I watch the sun rise over the city and wonder how long I can keep lying to myself about the man in the next room.
About how much I already feel for him.
About how terrified I am of what happens when I stop fighting it.
Eleven
Katriana
Iwake to an empty penthouse. Disappointment settles heavily in my chest.
The silence tells me before I even open my eyes. There are no footsteps in the hallway, no distant clink of coffee cups from the kitchen, no low rumble of his voice carrying through the walls. The penthouse holds its breath around me, still and hollow in a way that speaks of absence. I glance at the door between our rooms to find it pulled firmly shut. An ache of rejection flares hot and unwanted in my chest before I can smother it. Why? I don’t know. I don’t really care to find out either.
Loneliness curls through me, unexpected and unwelcome, followed quickly by irritation at myself for feeling it at all.
Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets where I spent the night tossing and turning and definitely not thinking about the man in the next room. The clock on the nightstand reads half past seven, which means I've slept far longer than I intended and far less restfully than I needed.
I push back the covers and pad toward the bathroom, refusing to examine the hollow feeling in my chest. A shower will help clear my head and wash away the lingering images of moonlight on bare skin. And if I try really hard it might even erase the echo of my name moaned like a prayer in the darkness.
The bathroom is as luxurious as I remembered. It’s all white marble and gleaming fixtures. A shower large enough to fit four people comfortably sits off to the left. I strip off the silk pajamas and step under water hot enough to turn my skin pink. I let it sluice over my shoulders and down my back while I force my mind to focus on practical matters.
Today is my first real day of work. I need to be professional. Composed. I need to remember that Drake Moses is my employer, not my lover, no matter what happened in that library last night or what I witnessed through the crack in that door.
By the time I emerge from the shower wrapped in a towel softer than anything I've ever owned, I feel marginally more human. I'm halfway across the bedroom when I notice it. A folded piece of paper on the dresser that I missed in my bleary-eyed stumble toward the bathroom.
I pick it up and read the masculine scrawl.
You'll find your closet full. If I missed anything please let me know immediately. - D
My closet full?
I cross to the double doors I assumed led to a modest storage space and pull them open, then stand frozen in the doorway while my brain tries to process what I'm seeing.
The walk-in closet stretches before me like a boutique showroom, lined with racks of clothing in every color and style imaginable. Blouses in silk and cotton hang beside pencil skirts and tailored trousers. Dresses for every occasion occupy their own section, from professional sheaths to flowing evening gowns that I would never even consider buying much less trying on. Multiple shelves hold rows of shoes arranged by height and color, from sensible flats to stilettos that make my arches ache just looking at them.
He filled an entire closet with clothes for me and didn't even mention it.
I don't know whether to be touched or terrified by the gesture, so I settle for practical. I have a job to do, and standing here gaping at designer labels won't get it done.
I select a simple navy skirt that hits just above the knee and a white silk blouse that feels like water against my skin. The kitten heels I choose are comfortable enough for a full day on my feet but elegant enough to fit into the world I've suddenly found myself inhabiting. I tuck the blouse into the waistband of the skirt and examine myself in the full-length mirror, adjusting the fabric until the lines fall clean and professional.
My hair presents more of a challenge. The humidity from the shower has brought out its natural curl, and I don't have the energy to fight it into submission. Instead, I let the dark waves hang loose, falling past my shoulders and down my back in a way that feels more vulnerable than I'd like.
The bathroom drawers yield more surprises. Fresh packs of lipgloss in neutral shades that are my favorite. Hair products that smell like vanilla and coconut. Tampons. Face powder andmascara in brands I recognize from magazine advertisements but have never been able to afford.
A woman bought these. Someone who understood what I would need, who thought about the small details that men so often overlook. I wonder who I have to thank for this thoughtfulness, and I file the question away to ask later.
I spot a white box in the same drawer. My birth control pills. There’s a note attached in Drake’s handwriting.
I saw this brand on the kitchen counter in your apartment. If you need anything else, please let me know. - D
He’s thought of everything. Even the idea of me eventually giving in to his charms.
Arrogant man.
I take it for medical reasons, but yeah not getting pregnant is a good reason too because I think the impossible man might be right.
Instead of analyzing my weaknesses toward my boss, I apply minimal makeup. It’s just enough to feel put together, and then I slide my glasses on. The woman staring back at me from the mirror looks almost professional and like she belongs in a building full of powerful men and expensive secrets.
