embarrassed in my life.
“—that’s all, then we can move on to new business,” Dane is saying, jarring me out of the cycle of fear in my head. Nothing in his voice indicates that that moment happened between us, something I’m thankful for and also kind of frustrated about, if I’m honest. I’m clearly the only person shaken up about this. But that’s good, right? It means he isn’t so horrified with what he read that he can’t keep his cool façade.
It also means he doesn’t feel for me anything close to what I feel for him.
Perhaps I imagined the moment, I decide. Maybe what I took as an all-knowing look was really just him being impatient with my typing speed. Or maybe I want him to know my feelings for him to the point where I’m starting to hallucinate.
I’m so mixed up that I don’t even know how to handle all of this.
I stiffen and attempt to shake off my own personal misery, blinking back tears that threaten to fill my eyes. Either way, I’m sure as hell not going to screw this opportunity up by doing what I so desperately want to do—run right out of the building and never look back.
Whether he read my journal or not, I need to keep the act going, just like he seems to be doing.
“Dane, I think we should start pursuing bigger fish,” Carl says. He has that egomaniac smile on his face, the one that makes me want to roll my eyes. But for once, I’m semi-happy to be in the same room as him, if only because he distracts me from my own problems.
“Do you have any particular ‘fish’ in mind?” Dane asks him mildly.
“A few.” Carl leans forward, elbows on the table, and steeples his fingers, purses his lips. “But we can take that back to your office to discuss after this meeting is done. I’d love to get your personal feedback.”
Dane quirks a brow, the only emotional expression on his face. “Isn’t that the purpose of this meeting? To discuss it here and now? With everyone else in the room, so they can also give their feedback and thoughts?” Yeah, he totally reads through Carl’s bullshit. Carl just wants to pretend like he’s more important than everyone else in the room—so important that he requires private meetings to discuss new client acquisition.
Carl’s cheeks turn red. “Oh, I guess so, sure. I thought—“
“Come back and discuss concrete details with us when you’re prepared to do so,” Dane smoothly says. After another twenty minutes or so discussing strategies for approaching already agreed-upon potential clients, he says, “Okay, I think we’re done here. Let’s wrap this up and get back to work.”
Everyone around me stands, a few hands reaching out to snag the remaining pastries. I keep my attention carefully on the iPad, pretending like I’m solving world hunger or something that requires every ounce of my focus. I’m proud of how steady my breathing is.
A couple of minutes pass in this manner, with the crowd thinning and me clicking away on the tablet’s smooth surface. I figure I’ll wait in here until the room clears, then exit, chin high.
“Emme,” I hear Dane say, and the way he speaks my name sends shivers across my skin. God, it’s shameful. I hate thinking that even if he knows what I wrote about him, and even if he’s disgusted by it, I can’t stop my physical reaction to the man. I hear the door click closed and risk a glance up.
He’s standing at the door, looking hard at me. I can’t read the expression on his face. The professional wall has slammed down around him.
My heart is jackhammering in my chest. Chin up, I remind myself. Dignity. Pride. I stand and close the cover of the iPad. “I’m going to my desk to clean up these notes. I’ll email them to you as soon as I’m done.”
He sighs, and I see the façade crack for just a moment. Something flickers in his gaze, but I’m not sure what I’m seeing. “Emme. You need to be…” He clears his throat. “Please be more careful with your personal artifacts.”
And there it is. Spoken out loud.
The look he gave me during the meeting wasn’t just my imagination.
Oh my God.
It’s real. And I feel sick.
I force my gaze to stay on his and swallow, my face so hot I’m sure he can see the burn on my cheeks, my throat. “I apologize, Dane. I never intended for you or anyone else to read the material in there.” It costs me every ounce of energy in my bones to keep the next words from trembling off my tongue. “It was unprofessional of me to leave it out on my desk.”
Dane just looks at me for a long moment, then takes a few long strides toward me. I stay locked in place, unable to move. When he’s just a few inches from me, he peers down into my eyes. His scent fills my nostrils, and I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. His brow furrows; I can tell he wants to say something.
Is he wanting me to apologize for the way I feel? Should I
?
Even if I don’t feel sorry for it?
