by Edie Danford
“You suck at negotiating, Mar.” He says it with a kind note in his voice.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I do.”
He sighs and runs his hand over his short hair—hair I want so fucking badly to touch. Is it bristly, soft? Would it sift through my fingers easily, or would it be like my hair and cling to my skin?
“I suppose we could listen to one Harry chapter,” he says, lacking his usual enthusiasm. “But just one. And if you fall asleep or if I fall asleep or if we both fall asleep, it will be your job to wake up and go back to bed. No sleepovers. That’s a rule that’s not allowed to change.”
I swallow. Ordinarily I would give him shit about the unreasonableness of his request—if we’re asleep, how will we know we’re asleep and thus breaking his rules?
But I keep quiet tonight. I know I’m pushing him. I know he’s beginning to figure out I want more than just his company. So much more.
If this were a work-related matter, I would get my way with a few basic words. Logic applies in my lab. When it comes to my personal life, however, logic rarely applies. Basic words never seem to work.
If I tell Pete what I really want—to take him into his room, to put him on his comfortable bed, to kiss his clever mouth over and over and over, to blow him until his sweet hotness spills down my throat, to hold him tightly and use friction to excellent effect (inside or outside our bodies, I don’t care) until we both come—then he would say “no” quickly and firmly, and quietly shut that detestable door in my face. And I’ll be lucky if he’s still around in the morning.
The situation between us is confusing. I hope this is more than just his workplace. We are friends. And he’s the one who makes this place a home. Occasionally, I have a hard time understanding…what had my language tutor called it? Nuance. Nuanced meanings. Pete and I have a lot of nuances happening between us.
“One chapter would be good,” I tell him. “Chapter Twelve. ‘The Tri-wizard Tournament.’ I need to know all about it.”
He nods and tips his head toward the open door to his suite. “I’ll meet you in there.”
My heart bounces around in my chest—more zaps from that ionizer—but my head doesn’t like the take-care-of-business look on Pete’s face. No smile, no teasing, no dancing notes to the way his boots clap against the tile floor. He checks the locks and the deadbolts on the back door and walks toward his room.
He glances at his doorway and then me, his eyebrows rising. He looks as though he’s holding his breath, maybe holding back a sigh.
Maybe it would be better to give him space tonight. Better for me to be apart from what I want so much, but can’t have. I should walk away, go back to my room without bothering Pete.
My damp toes stick to the cold floor. I want to be more than a job for him. I want to be more than some guy he feels sorry for, some guy who can’t even say what he wants.
I swallow again—my mouth is dry. I’ve never managed to get a drink.
I walk over to the sink and retrieve a glass from the nearby cabinet. I fill the glass half full at the tap and then drink. I set it down carefully. The water is cold, but my skin feels hot. I can feel Pete watching me, waiting.
My eyes shift to the hallway. But my feet carry me toward Pete.
Chapter 2
Pete
Marek’s ability to expose his feelings and be vulnerable to judgment awes me. Like, just now—before he’d come into my room—he’d popped wood as proud and sturdy as one of the ancient oaks on the university’s quadrangle, but he hadn’t turned around or squirmed or made jokes or run away. He’d stood there, an apologetic look in his eyes, his cheeks turning red. If I’d asked him to explain, I knew what he would’ve said: I’m sorry, Pete, but this is what my body does when it’s around you while you’re half-naked and kneeling in front of me.
I respect these qualities in him, but also fear them. I worry what might happen to him if he comes up against assholes who’d want to exploit his vulnerabilities. I know a little bit about exploitation. Truth, openness, being transparent—those had been alien concepts at my last job, where I’d worked as a PA for a showrunner in Hollywood. And anyone who let themselves appear vulnerable had been worked over, but good.
My boss produced television shows that had won butt-loads of Emmys and Golden Globes, and the viewership of millions. But creating believable fiction for the small screen had made for a very unreal workplace.
“Blurred Lines” had been my boss’s fave song (so much ugh), and that vibe had pretty much summed up my whole time working for Tony Vrettos Productions. And that’s why I’d made sure, after moving home to Chicago, that any new boss I’d have would sing a different tune.
