“A haunted house is any house that has a ghost in it,” Brody declares. “And he doesn’t own it—that’s why they’re going through all this bullshit in the first place. If he owned it, the lawyer chick wouldn’t be trying to sell it.”
Mike opens his mouth to respond, but Dimi gets in first.
“Whether it’s officially a haunted house or not, it doesn’t change the fact that weird stuff has been happening and she still went to check out the noise on her own. But,” he hurries on as both brothers look like they’re going to say something, “we all know that nothing bad happens, so can we unpause the damn thing and get on with it?”
“Dimi!” they both exclaim at the same time, shooting horrified looks my way. “Spoiler alert!”
I laugh, because they’re just that precious.
I may have had more to drink today than I realized.
“It’s okay, guys,” I assure them. “I’m pretty sure this movie ends happily, since it’s a Netflix Christmas movie.”
“Still,” Mike says, shaking his head disapprovingly at Dimi as he picks up his beer, “most of the fun is in the journey.”
“Soooo… maybe we can get on with the journey?” Dimi gets up from his armchair to snatch the remote from Brody. “I want to watch that really bad movie after this.”
“Which one?” Brody asks.
“Does it matter?” Mike counters.
Dimi just hits Play. The screen unfreezes, and I smile as I immerse myself back in the movie.
***
“Are they asleep?” Dimi’s whisper is exaggerated, and I turn my head to meet his laughing gaze.
“If they’re not, they’re the best fake snorers I’ve ever heard,” I say at a normal volume, and he snorts.
It’s the wee hours of the morning. The Spirit of Christmas finished hours ago, and since then we’ve watched two movies that were so horrendously bad I don’t even want to remember their titles. On the plus side, Brody and Mike decided the best way to get through a bad movie was to take a shot every time something cheesy happened or was said. The tequila came out, and needless to say, they were beyond plastered before we got halfway through the first movie.
I’d like to take a moment here to recommend you get some friends drunk and then watch bad movies with them. It enhances the experience tremendously.
They passed out a bit ago, and now it’s just me and Dimi. In the semidark. In the silence of the night. Pretty much alone. Intelligence and inhibitions fuzzed by sugar and alcohol.
The butterflies in my stomach are going nuts. Sure, I know nothing is likely to happen. Dimi hasn’t given any indication he wants it to—and why would he? We work together. I’m much older than him. I know that he’s gay because of a conversation he and Trav had that I overheard, but he’s never flirted with me or anything.
Well… not really. Just in that joking way.
So… yeah, there’s no reason for butterflies. But it’s been a long time since I’ve felt this will-he-won’t-he-does-he-doesn’t-he type of attraction. A long time since I’ve sat (sort of) alone in a darkened room with a man I was attracted to and wondered what was going to happen next. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to let the butterflies have their way and enjoy this crazy attraction while it lasts. I loved being in a committed relationship for so long, loved the ex-who-shall-not-be-named (until I didn’t), but I never expected to have to face the dating world again. I’m twenty years older than the last time I was single, a lot grayer, a bit softer, and a lot less inclined to hit the clubs. If I’m being strictly honest, after the breakup, I expected to spend the rest of my life alone. Not because I feel like I’m not lovable, but because everything felt so raw. It’s hard to have your trust smashed. I didn’t want to make that kind of commitment, put myself at that kind of risk again. I didn’t feel attracted to anyone, even men I’d admired in the past.
So the butterflies are nice. It feels like healing. Like maybe I’ve got my old self back—just a little wiser.
“Come into the kitchen,” Dimi says. “We can talk without waking these two morons.”
He’s not going to drop hints that I should go home? Because I was about to get moving—the administrative functions at JU have the day after Christmas off, but I planned to do some work anyway. I don’t know how effective I’ll be, though, what with being fuzzy from lack of sleep and slightly hungover.
I get up and follow him to his kitchen, which is lit only by the light above the stove. His townhouse is a little bigger than my apartment, but mine was renovated more recently and is a bit nicer. His has a more permanent feel, though—which makes sense, since he’s been settled here for years, and I’ve just been here for a month.
He gets two glasses from a cupboard and fills them with water, then hands me one.
“Thank you.” I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until he gave me the glass. I drink and then lean against the counter beside him. “Are you going to leave them in there?”
Dimi shrugs. “They’ve slept worse places than my couch. Waking them is a pain in the ass, and then they’ll be all grumpy.” He smirks. “Plus, it’s kind of my duty as their older brother to make sure they’re as uncomfortable as possible. They’re lucky I’m not taking advantage of this situation.”
I laugh. I guess that’s one reason to be glad my relationship with my siblings isn’t that close.
“That leaves the guest room free, though, if you want to crash there. I’m not sure exactly how much you drank, but you probably shouldn’t drive. And it’s late.”
I don’t even hesitate. “Thanks, that’s really kind of you.” I hold back the wince. Once again, I sound like Aunt Gertrude. I set my water glass down beside me on the bench, mostly as a distraction, and when I look up again, Dimi’s standing right in front of me.
My breath catches in my throat, and I nearly choke. I’m still trying to regulate my breathing when he leans in and kisses me.
