He rises and I step back from the rack for him to take it. He grasps one side then pauses. “Thank you for helping today. You probably had better things to do.”
“No, I’m exactly where I need to be.”
Our eyes snag for a moment, catching and threatening to rip the moment in two. But then he moves, pushing the rack through the door. I slump onto the stool, breathless.
12
Liam
Iwas planning on showing Henri the main office anyway, remembering how she was aSpitfirereader before we met, and now that we’re here, I seize the chance to show her around.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I could take a picture of this and sell it for thousands?” Henri asks, stepping back to take in the concept wall for our December digital articles and print issue.
When it was first put together, the wall was organized and easy to read, but now it looks a bit like a murder board from a crime show. Fallon’s scribbled notes mark what pieces have priority or need to be pushed to give them time to be reworked, now that we’re in the thick of it.
There isn’t much to see. There are other magazines in the building under the same publisher and ours is one of the smallest. Beyond the fashion closet, there are a few conference rooms, the main glass-walled offices, breakroom/kitchen with the busted coffee machine and promotional mugs, and here, the main bullpen, with our islands of desks for non-senior staff members.
“Probably not. I think every publication has about the same variety of gift lists and movie recommendations this time of year.” I lean against my desk, taking in the view and sipping on my coffee. She’s enraptured. The same way she looked when she spotted the Christmas market in Union Square. Unfiltered Henri. My favorite.
While she’s occupied, I take a moment to pull out my notebook that lives in my back pocket—I’m not joking when I say I have an imprint of the rectangular shape in a majority of my jeans—and write new details about her down.
Drinks coffee (if it’s good). Need to find out what kind she prefers.
Hates gifts. Or maybe just uncomfortable?
Fashion.
At the sound of her voice, I snap the notebook closed. “Why is your name next to Jasmine’s on a card that says Santa Sutra?” She taps a card just above her head.
I cough and pull at the collar of my sweater which has suddenly become suffocating. “Before the sex positions go out for publication we, umm, have to make sure they’re physically possible. Jasmine and I check a lot of them since I have the most upper body strength of the writing staff. So, we try them—fully clothed. In a completely platonic way.” And have felt like a mundane part of my job up until this moment.
“Says the guy who was panting with me after climbing three flights of stairs.”
“That’s completely different and you know it.”
“I think I’ll need a visual. Is there a picture somewhere of how to do this one?”
“You’re terrible,” I grumble.
Her eyes go wide and a hand flies to her heart as she feigns innocence. “I just have a thorough interest in your work. This way I can talk about it with your family.”
“If there is one thing you shouldn’t do, it’s talk about how I help with sex positions at work.” I don’t even want to imagine what they’d say if they knew.
“I promise I won’t talk to themifyou give me a demonstration.”
“It’s like this.” I kick my feet out so my knees are at a ninety degree angle and prop my hands behind me, gripping the edge of my desk the way I would if I were prepping for a tricep dip. I lower myself once. “But you know, someone is on top and the movement is supposed to add, umm, stimulation.” Just a regular exercise. I try to remind my body of that while trying my hardest to not picture Henri as a partner in this scenario.
“It just looks like you’re working out.”
“That’s probably because I’m one half of the equation and these positions are supposed to be possible but not necessarily recommended.”
She walks over to me and examines me for a second as I freeze. I’m about to quit this stupid thing when she takes another step then swings her leg over my hips, landing so she’s rubbing against me, which would be good if we were actually having sex, but due to the circumstances, it is an absolute test of my control. Control that is threatening to snap at any moment. I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes darting up to the wall trying to read anything to distract me.
Mistake because when my gaze lands on the wordsAll Wrapped Upon one of the cards all I can picture is Henri naked on my bed, secured into place with ribbon. Fuck. I’d give anything for that.
“Like this?” Her hand lands on my chest. “Or is it facing the other way?” She twists, unconsciously working her hips, creating even more friction between us. Is she trying to kill me?
“I don’t think it matters,” I grit out.
