“Good, I’m glad,” he said about my wanting to stay on the job.
“Besides,” I said, “now that we have this system worked out, it’s been going really smoothly.” I tried to keep my voice light, like it wasn’t a huge blowup and the demise of whatever personal interaction we’d begun that caused us to come to this new working arrangement.
“Yeah, about that,” he said. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together, like he was a doctor about to deliver terminal test results to his patient. “We need to talk about that night.”
I braced myself. There was no way I was going to apologize for berating him for almost using the term rape. But… “Iamsorry for what you felt was an intrusion on your privacy by reading your documents. It seemed to make sense to put the transcribed notes in the correct document, but I shouldn’t have read all the chapter one documents.” It was true I shouldn’t have gone into all those documents. It was clear that my files could have been left on their own, or at the very least, put in the “Notes” doc for each book. I didn’t need to read them all. Although, a heads-up from him about not wanting to share those docs would have helped the whole situation.
(Yeah, I might have still looked, not sure about that.)
“I could have been more clear about where to put everything on my computer,” he easily conceded. He ran a hand over his chin, then leaned back in the chair and looked to a point just beyond me. A look I knew well from his class.
He let out a deep sigh. “I’ve even been wondering if it wasn’t some kind of Freudian slip on my part? If maybe I purposely didn’t give you more specific instructions?” His gaze came back to me. “If maybe I actuallywantedyou to read my stuff?”
“Maybe,” I said, not immune to fucked-up logic, having had a lifetime of it myself. “But then why the freak out? And to such an intense level?”
“I’m really sorry about that. About using that verbiage.” He sat forward again, as if physically, as well as verbally, pleading his case. “You were right. It’s not a word to be used in any sense except literally. And I don’t mean “literally” as it’s being used today.”
“You mean figuratively?” I said, daring to crack a bit of a smile.
“God, don’t even get me started on that whole thing.” He waved a hand, his smile tentative, matching mine. “The bottom line is, I’m a writer. I, better than most people, know the power of words. And should also know when hyperbole is not only not needed, but downright offensive.”
He searched my eyes, and I could sense he wanted me to pipe in, to tell him why I, personally, found his usage offensive. But I didn’t say anything. Nor would I. Ever.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said.
“Me too,” I said, meaning that the whole damn thing had ever happened.
He nodded, seeming to bring that discussion to a close. Doing what looked like a mental head slap, he rose from his seat and moved to the credenza. “Oh, man, I don’t want to forget this. Again.”
I watched as he reached behind one of the boxes filled with his notes (and my next round of gainful employment!), and pulled out a wide, but fairly flat, gift-wrapped box with a bow on it.
He came around to my side of the desk and leaned against the front, facing me, offering me the box. “This is for you.”
“It is?” I said, looking at the box like it might be a trap of some sort. We’d just come to an alliance about my continued working for him. Then to throw a gift into things? On Valentine’s Day? “What is it?” I asked, still not reaching for it.
He leaned forward and placed the box on my lap. I almost opened my knees and shut them, catching his hand, like it was thePretty Womanpearls. Oh, to have his hand between my legs.
But I was neither quick nor brave enough to pull it off, and he placed the box without touching me at all.
“Open it,” he answered, giving me no clue as to its contents.
“But, why?” I asked, then began unwrapping it, sticking the bow to the arm of my chair.
“I got it for you in Gstaad. I’d intended on giving it to you that first day I got back, I even had it in my bag. But I got…distracted.”
I looked up at him and raised a brow, knowing full well what had distracted him. My mouth. My body. My kisses.
He cleared his throat before continuing, but I did notice his gaze had dropped to my mouth. “Anyway. Instead of a holiday gift, I guess it has become a peace offering of sorts.”
“But…today?”
“Why not today?” he asked.
I looked at him questioningly, but he just shrugged, not knowing what I was getting at. Sighing, I said, “Because it’s Valentine’s Day?”
The look on his face was classic Absent-Minded Professor. His gaze swung to the large wall calendar pinned up above the couch. “Aw, shit,” he said as he acknowledged the date.
I lowered my gaze and continued to slowly unwrap the box, the thrill somewhat tarnished knowing that he hadn’t meant anything romantic by his gift-giving timing. My hands were sure, though my emotions weren’t, as I slid the wrapping paper from the box, which had some French name on the cover embossed in gold.