Being needed is my jam, and, despite my shitty experience in L.A., I’d still wanted to work as a PA or a housekeeper—a gig where I could organize, streamline, or otherwise make someone’s bumpy life run smoothly.
I’d signed on with Domesticated, Inc, a home-services agency with a stellar rep, letting them know I wanted assignments with clear-cut duties that wouldn’t be open for interpretation. By me or my supervisors.
After I’d worked short-term jobs for a year, the folks at Domesticated had notified me about a potential long-term deal that might suit me. They’d introduced me to Marek’s uncle—an international law attorney who split his time between Chicago and Prague. He’d interviewed me, and, a couple weeks later, he’d offered a contract as a live-in housekeeper.
The Janos family had been concerned about Marek’s ability to navigate a new job, a new house, and a new city. When he’d been a student, he’d apparently forgotten essentials like eating, sleeping, and going home, and so they’d wanted a housekeeper to keep his domestic game on point.
Over the last six months I’d learned that, yeah, Mar often feels challenged by practical day-to-day life-detail shit. But this is mostly because he’s a) bored as hell by that stuff, or b) occupied with things he considers to be way more important.
So my biggest challenge has been to stay one step ahead of his twisty-turny brain so he doesn’t go floating up into some far off galaxy and leave me down here on Earth, flat-footed and holding a dinner plate with rapidly cooling food on it.
Tonight Marek is needy and nervous and in my room. I need to make him feel better. I’m feeling shitty about mixing the signals I’ve been sending. If I don’t want to hang out, I should’ve told him. He would’ve gone up to bed, no questions.
“Bed, couch, or chair?” I ask, setting my boots out of the way. I don’t like the way they look in this room.
The suite had been used as a storeroom for the last decade, but I’d found classy bones under the dust and dirt. I’d polished the antique hardwood floors to a golden shine and purchased the perfect-sized bed to fit in the alcove under the wrought-iron casement windows. I’d taken a risk when I’d painted the arched ceiling and the old plaster walls a pale orange, a shade that was hard to get right. But the risk pays off every night when I turn on the floor lamp by the small sofa and the whole room takes on a warm glow.
My cowboy boots don’t have any embedded history or class. They’re expensive and showy. Silly—as close to real western wear as I am to a real cowboy. They’d been a gift from my old boss, one of his many forgive-me-for-being-a-dick gestures. Everyone on the set had made fun—“yee-haw” and “yippee ki-yay”—but I’d loved them. I’d taken a series of selfies wearing the boots and only the boots. Then I’d posted the pics to—
Shit. What’s wrong with me tonight?
As I stand, I slap my hands on my knees. The sound makes Marek jump.
“Sorry,” I say, grabbing my laptop from the coffee table. The sooner we get Harry started, the sooner we can fall into the story and out of this funky vibe we’re experiencing.
When I straighten, clutching the cool metal to my bare chest, I’m closer to him than I’d thought. He gazes down at me, blue eyes partially shielded by his hair. I wanted to brush that hair away, test the texture between my fingertips. I tighte
n my hold on my Mac.
Lame comparison, but Marek’s hair reminds me of a latte. Parts of it are a thicker caramel-y brown, but other parts—the parts that tend to wave around his ears and his crown—were lighter and wavier. I lick my lips. Maybe, like him, I should’ve had a drink of water before coming in here.
I glance at the bed. The shirt I’d been planning to sleep in is draped across the comforter. I take a step toward it—should’ve put it on a long time ago. Marek puts a hand on my bare shoulder. His skin is cold and I jump.
“Shit, sorry.” He sounds horrified. I don’t know if it’s because of my reaction, or if it’s because I’ve ingrained in him that “no touching when we have late-night hangouts together” is a super-important rule.
“I’ll survive,” I say dryly, trying to lighten the oddly heavy atmosphere. I make myself calmly and unhurriedly put down the laptop, pick up my shirt, and put it on.
When my head pops out of the tee, I blink up at him. He’s being weirder than usual tonight. But then, I’m probably being weirder than usual too.
