“I have two questions for you.” He leans back, studying me with those green eyes that probably make lesser mortals swoon. “How long have you been in love with her? And does it bother you that she has absolutely no idea?”
The question hits like cold water. I force myself to keep breathing normally, to not react, but Atticus’s smile tells me I’ve already given myself away.
“I don’t?—“
“Please.” He waves a hand dismissively. “The way you look at her? The way you anticipate her needs before she knows them herself? Either you’re in love with her or your dedication as an assistant is a form of self-harm.”
“Maybe I’m just good at my job.”
“Maybe.” He tilts his head, considering. “But I don’t think so. I think you’ve been carrying a torch for our leading lady for… what? The entire three years you’ve worked for her?”
I return to my laptop, typing with unnecessary force. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So you don’t notice the way her whole body relaxes when you walk into a room? You don’t see how she looks for you first at every event, every party? You don’t realize you’re the only person she trusts?”
Each observation makes me hate him a little more. Because I do notice. Of course I notice. I notice everything about Phoenix—the way she tugs her earlobe when she’s nervous, how she hums Fleetwood Mac when she thinks no one’s listening, the particular shade of pink her cheeks turn after two drinks.
But noticing and acknowledging are different things. Acknowledging means admitting that I’m pathetically in love with a woman who sees me as furniture. Useful furniture, maybe even beloved furniture, but furniture nonetheless.
“She doesn’t see me that way,” I say quietly.
“Doesn’t she?” Atticus glances at the lump under the blanket that is Phoenix. “You sure about that?”
“She’s my employer.”
“She’s your everything.” His voice gentles, losing some of that practiced charm. “And you’re hers. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
I meet his gaze finally, searching for mockery, for the punchline. But there’s something almost like understanding in his expression.
“Why do you care?”
He shrugs, leaning back again. “Call it professional curiosity. I’m supposed to be her boyfriend for the next few weeks. Helps to know the competition.”
“There’s no competition. You’re a business arrangement.”
“So are you, technically.”
The words sting more than they should. Because he’s right. On paper, I’m just an employee. A well-paid one, sure, but ultimately replaceable. Phoenix could find another assistant tomorrow if she wanted. Someone who doesn’t spend their nights imagining what it would be like to wake up beside her. Someone who doesn’t have to take suppressants just to maintain professional boundaries when her scent gets too overwhelming.
Someone who isn’t desperately, pathetically in love with her.
“She needs to eat something,” I say, changing the subject. “The Xanax will make her sick otherwise.”
Atticus glances at the untouched fruit bowl. “Want me to try?”
“Why would she listen to you?”
“She won’t.” He grins, sudden and boyish, nothing like his public persona. “But she’ll eat just to spite me. Watch.”
Before I can stop him, he’s reaching over to shake Phoenix’s blanket-covered shoulder.
“Rise and shine, firebird.”
“Fuck off,” comes the muffled response.
“Such language. What would all the little girls who watch your old shows think?”
The blanket shifts, and one hand emerges to flip him off.
