She smiles. ‘That’s funny.’
I’m not sure it is, but I say nothing.
‘Can I have a taste then?’ She pushes one slim arm towards my glass.
Hmm, now I’m in a fix. I don’t do the whole sharing saliva thing. It’s one of my golden rules. Not even with Fitz, and we’ve shared just about everything else. Even boxer shorts. I’ve known Fitz for way too long, but even as this is racing around my brain, I feel my own arm handing the drink to her with a ‘Sure, help yourself.’ God, I’m such an idiot.
I feel a wave of irritation. What happened to standards? She takes my tumbler and pulls it towards her, pushing the straw to one side so she can press her pink coral lips against my glass.
‘Oh.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘That is so sour.’ Suddenly, her expression drops. ‘I mean, the drink is sour, not that you are… You’re not.’ Awkwardly, she glances back towards King’s office. ‘I mean to say,’ she flusters awkwardly, ‘I’m not saying Mr King thinks that you’re sour.’
I can’t help it; I throw back my head and laugh. ‘I am! Actually, sour kind of sums me up.’
‘No,’ she says, reaching her soft hand out towards my wrist. ‘No, not at all. You’ve got a lot on your mind.’
Escape, I think. All I’m ever really thinking about is escape. I find myself bending the corner of a coaster. A nervous tick. Embarrassed, I slide the thing flat.
‘Sour, it’s just… the way I am. Take it or leave it.’ I shrug, immediately wishing I hadn’t said that. I mean, who in their right mind would get involved with someone who’s a self-confessed sour person, even with the cash/lifestyle incentives?
Clara flinches slightly. ‘I don’t know.’ She slides my drink back across the table and removes her hand from my wrist. ‘You talk like you’re fixed in place. As though you have no choices. I think you’re…’ Her eyes widen and her pink lips part. For a breathless moment, I think she’ll close the distance between us, lean in, and kiss me. But then, irritatingly, she sits back, glances away. ‘Sorry, I’m just–’
‘Not a therapist? Shame, most people are willing to try on the role.’
‘No.’ She smiles. ‘Therapy is not my thing. You’re funny.’ She glances down at her pantsuit. ‘I’m just a plain old receptionist. Not even a degree to my name.’
‘Maybe I like the way you are.’ I could kick myself. The compliment was out of my mouth before I’d had a chance to stop it. It’s just the sort of smarmy crap I can imagine my father saying. The sort of lines he used to get women into bed. Instantly, I’m so mad with myself that I can barely talk.
The silence stretches, awkward and strained between us. I should write a book: How to Kill an Evening in Two Seconds Flat. I stare awkwardly around the room like everyone else in here is so much more fascinating than us, than her. Clara takes the opportunity to study the candle flickering on the dark, polished wood between us. But I can’t help noticing that her shoulders are raised and that bright little spark of joy she gets in her eyes, well, that’s gone. I’m such an idiot. I’m seriously aching to reach across the table and take her hand; to tell her that I’d like her to be more than just my receptionist. But I made a deal with myself. I don’t mess with the staff. I am not my father. Not the kind of idiot who charms women into his bed with hollow promises, pretty lies, and a bag full of keep-it-quiet dough. I won’t take advantage of Clara, no matter how much I would like to.
‘I should get home,’ she says abruptly, standing and grabbing her jacket from the banquet. ‘Early morning tomorrow.’ There’s a hint of irony to her tone and a forced lightness as, in contrast, I feel panic rising in my own chest. I don’t want her to leave. I’d rather sit with her in excruciatingly awkward silence than go anywhere or do anything. Time is slipping away, the distance between us widening with every second.
‘Don’t go,’ I say simply, and I even surprise myself with the quality of my voice. It sounds raw, open, honest.
Her body stills as she searches my face. ‘Why not?’
Why not? A dozen reasons fly through my mind, but I grasp the one that matters most. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’ I’d meant it to sound honest and raw again. This time, though, I’m not sure. Not sure that I’m not coming off as arrogant and entitled instead.
A pink flush stains her cheeks. For a long moment, she just stands there, coat half on, watching me through those deep blue eyes.
Then she sits back down, her movements slow and deliberate. After placing her jacket once more on the velvet cushions, she folds her hands on the table. ‘You’re right,’ she says softly. ‘We’re not done.’
A kind of ecstatic joy surges through me. I’m not my dad. This is genuine. The way I feel for her. It’s all real, and she feels the same way. I’ll sack her tomorrow. Then we can be together. I reach across the table, palm up in offering.
After a cruel heartbeat, she places her hand in mine.
We are seriously so not done.
But suddenly, the moment is lost. She snatches her hand back, eyes flashing. ‘Sorry, sorry. That’s not what I meant.’ She blushes awkwardly. ‘I-I meant…’ she stutters, standing again, shoving her arms into her coat. ‘We’re not done professionally. We still have a job to do, remember? The auditions. The missing…’ She raises her eyes as if in irony. ‘Missing songbird.’
My cheeks burn. Of course. It’s work. Just work. That’s her sole interest, and I admire her for that. In a way. It’s an admirable thing. Besides, I can’t even sack her now. If I did, she would most likely haul me into HR with a charge of improper advances, and they were, I was. She could probably sue me.
She looks away, jaw clenched. When she speaks again, her voice is tight. Most likely it’s being choked with hate and repulsion for me, her boss. I’ve over-stepped. She must think I’m a predatory idiot. Damn.
‘Goodnight, Mr Delagado.’
Mr?
With that she strides off, not even waiting for a reply. I drop my useless head into my hands. I should have waited.
