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Under the radar…
That’s it. That’s the last assurance I need. Of course, Pete wouldn’t make his preferences common knowledge with a boss like my dad. Maybe Dad hasn’t seen his Pride pot or is too ignorant to even know what that rainbow stands for.
But Pete slipped up today with me. If I was anyone other than the boss’ son, would he have said something after our interaction? I don’t know, but I can’t imagine him seeking me out at a place like Fairway Foods. It has to be me to make the next move.
Brice is right again, but not in the way he implied. It could go either way. Pete Carver and I can remain strangers with the same secret, or we can share our secrets.
CHAPTER 5
Pete
Today’s familial guilt photography is brought to me by Jesse. Thank you for that, baby brother.
Sighing, I close out of my text messages, so I no longer have to see the image of Dad on an arthritic knee, with grease up to his elbows, wrenching on the PTO connector of their tractor. If they don’t want to take my offer to call the local implement dealer to come out and repair it, that’s on them. And if Dad throws out his back before harvest season, I don’t want to hear about it. I did what I could from afar, even planned to pay for it. The name Carver, however, is likely a synonym for stubborn in the dictionary. Fridays should not feel like Mondays.
Clicking open the shipping report from the factory manager of Bakery Boys, I’m determined to get through my reports before lunch today. That will leave me the afternoon to work on employee reviews. I want to get a head start on Valentine’s Day marketing trend research come Monday. As long as no other distractions pop up today, that should be easy enough to accomplish.
Tugging at my shirt collar, I try to ease the tension in my tie. I know I tied it like I always do, but a sense of constriction is working its way around my throat.
I could not bother with the damn things. Most of the men at Fairway only wear slacks and dress shirts. I can’t recall how many times I’ve been stuck in some meeting with the annoying eye snag of seeing another man’s undershirt lines through his dress shirt. Wear the damn jacket, people. Otherwise, you’re just a big red sign that says I tried, but I really don’t care.
Inhaling a fresh breath, I can’t shake the feeling of being in a confined space. It’s almost like someone is watching me.
Great. Nothing like my paranoia rearing its ugly head in the middle of the workday.
Sighing, I give up and glance at the doorway to satisfy my irrationality, so that I can regain my focus. The pale blue eyes staring back at me might as well be a portal, sucking me back to the awkward moment in the restroom yesterday.
Cameron Fairway. Cameron Fairway is standing in my office doorway. Why is he standing in my doorway?
How long has he been standing there? And why is he making his way over to my desk with two cups of coffee and a smile?
Fairways don’t smile. Hell, no one here does.
“Coffee?” he asks, hoisting one of the cups higher than the other before setting it on my desk calendar, completely concealing August seventeenth.
If he said anything else, I wouldn’t know. I’m too baffled by his presence and the abbreviations on the cup for skim milk latte with cinnamon that eclipsed a day in August off my schedule. He knows what I drink?
“Mr. Fairway,” I greet, if you can call it a greeting. Because what’s the protocol for greeting the boss’ son after you’ve seen his cock for ninety seconds?
Shit. Now that’s all I can see.
I am not a peeper.
I am not a peeper.
Clearing my throat, I move the cup to the coaster next to my pen caddy. “You must be lost.”
“Um, no, actually,” he says, his smile sagging. “I guess you know who I am, then.”
If I’m supposed to understand why he sounds disappointed that I know he’s a Fairway, he’s going to be disappointed two-fold. What in the hell is he doing here?
“Who doesn’t know who you are?”
“Right,” he chuckles. “I was just hoping…” Glancing over his shoulder, he doesn’t finish his sentence as he peers through the glass partition that gives me a view of my staff’s cubicles. “Um, is it alright if I shut the door?”
Before I can think of a plausible excuse to refuse, he hurries to the door, clicking it shut carefully. I am now in a capsule with Cameron Fairway, his giant cock, and an unsolicited coffee gift. We don’t know each other or have any reason to converse. What is happening?
He turns around, flashing me what looks like a relieved smile. Tucking his free hand into his khaki slacks restricts the fabric against his groin, drawing my gaze to the image I’d worked hard to eradicate from my mind since yesterday’s mishap.
