by R. C. Martin
“Do me a favor?” he asks, adjusting his cuffs.
“Anything.”
He walks over to me and kisses my forehead before he mumbles, “Get a shot of espresso in my coffee this morning.”
Chuckling my understanding, I nod, promising him I’ll do as much. He then leaves me to head down to the office. It takes me another forty minutes before I’m ready, and an additional five minutes to remember that I left my purse and my coat in the living room last night. Walking down the hallway, seeing my clothes scattered in a trail along the way, I laugh as fond memories from last night warm my belly. I then pick up my mess, tossing my clothes—as well as Dane’s—into the hamper, to be sorted later.
He was right about the snow; there’s not a trace of it as I walk to The Grind. It is freezing, though, and I’m disappointed that I don’t have the scarf Ellery bought me before I moved out here. While I wait in line to give my order, I make a mental note to ask Dane if we can stop by my apartment sometime this weekend so I can pick up a few more things. I then try and recall his schedule for the day, in an attempt to plan out the order in which I’ll tackle my tasks.
Ten minutes later, our drinks in hand, I hurry back to the office. Stepping into a crowded elevator, I don’t realize I’m riding with Meghan until we’ve made a couple stops. She offers me no more than a knowing smile as she glances at the cups in my hand. Except, what she thinks she could know, I’m not sure. Too tired to worry about it, I don’t bother asking her. When we arrive at the elevator bay, we step out just as another elevator arrives. Lydia walks off, a stack of files and a legal pad clutched in her arms. She looks me up and down but—much like Meghan—she doesn’t say anything. Again, I try not to let it get to me.
All three of us head in the same direction, and we’re almost to Dane’s office before Lydia finally speaks.
“I hope you know delivering coffee won’t make up for the fact that you’re late.”
Meghan snickers before she adds, “Of course, there are other ways of convincing a Croft to look the other way whenever you slip up. Oh, but you probably know that already.”
Immediately deciding that today will not be a repeat of yesterday, I halt my feet and declare, “That’s enough. First of all, I’m not late.” I look right at Lydia as I go on to explain, “And even if I was, it would be none of your concern. Second, I’m not sure what ways you’re referring to, but I don’t need to convince Dane of anything,” I tell Meghan.
“Oh, please. Drop the act. Neither of us believe you, anyway,” Lydia replies with an eye roll.
“Morning, ladies. What’s going on here?” asks Ava, joining our conversation.
If you could call it that.
I look to her as she unbuttons her coat, her gaze shifting from Lydia, to me, to Meghan, and then back to me. Shaking my head, I assure her, “Nothing.”
“We’re just giving Sally, here, a hard time about delivering coffee to her boo—I mean, her boss,” Meghan says with a laugh, as if she seriously thinks she’s funny.
I breathe deeply, trying to remember that I’m not who they think I am. It doesn’t matter how they see me—it matters how I see me. In this moment, I know if I don’t stand up for myself, I’ll be right back where I was yesterday, unable to look at my own reflection in the mirror because I didn’t fight back. Somewhere, in the hidden corners of my mind, I also realize I’ll never make it as a lawyer in a courtroom if I can’t put up a fight against two catty women who somehow think gossip is another word for truth.
“Honestly, you two are ridiculous,” I mutter, not bothering to second guess my statement.
I think about what Dane told me last night, about how he said I’m his. I feel a sense of gumption wash over me remembering the woman he sees when he looks at me.
“For the record, if I wanted Dane, I could have him and for no other reason than because I’m an intelligent woman with kick ass legs. As far as my job is concerned, I’ve not—and I have never—used anything other than my brain and my work ethic to get shit done. Perhaps instead of hanging on so tightly to your jealousy, you could let it go and make better use of that energy.”
“Jealous? You think I’m jealous of a secretary?” Lydia scoffs.
