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He doesn’t talk about his family, or the way they call him a filthy little queer.
He doesn’t talk about the men I know he wants, or the gay porn he jerks off to and thinks I don’t know about.
I do wish he’d talk about Alexander Henley, for him as much as me.
Maybe one day.
But today is all about scoring my way into Alexander Henley’s bedroom, even if it’s only to wash his sheets. Sonnie might have her super-duper cleaning cloths, but I’ve got something she doesn’t have. Absolute determination, with a side helping of crazy.
I’m definitely on the side of crazy today, fizzing with the prospect of stepping foot inside that Kensington house and seeing it all for myself – all his little habits, all his ways, in his most private surroundings. I want to walk barefoot across his plush carpets, strip naked and wrap myself in his bedsheets and breathe him in, so near but so far. I want to be the one to hang his suits up and load his dishwasher and walk his lovely dog. I want to be able to pretend…
I’m already pretending. Pretending I’m already close as I sneak through the service passage to meeting suite ten. I’ve seen the roster. I know he was in there just over an hour ago. I’ll be wiping his fingerprints from the glass table top, polishing up the chair he’s been sitting in. A ghost behind him, following him, adoring him. Stalking him, Dean would say. He’s not so far wrong, I guess.
The room is supposed to be long empty, that’s what the roster says. I’m loaded up with cleaning products and committed to my entry as I shoulder open the door and step inside. The lights are dim, the London skyline bright through the floor to ceiling windows. I don’t see his silhouette until my feet are already on the carpet, the door swooshing shut behind me.
Oh fuck.
Alexander Henley has his ear pressed to his mobile phone, his voice angry and curt as he barks out orders to the person on the other end.
I back into the door, heart pounding, mouth paper dry at the thought of the disciplinary I’m bound to be getting for this.
Discreet. You must be discreet.
I’ve really fucked up. My dream of promotion shrivels and dies in the air between us as Mr Henley himself turns to face me.
He steps forward, and the glow of a spotlight catches his forehead, his brows so pitted as he squints to make me out in the shadows. I lower my head, and for once I’m grateful for my stupid cap. I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want him to see me.
So much for the late-night office fantasy.
“Hold,” he says to the handset, and he’s heading my way. I’m doomed, a rabbit in headlights, unable to bolt and run because that would be too rude, unable to stay because Janet Yorkley will throw a fit at me when she hears about this.
The panic thrums, my mind spinning through my options.
Maybe I should beg him to forgive my error. Beg him to turn a blind eye and not let Janet know what a fuckup I made.
Maybe I should beg full stop.
I’d beg for anything from him.
I shrink into the door, my cap low and shoulders hunched, as though being small is going to save me. But weirdly, as my breath comes out ragged and my knees feel all weird and wobbly, it does.
He stops.
Stares.
I feel his eyes burning as mine stare at the handset lolling in his hand, the call still active. His hands are big. Long fingers. I can’t raise my eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Henley, sir,” I whisper, clutching my armful of products like a shield. “I thought… it said the room would be…”
“Empty,” he finishes. “Yes. I’ll be out of your way shortly.”
The handset rises to his ear and my eyes follow, and he gestures me forward, gestures I can carry on about my business. His laptop is still open on the table, but he indicates I can clear it to the side. His coffee cup, too.
My skin prickles. My eyes meeting his for just a moment as I dither and dawdle, and I must look petrified because he smiles.
He smiles.
Just for a heartbeat.
And then he’s barking at the person on the other end again, pacing back to the windows.
My fingers are shaky as I unload my supplies onto one of the chairs. The polish makes a hiss as I spray, too loud for the room, and I see him turn again, staring as he paces. I can’t look at him, I daren’t. I give it my best as I scrub and buff, stretching over the expanse of glass, my arms tense with effort. I lift his laptop so gently, taking care not to look at his inbox on screen. I lift his coffee cup and buff underneath, wipe down the seat he’s been sitting in, then rebuff the table until my reflection is crisp and clear and I can even see my terrified eyes.