Which I know is insane and possibly stupid. I should feel bad—I wrote dirty things about my boss and I was caught. But my guilt comes from being busted, not from having these feelings for him.
I can’t apologize if I don’t feel those emotions are wrong, except insofar as he’s uncomfortable from having seen them. Then again, he was the one looking in my private property.
Like he’s reading my head, he murmurs, “Be that as it may, reading the book was an error on my part.” His words are a breath caressing my skin.
Suddenly I want to know his thoughts on it, if only to help reinforce that I need to stop fantasizing about him by hearing out loud that he isn’t attracted to me. But I can’t make myself ask.
“Are you…” I clear my throat. “Do you want me to give you my resignation?”
“What? No.” The words are almost barked out, and I jerk in response. His body seems a little stiff, and he takes a step back. His voice is much more even as he continues. “There’s no need for you to quit over this, Emme. We’re both adults.”
I nod. It’s relieving, at least partially, that I’m not going to get sacked. I can tell he expects us to go about business as normal, and I’m determined to do my best. I’m sure as hell never bringing that journal within a thousand yards of this building again, I know that for sure.
I just hope I can pretend everything is okay, that the massive weight on my chest might not do me in.
I’m still at least partly in shock. He admitted to reading my journal, filled with pages and pages of intimate details and sexual acts involving him and I that were pornographic at best.
No, he doesn’t look horrified or grossed out by what he read. But he’ll never forget what he saw in those pages—or look at me the same again. It’s going to change our relationship.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I dart around him and leave, closing the door behind me. My head suddenly hurts with the weight of everything we didn’t say. All the emotions I’m going to have to bottle down and pretend were never in my heart.
I slip behind my desk and robotically clean up the meeting notes. But I’m thinking about my future—maybe I should start putting out feelers for a new position anyway. No, I’m not going to get fired, but how can I face him every day, knowing I want him—and knowing he knows that—but that he doesn’t want me back? It might eat me alive.
And I don’t think I can torture myself about this for much longer, no matter my responsibilities. Some things are just far too much, far too painful to put myself through. The only way I’m ever going to get over Dane is to move on. Somehow, I have to summon my strength and courage to walk away from the man I’ve wanted more than anyone else in my life. But what choice do I have? I’m not going to beg for him to want me too.
I might desire him, and he might make me blind with hunger, but I do have pride. At least a few scraps of it left, anyway.
9
Dane
“This is far too overcooked,” Jennifer says, a curl on her upper lip as she pokes the steak with her fork. “I clearly said medium-rare, and they gave me medium, maybe even medium well. Plus my glass of merlot hasn’t been decanted nearly long enough. I’ve never had this poor of service here before.”
Something about the nasally whine in her voice is like nails down a chalkboard for me. Normally Jennifer doesn’t bug me or get on my nerves. Yeah, she’s not the love of my life or anything, but she’s a great date by my side at social events. She’s savvy on world politics, has multiple degrees, and great legs to boot.
She looks good on paper, sure. And dating her has been easy, uncomplicated.
But sitting across from her tonight at Little Swan, a swanky steakhouse in downtown Boston, I can’t help but feel…bored. Listless.
“—listening to me?” she’s saying as she waves her hand in my direction. “It’s like you’re not even here with me.”
I drag my attention back to her face. It’s pretty, but bland. Her blond hair is curled into a soft twist, and her sleeveless dress is pale pink. She’s lovely; more than one man in the place has shot glances at her since we arrived. “Hard day at work. I’m a little tired,” I say, by way of explanation.
Of course, it’s way beyond that now.
I don’t think my dick has gone back to being regular since I read Emme’s journal. Seeing her this morning, the vulnerable fear in her eyes as she bravely stood there in front of me, knowing she’d been caught…it was so fucking difficult to fight the urge to taste her mouth.
I’m proud of my restraint. But I paid for it dearly—my productivity was shit. I finally gave up and left work early, something I never do. This date with Jennifer was supposed to serve as a distraction for me.
Not working. If anything, the contrast somehow makes Emme come even more vividly to life, while Jennifer pales in comparison.
Jennifer gives me a smile that should look sympathetic but doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, you seem a bit off today, not like yourself.” She looks over my shoulder and nods, and our waitress scurries over. “Excuse me, but my steak is overdone. I’d like it prepared medium-rare, as I asked.”
