My mind immediately goes to her last relationship, the last man she let into her bed. Thankfully, I’m smart enough not to go there. At some point in the night, she’s stopped feeling like my employee and more like a date. But she is my employee, and she isn’t in my apartment, tucked onto my couch, because she wants to be. She’s here because she has to be. Any other thought is a fantasy, and a dangerous one at that.
“When is your birthday?” Safe. Appropriate. Not fucking creepy, which is the most important thing.
Brielle let out a surprised chuckle, her mirth building and building until she’s roaring with laughter. She has to work to take a breath and collect herself, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“You good?” I deliver, displaying all the emotions of a crabapple.
She wipes under her eyes. “Yes. Sorry about that.” She chuckles again, quietly this time. “November 14.”
I nod, like an idiot.
We continue to lob question after question at each other, trying to get as much information about each other as we can, both of us staying away from anything too personal.
It starts to feel more like an interview than a date. Which is good. It shouldn’t feel like a date, because it’s not.
Brielle yawns, and when I glance at the clock, I realize it’s almost 10:00 p.m.
“Let me get you home. It’s late,” I say.
“You don’t have to take me. I can call an Uber,” she says through another yawn.
I don’t bother to respond, getting up and helping her to her feet. We’ve both taken our shoes off at some point throughout the evening. I’m bent over, tying my laces, when her delicate feet come into view. Her perfect arch slips into her heel. I stay where I am just so I can watch her other foot glide into that curved black pump. My blood heats.
Fuck. I’m even more hard up than I thought if this is what’s doing it for me.
I pull up to her apartment ten minutes later and get out, walking her to the front door of her building.
“Here is fine,” she says. “You don’t have to walk me up to my apartment.”
“Okay.” For some reason, we can’t seem to figure this out. At times, we’re comfortable, even friendly, with each other. But other times, like now, an awkwardness settles around us.
“You doing alright, Ms. Collins?” The homeless man from the first time I picked Brielle up is here again. He must feel the weird tension between us because he looks like he’s about ready to tell me off.
“I’m good, Pete. Thanks.” Brielle smiles at him.
He looks at me for a long moment before moving his gaze back to Brielle with a quick nod. I like him.
“Good night, Brielle.” She tilts her head up to me. The urge to kiss her surges through me, just like it did last time. The energy around us shifts. Her pretty pink lips part, and I can’t pull my eyes away from them.
“Night, Damian.”
I wish I knew what was going through that pretty little head of hers. I’m sure it isn’t the same wayward thoughts that scatter through mine. Her soft skin pulls me to her without even thinking. I brush a lock of hair behind her ear. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Okay,” she says, her voice shaky.
I shouldn’t be the person causing her heart to beat faster.
And I really shouldn’t like it as much as I do. And with that thought, I tuck my hand back into my pocket, safely away from her touch.
The next night, we go through the same motions. And then the night after that. I pick Brielle up at the café after work and take her back to my apartment. I make dinner for us, and we sit on the couch, sometimes talking, sometimes just being in each other’s company. I usually hate having company at my house, and every night, I’m waiting for that feeling to hit, the impatience and annoyance of having to “entertain” someone, but it never comes.
I don’t feel like I have to beonall the time. My sharp edges soften every time she makes herself at home in my space. I can feel the lines wanting to blur, and every day, I have to remind myself that this is a temporary, strategic arrangement, nothing more.
By the end of the week, I’m actually looking forward to our evening together. Brielle walks by my office at 5:00 p.m., never looking my way. She’s careful that no one knows that we’re spending time together. It wouldn’t be a good look for me to be caught entertaining an employee off hours in my own home, but for some reason, it bothers me that it’s Brielle who’s so concerned about it. I’m grateful that I haven’t needed to have some awkward talk with her about the importance of keeping our arrangement discreet, but would a friendly wave or smile be too much?
I have to admit, with my reputation around this office… yes, it probably would be.
I give her a five-minute lead like usual. She’s sitting on a stool in front of the window with her phone to her ear when I walk in. Her blue eyes lock on mine, and my feet move toward her like she’s controlling them with her mind.
