I reach for my coffee at the same time Wilbur leans over to grab a napkin and our arms brush. The electric feel of his warm skin against mine sends a thousand chattering messages racing up my limbs, the hairs standing to attention like they’re prepping for a military parade.
“Skinny latte?” the server says, the question one of ownership, even though I’ve already got a cup sitting in front of me.
She’s the girl behind the counter, not the one who served me earlier. Her eyes linger on Wilbur’s face before she bends over and who’s the skank now? Her tits are almost falling out of her shirt, she’s got that many holes unbuttoned.
Not that he stares. He glances at her, then immediately turns back to me, slopping a little from his cup as he takes a sip. “Sorry, I’m clumsy today.”
I shake my head, half thankful that my tongue’s tied because at least it stops it saying any more inane sentences.
“Do you want a refill?”
His eyes fix to mine, and I desperately want to say yes because then my stomach might stop rumbling. The delay might give my nerves time to settle; might stop them firing out messages too quickly to catch and interpret them.
But I shake my head. Knowing my luck, another coffee will just make me want to go to the bathroom, then making conversation will be even harder than it is now.
The server takes twice as long to return to the counter as she did when serving me, waggling her non-existent hips as she does so. A useless bait since Wilber immediately turns his gaze back to me.
His attention makes me feel so special that my nerves fall away. I sip my coffee again and he pushes the marshmallows he got with his order over to me, his smile widening as I gratefully swallow them down.
“How’s your mother doing?” he asks, his eyes scouring my face like he’s trying to commit every feature to memory. “I was so sorry to have to let her go, but I hope she fell on her feet.”
Fell over them, more like.
“Sure,” I say, then tell him more, his kind eyes and fervent attention drawing more of the truth out of me than I meant to say.
His sympathetic reaction means I add more and more to my tale and soon I’m confessing about the nights when I can’t sleep because of the parties. The terror I feel sometimes when the walls feel so thin than anyone, anyman, might tumble through them if a punch is thrown hard enough.
And the opposite. The long days that I’m living through now when the money won’t stretch far enough, and the friends wither like unpicked fruit drying on the vine.
The days when my mother’s eyes gain weight so I can feel them when they rest on me. Staring at me like she’s gauging my worth. Wondering how much I’ll fetch on the open market, selling kilogram by kilogram or maybe parcelling me up as a special sold in bulk.
I falter to a stop and, when I check the clock, see that I’ve been talking for nearly half an hour. Spilling secret after secret. Each new revelation probably terrifying the cultured man sitting next to me. The probing questions he asked forgotten in a wave of regret that I’ve screwed up everything. That he’ll breathe a sigh of relief when he walks out of here because he never has to see me or hear about my grubby life ever again.
But instead of making excuses, Wilber places a warm hand on my knee. A reassuring gesture. He slides it upwards as he turns to check the clock on the wall. Slides it until it rests so high up my thigh that his pinky finger brushes against my underwear.
It’s just the angle. When he twists back into place, his hand does too.
We’ve been here for ages, and he hasn’t mentioned the role. I clear my throat, afraid he’s about to leave, and I’ll never hear from him again.
“You mentioned you might have—”
“Of course.” His grin is so impish I could imagine him delivering bad news and I’d just sit here, thinking how lovely it was. “It’s nothing much. Just answering phones and signing for deliveries, things like that.”
“At your office?”
This time his smile broadens, and it makes my chest feel funny. Too tight. Too heavy. A silly reaction. I grip the cushion of the booth seat in my hands, fingers clenching hard until the pressure eases away.
“It’ll be at my home. I work from there three times a week, in the afternoons.”
“So, I’d be a doorman?”
That makes him laugh, but he does it nicely. Like he’s amused, but not at my expense. “You’d be my personal assistant. Once you’ve settled into the role, I might need a few more things. Maybe hiring staff around the house and things like that.”
Hiring staff?My heart gives an extra loud thump at the idea. That’s so much more than I expected. A proper job. I cross my fingers.Don’t fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
“What are the hours like?” I fiddle with my coffee cup, and it seems to remind him it’s empty and has been for a long time. He shuffles, pulling out his wallet and standing.
“We should let them have this table back,” he says, nodding his head at the long lines waiting at the counter. During the time we’ve been in here, it’s really filled up. “My car’s out front.”