Smiling in the most condescending way I can manage, I reply, “I think you want to be where I am in more ways than you can imagine. Something tells me the bond I have with Dane is far more satisfying than the one you have with Chandler. I’ve found that he can be a bit of a prick, which is quiet stupid, seeing as he’s nowhere near the level of being his own boss and reports to Dane. Maybe don’t follow his lead so much and you might work your way into Dane’s good graces. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the man likes his coffee hot.”
I take two steps toward Dane’s office before Ava calls my name. When I turn to look back at her, I find her grinning before she says, “Come by my office when your hands aren’t full. I owe you a high five.”
Ignoring both Meghan and Lydia, I laugh with my friend, offering her a nod before I continue on my way.
One Month Later…
I STARE AT myself in the mirror, wondering if I should change. This is the third outfit I’ve had on, but it doesn’t feel right. Then again, nothing feels right. I’m not sure I’m equipped with the appropriate wardrobe to dress for my first Thanksgiving with Dane’s mother. I went shopping last weekend, my bank account allowing me the opportunity to splurge a little—and the winter weather giving me no other option—but still nothing makes me feel like the woman who deserves to sit by Dane’s side at his mother’s Thanksgiving meal.
His mother who eats brunch with her son at the Country Club and doesn’t own a pair of jeans! Who doesn’t own a pair of jeans?
When I asked Dane what I should wear to dinner, he told me I could wear anything I wanted. When I asked him if jeans were acceptable, he shrugged and told me that would be fine. When I asked him if his mother would be wearing jeans, he laughed. He actually laughed out loud and told me he’d never seen his mother wear a pair of jeans in all of his thirty-five years of existence.
Freeing an exasperated sigh, I kick off my heels and tug the dress I have on over my head, dropping it on the floor. I’m so anxious about this whole thing, I actually think about leaving the dress down there—but then I can’t do it. I’m hanging it up when Dane enters the closet. I don’t look at him, remembering that he’s already dressed and looking perfect—not to mention, I’m sure he’s staring at me with a scowl. Every time he walks in, I’m wearing something different. Now, I’m wearing nothing other than my underwear.
“Babe, it’s not that serious.”
My jaw falls open as I snap my gaze over to meet his, appalled that he would say such a thing. “It’s not that serious? Dane, you haven’t brought a woman home to meet your mother since law school. Law school! You’re now a partner of a major law firm. This is a big deal. It’s basically the definition of that serious.”
“Sigourney,” he says as he starts to make his way toward me.
“No, don’t,” I insist, taking a couple steps back. I hold my palms up, signaling for him to halt. “Don’t come near me, looking all perfect, telling me it doesn’t matter what I wear. It matters.”
“I don’t look perfect,” he mumbles, ignoring my warning and closing the distance between us.
I don’t have the will to fight him, because he’s wrong—he does look perfect.
Perfectly lickable.
He’s wearing a pair of tan, fitted slacks and a red, white, and blue checker box, button-up shirt underneath a dark red sweater. He’s also got a charcoal gray sports coat hanging on his butler stand in the corner, which I’m sure will only enhance his look even further. His blond hair is styled just right, and the light scruff on his face has been trimmed neatly. He’s even wearing a bit of aftershave that makes me want to bury my nose in his neck and stay awhile.
I free a sigh, my body melding into his as he casually wraps his arms around me, one of his hands slipping beneath the waistband of m
y panties. Over the past several weeks, I’ve grown quite accustomed to the ways in which he likes to touch me. Even though we’re not exactly going out of our way to keep our relationship a secret any longer, our professional boundaries are so firmly intact that we’ve still got people wondering if we are or if we aren’t. Except, when we’re alone in the penthouse, when it’s just the two of us in the space that feels more and more like home every day, I’ve found that he expresses himself best through touch.
