I grit my teeth. I will be the best investment he's ever had. I will be so indispensable, so charming, so fake that he'll be counting down the days until that waiver releases and he can finally get rid of me.
Another shift from the other side of the wall of pillows. A groan.
I stiffen.
The groan isn't the sound of someone getting comfortable. It's a sound of pain. Low, tight, and sharp.
I wait.
Silence returns, but the rhythm of his breathing has changed. It's faster now. Shallow.
Then, a click.
A soft, pale blue light floods the room, casting long, weird shadows against the vaulted ceiling.
I turn my head slowly, peering over the bolster pillow.
Brooks is sitting up. He has pushed the duvet down to his waist. He's wearing a grey t-shirt that clings to his shoulders and plaid boxers that I absolutely refuse to look at. His laptop is balanced on his knees, the screen glowing harsh and bright in the darkness.
He is squinting at the screen, one hand pressed against his forehead, shading his eyes as if the light hurts him. Which, given that he sustained a concussion recently, it definitely does.
He types something. Deletes it. Types again. Then he winces, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the heels of his hands into his temples.
"You know," I say into the dark, "if you're trying to give yourself a stroke, you're on the right track."
Brooks jumps. He snaps the laptop shut, plunging the room back into semi-darkness.
"You're awake," he says. His voice is rough, scratchy with sleep and pain.
"It's hard to sleep when there's a lighthouse beacon next to me," I say, pushing myself up. I sit cross-legged on my side of the wall. "What are you doing?"
"Working," he mutters. He opens the laptop again, just a crack. "I have emails. The Asian markets are opening."
"The Asian markets will open whether you watch them or not," I say. "Brooks, you have a concussion. The doctor said no screens. No stress. No cognitive strain."
"The doctor doesn't have a deal closing in eight weeks."
"The deal won't close at all if you drop dead from a brain bleed," I counter. "Put the computer away."
"I'm fine," he snaps. He starts typing again, theclick-clack-clicksounding like gunshots in the quiet room. "Go back to sleep, Ivy. You're off the clock."
"I'm never off the clock," I say, sliding out of bed. "Not when the client is actively sabotaging the event."
"I'm not sabotaging anything," he grumbles, not looking up.
"You're working on a laptop at 2 AM with a concussion. That's sabotage." I march around the foot of the bed. The floor is cold under my bare feet. I walk up to his side of the mattress. Up close, he looks terrible. The moonlight washes him out, making the bruise on his temple look like a splash of ink against his skin. His eyes are red-rimmed and tight with pain.
I reach out and grab the top of the laptop screen.
"Hey!" he protests, his grip tightening on the base.
"Let go," I command.
"No.I need to send this draft to legal."
"Send it in the morning."
"Ivy, let go."
