Claire's quiet for a long moment, her arms wrapped tighter around herself. "Because I keep thinking if I just do enough, achieve enough, become enough... she'll be proud of me. That I'll finally be good enough."
"Good enough for what?"
"For people like you," she says, and her voice cracks slightly. "Successful people. Important people. People who have their lives together and don't have to try so hard to be taken seriously."
The pain in her voice kills me. I've spent over a year being cold to her, keeping her at arm's length, and she thinks it's because she's not good enough. When the truth is she's extraordinary and I'm terrified of how much I want her.
"Claire."
"I know it's stupid," she continues, cutting me off. "I know I should be confident, that my worth isn't determined by my dress size or my mother's approval or whether my boss thinks I'm doing a good job. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things, you know?"
I do know. I know exactly what she means. After Lena died, people kept telling me I needed to move on, date again, and be happy. Like it was that simple. Like knowing what you should do and actually doing it were the same thing.
"You are good enough," I tell her. "You're more than good enough. You're…"
I stop myself before I say too much. Before I tell her she's brilliant and capable and the best part of my day. Before I tell her that watching her work is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.
Before I tell her I'm in love with her.
"I'm what?" She's looking up at me now, and in the dim light from the courtyard, I can see hope in her eyes.
This is dangerous. We're too close, and I've said too much, and if I don't stop now, I'm going to do something we'll both regret.
But God, I don't want to stop.
"You're an excellent assistant," I say finally, and I watch the hope die in her eyes.
It's for the best. I'm her boss. She's eighteen years younger than me. She deserves someone who isn't broken, someone who can give her a normal relationship, someone who hasn't spent five years hiding from life as a widower.
"Right." She wraps her arms tighter around herself. "An excellent assistant. Of course."
"You should get some sleep," I say, and it comes out colder than I mean it to. It sounds dismissive.
"Right. Sleep." She turns away from the window, from me. "Goodnight, Mr. Rhodes."
Mr. Rhodes.We're back to that.
She climbs back into bed, and I can see the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she curls into herself like she's trying to disappear.
I did that. I hurt her. Again.
I stay at the window for another hour, watching snow fall and hating myself. I almost told her. Almost admitted that every day for the past fourteen months has been torture, watching her walk into my office and knowing I can't have her.
But what would be the point? Even if she somehow felt the same way—which she doesn't, couldn't possibly—what then? We work together. I'm old enough to have been in college when she was born. I'm her boss, for fuck's sake. The power dynamic alone makes anything between us inappropriate at best, predatory at worst.
Better to keep the walls up. Better to be cold and distant and professional. Better to make her think I see her as nothing more than an assistant than to risk destroying both our careers and hurting her worse.
When I finally go back to bed, the sky is starting to lighten. Christmas morning, and I'm lying six inches away from the only woman I've wanted in five years, pretending I don't want her at all.
I wake to my phone alarm at 6 AM. I always wake up at 6 AM, even on holidays. Even when I've had approximately two hours of sleep.
Claire is still out, her face peaceful in sleep, her hair spread across the pillow. Without thinking, I reach out to brush a strand away from her face, then stop myself.
What am I doing?
I get up quietly and head for the shower. The hot water helps clear my head, wash away the weird intimacy of the 2 AM conversation. By the time I'm dressed in slacks and a button-down, I've got my armor back in place.
Work. That's what I need. Work is safe. Work I understand.
