He talked while I ate, taking sips from a beer every now and then. It felt oddly like we were sitting across from each other at a restaurant or something. And the conversation had that feel too, talking about mundane things, not about his work.
I followed his lead, not wanting to bring up Rachel/Esme, and run the risk of being relegated back to intermittent texts, not this wonderful FaceTiming. Because as much as a tiny thrill ran through me when his text tone went off, seeing his face as he spoke only to me, was waaaaay better.
No sharing him with the rest of the class. No wondering if his eyes would turn to me. No shifting my glance at Jane to see if she was flashing him “do me” eyes.
“Oh, my God, that was so amazing,” I said as I finished eating. “Thank you again. You really didn’t have to do that.”
He waved my objection away with a hand and I saw a flash of red on his arm. I’d never seen him wearing red before, not much of any color—he was a black/grey/white wearer mostly. “No problem. If you’re working for me on Christmas—” He held up a hand to stop my coming interruption. “And I know that’s your choice, that I’m not making you.” I relaxed. “Then the least I can do is feed you.”
“Well, thank you. It was really great. And I think I have enough leftovers to last me until New Year’s.” He laughed, but I wasn’t far from the truth.
We sat for a moment just looking at each other. I desperately wanted to reach out my hand and touch the screen, but knew it wasn’t appropriate, nor would it satisfy this building need I had to touch him ever since he’d sat so close to me on the edge of this very desk.
His eyes moved to the top of his laptop and I realized he was checking the time. My heart started beating more quickly as I searched for a way to keep him online, keep being able to see his gorgeous face. Maybe I should talk about work? I might piss him off, but at least he’d stay with me.
I hated that I’d just had that thought. It kind of reminded me of how I’d felt on Sunday at the mall, standing in front of the display of combat boots.
“Well, I guess I better get going,” he said.
“You probably have to be somewhere,” I said, though there was just a tiny hint of question in my voice at the end.
“Yeah, well sort of. I’ve got this thing…”
A lump formed in my throat, but I shoved it down and just smiled and nodded at him. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s just a group…they’re my guy friends from Brown. One of them is getting married next week.”
“Oh, a bachelor party? That sounds like fun.” It actually sounded like some lucky stripper getting to grind herself all over Montrose while I sat in his chair and had my third eggroll. I swiveled a little in the old wooden chair. It was comfy with its worn leather seat, but the slatted wooden arms curved around—totally inappropriate for a lap dance. But then, giving my boss a lap dance in his office chair wouldn’t be real appropriate either. Not that I’d ever given a lap dance.
But I’d certainly be willing to with Montrose.
“No, the bachelor party is this weekend. And I’m not even sure I’m going to that. This is just a quiet thing. Just a few of us having a couple of drinks. Oh, and cigars. Someone said there would be brandy and cigars. I guess we’re trying to prove we’re grown up now.”
“Well, one of you is getting married. Isn’t that proving that you’re grown up enough?”
He grinned—God, how I loved when he did that. “I will definitely make that point. Maybe it will be argument enough to get us out of the brandy and cigar thing and we can just go to a bar and have a beer.”
“That sounds much better to me.”
“Yeah, me too.” He looked at the clock on his laptop again. “Listen, I wanted to mention something about the last time we actually talked.”
Oh, shit. That’s why he wanted to FaceTime…he was going to fire me. The dinner was probably my parting gift. “Listen, I’m so sorry for overstepping. I was just caught up in the work.Yourwork. Definitely your work and I won’t ever—”
“Syd,” he said loudly, cutting me off. I realized he’d said my name several times as I’d rambled on, fighting for my job. Though it somehow felt like I was fighting for more. “Stop,” he said more gently, his hands up in a “calm down” gesture. “You didn’t overstep.” He ran his hand through his hair, tousling it more. And yep, definitely wearing something red. “Or, maybe you did. But if you did, I thank you for it.”
I sat back in the chair, not able to hide my relief. But he felt further away from me, so I leaned onto the desk again, dragging my elbow into an open soy sauce packet. I didn’t even care, and just nudged it away. “Seriously?” I tentatively asked.
He nodded. “Seriously. Why I wanted to talk about it was because of how I reacted to it.”
“You were fine on the phone,” I pointed out.
He sat back a little. “I know. I loved talking about it all with you.”
“I did too.”
“But after I got off the phone, the little insecure writer on my shoulder started whispering to me.”
“What did he say?” I asked, fascinated. Was the little guy on his shoulder similar to the one that sat on my shoulder at the mall that same day? And, let’s face it, pretty much all the time.
