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I turn and go to Becker’s office. We’ve covered significant emotional ground, but now it’s back to work. Now he’s my boss again – my arrogant, testing boss. The boss I just confessed my love to. The boss who just confessed his love to me. My nerves intensify while my eyes journey across the intricate carvings of the door, the Garden of Eden and that huge fucking apple glaring at me. Forbidden fruit. The devil.
Stabilising my breathing, I push my way into his office, finding his work space empty. Oh. So where is he? I wander in and decide to call him, rather than search every possible room in The Haven, but a noise from behind has me whirling around, surprised.
I find nothing, just the wall of ceiling high bookshelves. ‘What was that?’ Keeping still and quiet, I listen carefully as my eyes scan Becker’s palatial office. I’m not liking the goose bumps that have jumped onto my skin. Nor the increased beats of my heart.
Then I hear it again – something like a shifting of wood. It’s faint, but I still jump like a scared cat. My feet are in action before I can tell myself to be rational. If my senses want to get me away now, then I’m not going to argue with them. I zoom from Becker’s office and shut the door behind me, immediately dialling him. His silly little rule in the NDA – the one that states I must answer within five rings, better apply to him, too.
He answers in two. ‘Princess?’
‘Where are you?’ I ask, my jumpiness mixing with a bit of impatience. I sound plain wound up. Or spooked. Or both. Is this place haunted?
‘You okay?’ He’s obviously sensed it.
‘No, I think there’s . . .’ I drift off, quickly reasoning with myself. I think there’s what? A ghost in his office? He’ll think I’ve lost my mind. ‘Where are you?’ I breathe.
‘In my office,’ he states, nonchalant and calm, prompting a massive frown to wriggle its way onto my forehead.
‘What?’ I turn and come face to face with Eve and the gigantic apple again.
‘I’m in my office,’ he repeats, still super cool.
I turn the handle and push the door to his office open, remaining on the threshold, wary. ‘But I . . .’ My words fade to nothing, because, low and behold, there he is, sitting at his desk. What the hell?
Becker looks up at me, smiling coolly. He looks pristine, suited and booted. Deliciously sinful. My phone is still held limply in my grasp, hovering at my ear, whereas Becker has taken the initiative to disconnect the call.
‘You okay?’ he asks, taking his glasses from his face and cleaning the lenses.
I crane my neck so I can scan his office, rather than stepping inside. ‘Fine,’ I murmur mindlessly.
‘You coming in, or are you just gonna hover on the edge of my Garden of Eden?’ His silly joke doesn’t have the desired effect, my mind too puzzled, though an appropriate, very vivid image of Becker munching on a ripe, juicy apple does tickle the corners. Tossing it aside on this occasion is easy.
‘How long have you been in here?’ I ask, taking tentative steps as I let my phone drop from my ear.
‘Since I left you in bed.’ He watches me approaching him like he’s dangerous, a questioning look on his face. I can’t blame him; I must look super suspicious, but I’m not at liberty to feed his obvious curiosity because I haven’t a clue what’s just happened. I must be losing my mind. He wasn’t in here. I’m not asleep and dreaming, though I nearly pinch myself to check. So what the hell is going on?
When I arrive at Becker’s desk, he raises his eyebrows in prompt for me to enlighten him on my peculiar behaviour. ‘All right?’ he asks when it becomes obvious that I’m far from forthcoming. He slips his glasses back on, blinking a few rapid times as he does. His action draws my attention to something on his eyebrow, now half concealed by the thick frames of his glasses. I reach over his desk, and his eyes follow the path of my hand, until I press the tip of my index finger onto the edge of his well-defined brow.
‘You have something here,’ I say, wiping at the grey smudge. The smear is large, and it doesn’t disappear with one swipe of my finger.
Becker withdraws from my reach, his hand coming up and dusting away the remnants of . . . whatever it is. ‘Probably soap.’ He dismisses it easily, not even looking at what he’s wiped from his face, before taking his attention to something on his computer screen.
Silence falls. An awkward silence. I haven’t made it awkward. He has, by the way he’s blatantly feigning concentration on his screen. I start to chew on the inside of my lip as I unbend my body from over the desk, bringing my thumb to meet the tip of my index finger and rubbing what I’ve wiped from Becker’s brow between them. I try to be as casual as possible, glancing around the office as I do. Whatever I wiped away feels . . . dusty. Abrasive. Not soapy.