It’s quick. Just a press of his mouth to mine, a taste. By the time I get over my shock enough to kiss him back, to raise my arms to hold him, he’s pulling away, stepping back.
“There are clean towels in the bathroom and extra blankets in the guest room wardrobe in case you get cold.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me half-frozen in shock in the dimly lit kitchen. It feels like hours before I can get my wits together enough to move, but it’s probably only minutes. Numbly, I go down the hall to the guest room, close the door behind me, and collapse on the bed. It’s neatly made, and I suspect that’s Mike’s doing—it wouldn’t even occur to Brody.
Yes, I really am wondering who made the bed. Because if I don’t think about the mundane, I’ll have to think about the fact that Dimi kissed me.
Kind of.
Well, barely.
Was it a kiss? I mean, of course it was a kiss. Lips touched. That’s a kiss. But was it a meaningful kiss? Or was it just a friendly kiss goodnight between two guys who work together and are becoming friends?
Does such a kiss exist?
It was over awfully fast. If it was a kiss that was supposed to mean something, to signify sexual or romantic interest, wouldn’t it have lasted longer? Maybe included some tongue or touching?
I’m overthinking this. I haven’t obsessed this much over a kiss since I was a teenager.
The question is… what do I do now?
Am I supposed to pretend the whole thing didn’t happen?
Or is this the opportunity I’ve been waiting for?
It’s not a secret (well, not to me or you—I really hope it’s still a secret from everyone else) that I’ve been crushing hard on Dimi. Things started roughly between us, my fault, but over the last couple weeks they’ve gotten better. We’re definitely friendly, and I think becoming friends. Especially after today. Today was a great day. So combine that with Dimi’s kiss, and maybe the universe is giving me a great bi
g flashing neon sign that I should be making a move.
Sighing, I lean back against the pillows. My brain is muddled by alcohol and sugar and exhaustion, and I really don’t have the capacity to make a sensible decision right now. Or any decision. Best to get some sleep and think about it in the morning.
When I’ll wake up in Dimi’s house and have breakfast with him.
My dick perks up at just the thought and suddenly I have something else to concern myself with.
Chapter Eight
Dimi
What the hell have I done?
I barely slept at all last night. Who am I kidding—I didn’t sleep at all. After I made that asinine comment about towels and blankets and left Jason in the kitchen, I fled to my bedroom to hide from my own abject stupidity.
What was I thinking?
Jason’s hot. I’m not an idiot, I know that. Remember the first night we met when I could barely speak to him without tripping over my tongue? Not to mention the porn fantasy that I may or may not have revisited a few times in the last couple weeks. He’s also intelligent, talented, amusing, and an all-around nice guy. I still don’t know what prompted him to be a dick at our first meeting, but after seeing him all day, every day for a month, I’m inclined to say it was an aberration, not the norm. So if I had a list of things I look for in a man, he’d check all the boxes.
Except we work together and he’s never really indicated that he’s interested in me that way. Which means kissing him constitutes sexual harassment, made worse by the fact that on paper, he works for me.
I want to bang my head against my desk. Except it’s not actually my desk—not anymore. I snuck out of my place before the sun was up because I wasn’t ready to face Jason, especially not with my idiot brothers watching, but I only got halfway to the office before I realized that he was probably planning to work today like I was. So I came to the main administrative building instead and set up camp at my old desk outside Derek’s office. His new assistant isn’t likely to come in today, not with the offices officially closed and Derek away.
Let’s sum up, shall we? I sexually harassed a subordinate, then ran away instead of dealing with the situation and am currently hiding in someone else’s space.
I give in to the urge and bang my head against the desk. It hurts. It also sends nausea spiraling through me, because hello, hangover. I didn’t drink as much as my brothers did last night, but I drank enough.
Slumping back in the desk chair, I sigh and rub my forehead. I can’t even say what prompted me to kiss Jason. No, that’s a lie. I’d been thinking about what it would be like all night. All day, really—since he turned up with Mrs. Henshall, proving what a great guy he is, looking utterly delicious in an amber-toned shirt that made his sherry-brown eyes almost golden. I’ve always been aware of how attractive I find him, but in a background kind of way. Remember the famous actor analogy? Yesterday, though, seeing him in a purely social environment, with no work to distract us, seeing how well he fits in with my life… that attraction crossed the line from theoretical to very real. It wasn’t helped at all by my goddamn brothers and sisters and their innuendoes every chance they got. Seriously, you admire a guy’s talent and drive for half your life, and when you finally get a chance to work with him, your siblings make a huge deal about that admiration. You should have heard the things Brody and Mike said in the car when I told them Jason would be joining us for movie night. And then Mike had to go and bring up my fascination (not obsession) with Fake It ’Til You Make It. They’re both lucky I didn’t shave them bald after they passed out.
So yeah, I was thinking of him in a nonprofessional context all night. Then we were standing in the dark kitchen, all alone, and he was smiling for whatever stupid reason, a bit mussed, less guarded than usual, and I just had to know what he tasted like.
Delicious, in case you’re wondering.