The server says in an apologetic tone, “I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure the chef puts a rush order on your plate. Can I get you anything while you wait?”
Jennifer shakes her head, making a noise of annoyance, her disappointment clear on her face, and the waitress leaves. “Please, go ahead and eat,” she tells me with a wave of her hand. “No sense in your food getting cold.”
“What did you do today?” I ask Jennifer to divert myself from thoughts of what I’d rather be doing right now.
Jennifer’s smile is so polished, her teeth flashing as she recites a litany of tasks she did. Jennifer works for a major corporation’s charity branch. Her job is to seek out and interview qualified candidates for the corporation to donate to. Yet another thing that makes her look so perfect. But despite all these positive qualities, I can’t muster one ounce of aroused feelings for her. It’s like I’m eating dinner with my mother.
My mind drifts again to Emme’s curls, how badly I wanted to touch them, smell them. That makes my heart race.
“Here you go,” the waitress says, giving another remorseful smile as she presents the plate to Jennifer. “This should be much better. Sorry again about the mix-up.” She lingers while my date cuts the meat and gives her curt nod of approval, and the waitress beams, then scampers off.
“Finally.” Jennifer cuts off a delicate piece and nibbles it. I already know she’s only going to eat half the food—she never devours her meal. Never seems to savor it.
Maybe that’s part of what’s making me feel this way right now. The certainty that any physical thing that could happen between us would lack genuine chemistry. Jennifer’s too polished, too perfect; there’s nothing raw about her. Nothing that makes me ache to plunge into her—physically, emotionally.
Sure I can make her come—but it’s almost robotic…like scratching an itch at this point.
My fucking brain can’t help but compare her to what I read in Emme’s journal. I know I shouldn’t—they’re two very different people. But those intimate words are burned in my skull, tattooed on my skin in a way I can’t seem to shake off. Jennifer and all her advanced degrees and polished demeanor can’t hold a candle to that.
“Maybe after this, you can come over to my place for a nightcap?” she asks me with a coy smile, putting her fork and knife down across her plate to signal she’s done. Sure enough, half the food’s still there. She’s nothing if not predictable.
But now I know there’s more out there, and predictability doesn’t seem to satisfy me. I’ve seen real passion in the words of an innocent and vibrant young woman, and it’s blown everything else out of the water. Despite my efforts, I can’t go back to pretending all is fine in my little world. Because it isn’t.
And it hasn’t b
een for a long time.
How long have I been sleepwalking through my days, pretending to have feelings that I don’t have? When’s the last time I’ve felt strongly about anything other than work?
I fight give Jennifer a noncommittal sound. I’m not going to use her or drag this on when I’m not feeling it. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to end it after dinner.
I finish my food out of habit, though I’m no longer hungry, then pay the check and add a good tip to thank the waitress for fixing the meal issue. Jennifer hasn’t noticed that I’m still distracted, or if she has, she’s too polite to bring it up. She’s offering a running commentary on a news article she read earlier this week about Israel. Instead of sounding educated, as she normally does, it’s striking me as more bragging, the way she keeps pointing out what insider information she knows, due to contacts overseas.
I can’t tell if my new perspective of her is my fault or hers. Or perhaps I always knew this about her, but now I have someone real and vibrant to compare her to, and it’s making her company unbearable as a result.
We get in my car, and I drive her home. When I pull up in front of her large house, with its perfect lawn and pristine brick façade and pristine BMW parked in the driveway, she turns and gives me an expectant look.
“So, Dane…about that nightcap…” There’s almost a purr in her voice, one I haven’t heard before. She offers me a toothy grin. “I have a twenty-year-old bottle of scotch that I haven’t opened yet. I know how much you love it.” She says this like she’s noticed something intimately personal about me.
I reach over and take her hand. The touch doesn’t stir anything in my body. “I’ve enjoyed our dinners together, and your company.”
“Me too.” Her voice is soft, and her grin gets bigger.
“I’m going to have to decline your invitation. I’m afraid I’m not the best company right now. Thank you for spending this evening with me though.”
She blinks twice, staring at me, and her body stiffens. “Wait, what? So…you’re not coming in?”