“I want the bed,” he says, his voice loud and rushed.
“Okay, I’ll take the—”
“With you. Together. But separate.” He clears his throat. “I’m tired, you’re tired, and so we should both be comfortable.” He says this very uncomfortably. “And the couch needs replacing,” he tacks on.
Ignoring the couch comment—we’ve had that argument many times (I do not want him to buy me a new couch)—I tilt my head and check out his expression. He doesn’t look tired. His eyes are bright, his pupils slightly dilated. There’s a flush on his cheeks, and he’s been biting his lips; they’re puffy and dark pink.
He walks over to the bed, sits on the mattress’s edge. His fingers spread over the comforter. The fabric is white with large, abstract orange flowers. Some of the flowers have black centers, some have yellow. I watch him trace one of the black centers with a fingertip. His body’s tense, as if he’s holding his breath.
I bite back a sigh. This has been a bad idea. In fact, it’s probably getting to be a bad idea for any night. Adjustments need to be made.
The first time we’d had one of these late-night sessions—a week or so after I’d started working here—it had been after we’d surprised each other in the kitchen at midnight, both of us restless, struggling to go to sleep and stay asleep on a hot July night.
While standing at the kitchen island and trashing half a box of popsicles, Marek had confessed his schedule was fucked up. As a student, he’d worked through the night and slept for much of the day. His new job demanded being at work at a reasonable hour, and he was having trouble switching his routine.
I’d been a keyed-up kid, a hyper-intense teen, and a jumped-up adult. I’d had a gazillion relaxation techniques for him to try. Most of them hadn’t worked for me, but that didn’t mean they’d fail Marek.
We’d started with the basics. Netflix. Audio books. I’m not sure they were super-effective in getting Mar more sleep, but over the months we’d laughed a lot and gotten to know each other pretty well. Laughter and friendship definitely fell in the de-stressing column.
For books, we’d finished the first two Harry Potters before Mar went home for Christmas. We’d both read the series when we were kids—Marek having read the Czech translation—and Marek thought it would be fun to revisit Harry and pals in English on audio. I was kinda shocked how much I was enjoying it.
When he’d returned from Prague in January, we’d plowed through book three, and for the last week we’ve been zipping through Goblet of Fire. We’re both in love with the actor who does the reading.
But I’m not convinced that dragons and guys with awesome voices are on Mar’s mind tonight. He looks up and his gaze catches mine briefly. Shifty. Like he wants to tell me a hundred things but is too overwhelmed to say even one of them.
Not good. This is the opposite of what I want for him.
I take a breath, hold it. I need to tell him to go back to his room. I need to tell him that our nighttime routine will have to change, that maybe “relaxing together” is beginning to stress out both of us.
But telling him will involve a complicated conversation. Mar will ask lots of questions. I need time—and to have all my guards up and functioning—when we talk it over. It will have to wait till morning.
I exhale slowly and say, “You know what? I am really tired tonight. Too tired for book-listening. I’m going to go to sleep. And, um, you should too. Fridays start early.”
His weird mood continues to be weird. He doesn’t nod and quietly leave as I’ve commanded. He continues to hold my gaze, his blue eyes unusually fierce.
“Come here,” he commands in his most professor-y professor voice.
I take a couple steps without thinking. He holds out his hand, coaxing me closer. I want to take it, but I can’t let myself. His hand drops. I think he might start up with the flower-tracing again, but he picks up my computer and scoots closer to the wall, easing back into the bed’s little alcove, eyes steady on mine. “Here,” he says, patting the spot he’s vacated. “It is warm. Comfortable.” His lips quirk. “I won’t bite.”
The breath I take feels unsteady. I’m not worried about him biting me.
“I need Chapter Twelve,” he says. “And you do too.”
Marek is the most straightforward guy I’ve ever known. Not sure if it’s the language thing or his personality. Probably both. But right now he seems to be saying something other than what his words are communicating.
His chest rises and falls steadily, but maybe a little faster than usual. His nipples are tight, peaked, his sleek skin gorgeous in the peachy-gold light.
