“The arrangement stays private.” She says this looking straight at me, and there’s a reading in it. Of her or me, I’m not sure. Is she ashamed of what she’s doing? Or is she afraid to be associated with me?
Either reason is smart. “As you wish.”
“You agreed to that very easily,” she says.
“They’re reasonable accommodations.” Barely accommodations at all.
“Okay,” she says, as though something’s been settled. “I’m going to bed.”
I nod and watch her walk away. The apartment sounds different now—occupied in a way it hasn’t been since I moved in. Not louder, but there’s a texture to my home that it didn’t have before. I try to identify whether this is a problem and find that I can’t, which is itself information worth noting.
I go to my office and work through case notes for nearly an hour. The work is fine once I’m in it. But then an email comes through.
Marco. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning.
Today has rattled me enough. Too much change. Too much upheaval. Now my boss wants me to pay him a visit?
I blow a breath out my nose to let out my aggravation, but to no avail. I don’t want to see Marco. I prefer the version of my world where he’s not a factor.
He’s fine for the organization, I suppose. Focuses too hard on low-level stuff, but that’s only to keep us off the law’s radar. I understand why he’s pivoted us in this direction, but when yourtargets are single moms and corner stores, you’re not going to grow the business. It’s small potatoes, and that’s a waste of time.
Not that he’s ever heard me when I told him so.
I shut my laptop and push off my desk with both hands. The brown bottle on the shelf calls my name, and I answer with a three-finger pour. Knocking it back doesn’t help either.
I could hit the gym to sand the edge off. Or… I head for my bedroom. A hot shower and a jerk will probably be enough to help.
But when I open my door, Lena’s there. In my bed. A pale pink nightgown, her hair in loose waves across the pillow, reading something on her phone.
“You’re here.”
“You’re observant.” She looks up when the door opens without particular surprise.
I need to bite that smart lip of hers.
Closing the door behind me, I wonder aloud, “So, you’re here to meet your end of the bargain?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
I step to the end of the bed near her feet. Lovely things, as feet go. Pink nail polish, soft-looking. “I have a meeting with my boss tomorrow. I need to be sharp.”
“That’s your version of asking?”
“It’s my version of context.” I skim my hand up her ankle. “I did my asking before you came to live with me. Don’t need to ask again, do I?”
She sets the phone face down. “No. You don’t.”
I flip the hem of her nightgown up her thighs—full, inviting. “Do you want me to ask? Is that a part of what you like?”
“What does it matter what I like?—”
I grip her thighs for balance and to curry her attention. “It matters.”
Her chest rises and falls dramatically, stretching the thin fabric over her breasts as her lips part in surprise. “I like… I don’t…”
“You like me to ask your permission?”
She bites that pouty bottom lip. “I like it when a guy takes control.”
