I wasn’t okay five minutes later when I got into my car and stuck my phone up onto the magnet mount, though. Because the address Marshall had texted me was very definitely residential, not commercial.
Letting out a nervous breath, I swiped open to my text messaging and typed one out to him, my car still in park.
Is this your house?
Marshall
Yes
Simple and straightforward, just like him, just like everything between us had been for the entirety of our relationship. Marshall was the same at work as he’d been at Rapture—astute, aware, and alert. He carried himself with the air of a man who never argued because he never had to defend himself. He always knew the right things to say, the simple collections of syllables that could so readily disarm a man. He did it in the boardroom, and he undoubtedly carried that energy into the bedroom. Things between us hadn’t gone that far, but with the hint of cum still fresh on the tips of my fingers, I realized I might not care if they did, and that was really,reallyfucked up.
CHAPTER 8
MARSHALL
Silas knocked on my door with every ounce of over-confidence I’d expect a recently traumatized but currently posturing man to have. In another time, I would have made him wait, would have wanted him nervous, but admittedly that was the last thing I wanted with Silas. I was waiting by the door when he arrived, and I opened it quickly, his arm still raised to knock another time.
When he saw me there, he gave me a quick onceover, his face not giving much away about his reaction to my appearance—worn jeans, a threadbare undershirt, and bare feet—before he returned his stare to my face.
“I’m here,” he said, throwing his arms out a little dramatically, “and I’m fine.”
Sighing, I stepped to the side to make room for him to come in.
Silas stepped onto the white tile of my entryway, looked back at my bare feet, then kicked his shoes off without asking if it was necessary. With socked toes, he nudged his black sneakers—the same ones from last night—into a neat line against the baseboard, then he followed me into the living room without complaining.
I’d made him lunch because he needed to eat, but I ignored the way his stomach growled once he saw the pasta salad and sandwiches I’d set out on the coffee table. Gesturing for Silas to take a seat in one of my chairs, I took the one opposite him and waited for him to say something. Again, in other circumstances, it would have been different, but Silas was skittish as a mouse even if he tried to pretend otherwise.
“You really read it,” he finally said, leaning forward and tapping the cover of the most recent issue ofLA Design Digest. It was the one with his article that I had read, more than once.
“I told you as much.”
His stomach growled again.
“Eat, Silas.” I pushed one of the sandwiches closer to him, and he picked the plate up without being told a second time.
He worked his way through half the sandwich before setting the plate back onto the table and pushing it away. Half was better than nothing.
“See?” he prompted, brushing his hands down the front of his chest. “I’m fine. Can I go?”
“I want to talk about what happened last night.”
“I don’t.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because nothing happened.”
“So you weren’t tied to a bench by a man you didn’t know who would have raped you as a worst-case scenario and injured you at best?” My tone was snappish, but Silas’s complete lack of awareness about what had almost transpired at Rapture was too cavalier of an attitude for me to bear.
He stared at me, swallowing hard, like the words were a truth he didn’t have the stomach for.
“I’m fine, Marshall,” he said again, the syllables far more measured. Pressing his palms against the top of his thighs, he leveraged himself to stand. “Thank you for lunch.”
“Sit down, Silas.”
And he did, cheeks burning bright as hot coals.
Silas worked his jaw, looked from me to the food to his lap, back to the table again before asking, “What did you think about my suggestion in the article to use solar power tied in with the water purification?”