The worst part? I feel like an utter shit, but I don’t regret kissing him. How I did it, yes, absolutely. If I could go back and get some kind of sign from him first that he wanted a kiss, I would. But I will never forget how amazing that kiss was—and it was barely even a kiss.
I’ve gotta fix this, don’t I?
Groaning, I drag myself away from the desk where I’m not doing any work anyway. I could sit here procrastinating and mentally beating myself up all day, but it won’t change the facts—and tomorrow I’ll have to go to my own office, where I work with Jason, and work with him. Better to get the awkward, uncomfortable part out of the way now and give myself a head start on any paperwork that needs to be done if he wants to file a complaint. Or worse, quit.
Shit.
He wouldn’t do that, would he?
Suddenly I’m not just the fuckup who harassed a subordinate, I’m also the fuckup who flushed his career down the toilet. Finding another director at this stage will mean starting from square one—but I probably won’t be the one who has to worry about that.
I want to hide under my old desk.
Instead, I suck in a deep breath the way Derek taught me, decide it’s the stupidest thing ever and doesn’t work, and trudge toward the stairs. I could take the elevator, but the stairs will take longer and I’m all about delaying the inevitable for as long as possible.
***
Unfortunately for my desire to procrastinate, I find Jason in the first place I look. He’s in his office, sitting at the desk, staring into space, so distracted that he doesn’t hear me come in. When I knock on the doorframe, he startles, then flushes dark red.
Great.
“Uh, hi. Got a second?”
He clears his throat. “Sure. Do you… um…. Have a seat.” He doesn’t get up or even look toward the couch, and I resign myself to this being painful. We don’t often meet in each other’s offices—mostly because they’re really small spaces for two men our size and I needed more breathing room—but every time I’ve come in here to discuss something, he’s abandoned the desk for the more informal couch.
I sit in the visitor chair and try to decide how to begin. I’ve been rehearsing what to say the whole way over, but now that it’s time to actually speak the words to him, they seem wrong. He’s looking at me, though, waiting for me to tell him what I want, and so I open my mouth and hope the right words will come out.
“I’m sorry.” Okay, that’s not a bad start. His expression becomes a little guarded, but not overtly disgusted or upset. “I… I overstepped the bounds of….” No, that’s stupid. “I mean, I… I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. I’m sorry.”
There’s a long silence. My heartbeat hammers in my ears, and a wave of heat rises from my chest into my face. I can’t read his expression at all—he’s totally blanked it, which is so unlike him that it freaks me out. This is it.
Do you know the worst part? Right now, at this moment, I actually don’t care about my career. I don’t care that I’ll likely never get a dream job like this again. That I’ll probably have to leave JU and Joyville, my home, my family. That I’ve let down so many people who believed in me, who put their necks on the line to get me this job. Instead, what I care about is that I’ve killed the seeds of friendship that were growing between me and Jason. That I’ve destroyed any chance there might possibly have been of that friendship one day organically growing into something more. I never even realized I’d been harboring those secret hopes, but now that they’re gone… it’s devastating.
“You’re sorry you kissed me?” he asks, and his voice is so sharp in the silence that I jump and blurt, “No. I mean, yes.”
Fuck. This is not going well.
He raises an eyebrow, and after all these weeks, I finally see the asshole director he’s reputed to be. “Yes or no?”
I struggle to respond. What can I say that won’t make this worse? If I say no, I’m a creepy guy who takes pleasure in harassing his colleagues. If I say yes—
Wait.
“Why does it matter?” I ask. A tiny, teeny, almost nonexistent flame of hope has flared to life inside me. We stare at each other across the desk.
It seems like neither of us is willing to lower defenses. I guess since I’m the one who preempted this whole fucked-up mess, I should be the one to give first.
Right?
At least it’ll end this stalemate. And maybe I’ll stop sweating.
“I’m sorry I kissed you without making sure you wanted that, and I’m sorry I’ve made things awkward and disrupted our working relationship, but I’m not sorry I kissed you.” Instantly, I want to add another hundred disclaimers, but I force myself to shut up. Babbling is not going to help this situation, and I think I was clear enough.
I hope.
He blinks, and it seems like it’s in slow motion, his lids lowering, lashes sweeping down, then up, until I’m once again staring into those golden-brown eyes.
He sighs. “I’m not sorry you kissed me, either.”
It takes about a week and a half for his words to sink in, and then I surge out of the chair, adrenaline exploding through me…
…and stand awkwardly in front of his desk, not sure what to do next.
So I sit back down.
He’s smiling now, and even though it’s kind of at my expense, I’m glad.
“If you’d asked me if I wanted that kiss, I would have said yes. And I think we’re both old enough and professional enough to not let this fuck up our work.”
Right. That’s an opening.
“I agree.”
The words hang in the air as we continue to look at each other across his desk. I should do something. Say something. Lunge across the desk and kiss him.
No. Wait.
I stand abruptly. “Come on.” I don’t wait, just turn and stride out of his office, through our reception area, down the hall, and out into the street. The area behind the theater is abandoned, what with nothing happening inside. I wait until Jason steps out to join me, a baffled look on his face, then pin him against the side of the building and kiss him.
Follow My Lead: A Joy Universe Novel Page 9
