‘Ridiculous,’ I mutter as coat hangers screech against the rail of my tiny closet. ‘I’m not going to become a Stepford wife. Just a pretend one for a while.’
I eventually settle for a pair of fitted black pants that end a little above the ankle with a matching top. A sleeveless shirt, this too is slightly cropped and sitting just at the waist. Sure, it’s black, but it’s the kind of outfit that would be fine for a stylish brunch. Or the day I sign my life away. I forego heels in favour of a pair of jewelled sandals and leave down my hair. Then tie it up again. Then settle on tying the front up while leaving the back loose.So stressful.
At the appointed time, the buzzer sounds. With my face pressed against the glass of my third story window, I can just make out the shape of a somewhat familiar black Mercedes. With a feeling that’s part trepidation, part disbelief, I grab my purse and sunglasses before heading downstairs when what I really want to do is climb into my wardrobe and stay there.
The journey into the city is quick. Quicker than I’d like, for sure, and I try not to think about the last time I was in the back of this car.Because, awkward. Thankfully, it isn’t long before I’m deposited outside the towering building.
A security guard sits behind the reception desk, though he lumbers his way to the front door to open it.
‘Mr Beckett is waiting for you,’ he informs me in monotone.
Is that his usual tone, or is he deliberately trying to keep his voice from betraying any inflection? Judgment? What does it matter? I’ve made my decision, so I suppose I’d just better get used to it and try not to feel like someone has whipped out a red Sharpie and painted the letter on my forehead.
I sign in and am escorted to the elevator, the uniformed guard using his key card to select a floor. My eyes are on my shoes as the doors close, my stomach staying on ground level as the rest of me hurtles toward the devil I don’t really know. The devil who has promised to save me.
Kind of.
I must be mad.
‘Olivia.’
As the doors slide open, Beckett is there to greet me. For a moment, I’m taken aback. What do you know? Weekend Beckett wears jeans and a fine knit sweater that clings to all the good parts of him.
‘You look beautiful,’ he adds as though this is our usual exchange, his hand sliding to the curve of my waist as he pulls me in for a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
What isn’t so casual is my reaction as my shirt parts slightly from my pants and his thumb lightly skims my skin. Under the sensation and the pressure of his hand, my nipples immediately harden, and a deep pulse beats between my legs. Just once, but so hard. I claim no responsibility for the things running through my head.
Skin to skin.
What kind of experience would that be with him?
Hard and unforgiving?
Torturously slow as it builds to a peak?
All of those things.
As he pulls away, I get the sense he knows he’s taken a liberty, albeit accidentally, but the reaction is the same. And it’s a reaction he seems to be entirely aware of.
Remember why you’re here, I caution myself. He’s not the only one who can be a snake.
‘Shall we?’ He indicates that I should walk ahead before he falls in step with me. ‘You’re not usually so quiet.’
‘It’s Sunday. You can’t annoy me today.’
‘Is that a dare?’
My hair whips around as I turn to face him. ‘Can we just get this over without any word play?’ He doesn’t reply, but with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, he agrees.
Once in his office, he offers me a drink—an actual drink. I refuse, though watch as he bends to a concealed fridge before pulling out a beer for himself and a water for me.Jeans so suit him.
‘In case you change your mind,’ he says, depositing a glass along with an imported bottle of still water. ‘You’re sure I can’t get you something stronger?’
‘Positive, thanks,’ I reply, while reminding myself of the half bottle of cheap Chardonnay cooling in my fridge. A reward to myself after this.
He takes the seat opposite this time, dropping a manila folder to the low table between us and taking a deep pull on his beer. Knees bent, his feet are planted wide, and I notice the designer tennis shoes he’s wearing.
‘Olivia.’ At the sound of his voice, my head pops up. The warmth in his gaze seems to have lifted by degrees.