Some nights, I swear, he has no words left to give—his day having worn him out. We’ll sit together on the couch, and he’ll be going over case notes or reviewing contracts while I’m studying for the bar. We could be in our own separate worlds, not a word spoken between us, but he’ll slide his hand underneath the hem of my sweatpants to caress my leg; or he’ll lift my shirt and tickle the small of my back; sometimes he’ll even play with my hair at the nape of my neck. In those moments, I hear him as if he were making declarations from the rooftop. In his touch, I hear him whispering to me—telling me that he wants me, that he appreciates me, and that he’s yet to grow tired of my presence.
Of course, there are many nights when he uses his entire body to communicate. Then, on those rare but special occasions, after he brings me an indescribable amount of pleasure, we’ll cuddle underneath the sheets, staring out the window as we talk late into the night. Those nights are my favorite. I won’t deny, however, that the man who holds me in his arms now is quickly becoming so significant to me that any chance I get to be with him is one I do not wish to take for granted. One would think, after a month of spending just about every waking hour in his presence, I’d be sick of him by now—but I’m not. It’s not in his personality to be overbearing in any way.
“I don’t understand why you’re so worried,” he states, studying my face.
“You’re her only son,” I remind him. “You work hard. You’ve accomplished much. You’re out of my league entirely, and I just don’t want her to wish better for you. I want her to like me.”
I suck in a breath through my nose, leaning into him a little more as he grips a handful of my ass and grunts, “Don’t say shit like that. I’m not out of your league.”
“Dane—I’m going to have dinner with a woman who hasn’t had to work since she’s had you. We were raised differently. You’ve been blessed to grow up with certain privileges only money can buy. You have certain tastes and certain habits that I’m not used to. Your closet is full of brands I’ve only ever dreamed of buying, and I’m guessing your mother is used to living a very similar lifestyle. That’s not a bad thing. Please, don’t take what I’m saying the wrong way. I appreciate the man you are and the way you present yourself. Not to mention, whatever privileges you grew up with are now being outshined by all you have based on merit. I just mean to imply that you and I are not the same.
“I’m worried because when she looks at me, I don’t want her to see your secretary. I don’t want her to think I’m using you for some reason or that what we have isn’t real. This isn’t a holiday spent with our coworkers. It’s not even a holiday spent with your father—it’s a holiday spent with the one parent you have that you respect. I want it to go well.”
“She doesn’t know you’re my secretary,” he informs me nonchalantly.
“What?” My eyes grow wide, and I stare up at him in dismay as I ask, “How does she think we met?”
“She doesn’t know. I haven’t told her.”
“Dane!”
“Babe—it doesn’t matter.”
“Except, something tells me your mother’s opinions about women who have sexual relations with their boss are pretty low.”
“No doubt. In her experience, women who have sexual relations with their bosses are chasing after status or promotion or money. You are after none of those things. Don’t forget you’re coming on my arm, and I am no fool. My mother is aware of this; therefore, it doesn’t matter how we met—only that I care enough about you to bring you along for an introduction.”
Touching my forehead to his chest, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. “You’re right,” I murmur. “I’m being irrational. I know. I’m sorry.”
He smacks my ass, and a laugh bubbles out of me. Immediately, I’m sure he’s silently reprimanding me for apologizing. Then, pulling away from me, he presses his lips to my forehead and mumbles, “Get dressed. We leave at eleven, whether you’re still in your underwear or not.”
I watch him leave, my eyes dropping down to appreciate the shape of his ass until he disappears from sight. Aware that I’ve got only a little over an hour to get dressed and then make a couple of phone calls, I make up my mind to stop freaking out and simply be confident in whatever outfit I choose. I end up wearing my navy, long-sleeve, floral print, maxi, wrap dress. I wrap it around me snuggly, securing the tie at my left hip. The neckline dips down pretty low, but my cleavage is modest enough that I’m not concerned about appearing inappropriate.