Did I happen to mention that underneath his dorkified clothes, his floppy hair, and his nerdy I’m-thinking-of-supernovae expressions Marek is gorgeous?
Because he is.
I never let myself think about this dangerous fact, not in a big-picture way. I try to keep my focus to smallish details. A curl of hair over his ear. The color of the outer ring of his irises. The patch of whiskers he never manages to shave on the left side of his chin.
But yes. Marek’s a knockout.
My dick twitches, and I’m really fricking thankful for the extra fabric of my tee.
I stand there, trying to come up with an un-hurtful way to kick him out of my room. Or a genius way to get through Chapter Twelve while acting cool, friendly, and not freaked out.
But Marek is the genius, not me, and he’s opening the laptop, quickly clicking until he finds the audio file. A few seconds later, the narrator’s husky voice comes through the speaker on my bureau. “Chapter Twelve…”
“Come here,” Mar says again, offering me the computer. “Your thoughts are so loud, I can’t hear the story.” He gives me a humor-filled look. “Lying here together, it isn’t so complicated. It is not…rocket science.”
I snort. I put the laptop on the coffee table and then carefully slide onto the bed. The warmth of his body—lingering on the mattress beneath me, living and breathing beside me—feels amazeballs. And the scent of him. My old favorite soap plus my new favorite man. Fuck.
“Close your eyes and listen to the words,” he says. “Poor Harry has to fight a dragon and sources of pure evil from his past who have invaded the present. You and me? We don’t have to do that. At least not tonight.”
Right. That’s what he thinks. “You need to stick with astrophysics and stay away from pop psychology,” I tell him.
“Quiet,” he says. “I am listening.”
I keep my eyes closed and make myself be quiet.
When I wake up, I hear gentle snores. And words from a chapter that sound way beyond Chapter Twelve. These are bad things probably, but good things are quickly shoving bad shit aside. I’m warm and so fricking comfortable. More comfortable than I can remember being in a long, long time. Maybe forever.
I’m on my side and Marek’s arm is cradling me tightly, pressing my body along the length of his front. I can fe
el the jut of his collarbone against the back of my head, the warm well of his lap behind my ass. Somebody—who could that have been?—has pulled up the folded afghan from the base of the bed. It’s now draped over us like a soft, cashmere cloud.
A couple more niggly things prick along my awareness. My hard-on. My stupid rules. My very valid worry that Mar won’t wake up and leave before it’s time to get up for the day, causing bad conversations to have to happen before coffee, before showers, before we’re ready.
Worry and rule-sticking and redefining are so fricking exhausting. I’m tired of being exhausted, so I put my hand over Mar’s, cuddling his arm closer. We’re relaxing. We’re sleeping. It will be okay.
Next time I wake, Marek is swearing quietly and creatively. I stifle a moan. The cool air whooshing across my back, exposed with no blanket and no Mar-heat, sucks. I keep my eyes squeezed shut. I feel him sit, shift around. There’s a thump on the alcove’s curving ceiling. His head? For a few seconds all I hear is bad news about Harry’s tournament. Marek settles back against the mattress. Tentative, barely moving.
“Pete,” he whispers.
I don’t respond. If I open my mouth, I’ll say something stupid. The middle of the night, two lonely people in a hushed room, a warm bed—all of that will lead to stupidity. And Mar will respond to whatever I say in some way that will be oddly sexy and irresistible. Then regrettable, un-take-back-able things will happen.
I try to breathe as if I’m sleeping. He’s going to have to climb over me and wrangle his way out of the bed’s alcove to leave. It will be awkward, yeah, but less awkward than trying to talk.
I hear the rustle of fabric against fabric. The mattress dips a little. He’s angling for leverage, probably coming up with some complex physics equation for vaulting over me. Nothing moves for a couple more seconds. I hold my breath and try not to laugh. I can feel big-brained concentration happening behind me and it’s awesomely cute.
You can do it, Mar, I silently cheer him on.
His long leg hitches over me, one knee planting on the small bit of mattress between my hip and the drop to the floor. He wiggles, going for a foot-plant before (I assume) trying to get the rest of his body over.