After slipping on a pair of earrings and the rose gold, California pendant necklace Ellery gifted me for my birthday, I grab my favorite nude heels and finally make my way out of the closet. I wonder if my sister will be wearing her necklace today—the matching, Colorado pendant completing our set. I need to call her. She and Pryce got this crazy idea to host Thanksgiving dinner. Only, instead of inviting just our parents, they convinced Pryce’s parents to fly in from New York, and any of their stray friends are welcome, too. When I send a call through to Ellery and get her voicemail, I imagine she’s frantically cleaning up the condo before everyone arrives. I leave a message, telling her to call me later tonight, cheering her on in hopes that she’ll survive the day.
I check the time after I hang up, noting that I’ve still got thirty minutes before Dane and I leave for his mother’s place. At this time of morning, I know my dad is already up and in the kitchen, preparing food for the day, my mom helping out only if he’ll let her. In our house growing up, Thanksgiving was always dad’s day to play chef. That man can throw down a feast like none other, and I know Pryce was looking forward to the two of them creating a menu they could both contribute to for today. Just thinking about it makes me miss home. Luckily, I’ve only got a few more weeks before I’ll be flying out for Christmas.
Longing to hear their voices, I push through a call, standing and gazing out the window of Dane’s bedroom as the phone rings.
AT FIVE MINUTES to the hour, I pull myself away from work emails and return to the penthouse. I hear Sigourney’s voice the closer I get to the bedroom, and I realize she’s on the phone when I walk into the closet to fetch my sports coat. She laughs at something I’m not privy to, and I step into the bedroom as she says, “No, there’s no snow today. But the forecast is calling for it tomorrow. Maybe we’ll stay in and hang out under a blanket.”
She doesn’t notice me, her focus trained out the window. As I adjust the collar of my jacket, I admire her figure in that dress. She’s left her hair loose and curled down her back, and the strawberry blonde color stands out radiantly against the dark hue of the dress she’s wearing. Eavesdropping on her conversation, I smirk at the mention of staying in under a blanket. She doesn’t know it yet, but with the firm being closed until Monday, our plans for tomorrow have already been made. While the crazy shoppers in this town are out hunting for deals, she and I will be under a blanket, all right.
Over the course of the last four weeks, in spite of the progress we’ve made on the Bridgewater case, there have been no more threats toward Sigourney. Regardless of that fact, I’ve decided to keep her here. It seems senseless to have her return home, only to make her a target that was seemingly inaccessible before. Even so, I’d be lying if I said that’s the only reason I’ve kept her here. The truth is, I don’t want her to leave. For whatever it’s worth, I’m not ashamed to admit that I like knowing where she is; I appreciate having her within reaching distance.
These last few weeks have had me questioning what it is I’ve said I always wanted. Marriag
e is off the table, as it has always been, but a life shared with one woman—this woman—that’s an idea I find myself entertaining. For years, I doubted if I’d be able to find someone who I could tolerate, let alone love anywhere near the extent that I love and respect the law. I’m not a bastard, but I was raised by one, and he did teach me a few things.
As a child, I learned how the idea of love could destroy a person. I learned that the lack of love where it is promised leads to a painful existence that is neither fair nor tolerable. What I confided in Sigourney on her birthday is true. When I went into law, when I got into bed with Lady Justice, I was prepared for her to be my only love. I certainly didn’t plan on being celibate for the rest of my life, but marriage? A live-in partner? I’d had one too many false starts with women to think how that could be an option for me.
The door has always been open for a relationship of some kind, but until Sigourney, I hadn’t met a woman who beckoned me to walk through it and offer commitment. What we have has been more than sex from the start. She’s a woman I genuinely enjoy. And while what I feel for Sigourney might not yet be love, it’s not anything I want to let go of. She’s not someone I want to let go of—not even so far as a few minutes’ drive away, to an apartment building across town.
I don’t realize I’m making my way toward her until she’s within reach. Sliding my arm around her middle, I pull her back against me, and she comes willingly.
“Okay, mom, I’ve got to go. You and dad should be on the road soon, too,” she speaks into the phone, simultaneously placing her hand over mine and lacing our fingers together. “Yes,” she laughs. “I’ll tell him. I love you. Tell daddy the same.”
