"You're staring at me," he says, without looking up.
"I'm reading."
"You've been on the same page since I sat down."
"It's a dense page."
His mouth curls at the edges and the sight of it kicks something loose in my chest. He's so handsome when he smiles it short-circuits every intention I have of leaving him in peace.
Hey. I never said I was perfect.
I cross the room and kiss the top of his head, between the horns, which is about as high as I can reach. He tips his face up and catches my mouth properly, one big hand at my jaw, and whatever he's working on stops existing for a second.
Then his phone buzzes against the desk.
He glances at the screen and something in him clicks into work mode.
"I have to take this. It's Patel." He's already standing. "I've been waiting for this call all morning."
"Go be powerful."
He stops at the door to the little adjoining office, phone halfway to his ear, and turns back.
"If Gertrude calls the study line while I'm in there, pick up for me? She's locking my calendar and I told her I'd be reachable. Tell her yes on Boston. She'll know what it means."
"Yes on Boston," I say, then take another sip of coffee. "Got it."
"Thank you." Then he's gone, the door clicking shut, his voice dropping into a muffled, low register.
So now I'm the keeper of the study, which feels like being handed the keys to a small, expensive country.
I take my coffee to his chair, because it's objectively the best seat in the building and I have no pride. I drop into it, then sigh deeply and without shame.
The study is immaculate, the way it always is. The only thing out of order is the paperwork on the floor, a fan of folders and loose pages where they slid last night when he swept the whole surface clear to make room for, well. Me. A small smug warmth settles in at the memory of what we did last night and I make no effort to stop it.
Still, I should make myself useful and clean up the mess.
I lean down to gather the files up and begin stacking them into a neat pile. Then my eyes land on a folder with my name on it.
I frown, hesitate, put it on the bottom of the pile, then continue collecting the paperwork.
About thirty seconds later, my stubborn brain pesters me again and I bite my lips, guilt gnawing a hole clean through me, then my fingers retrieve the folder from under the pile.
I stare at the name. Mine. Berwick, Madison R., on a neat printed label. I open it and read.
It's an offer of employment from Meridian Pacific Medical Center, Los Angeles. ICU. My name sits on the top line like it grew there. The smug warmth drains straight out of me, like somebody pulled a plug at the base of my spine.
The study phone rings.
I pick it up on pure reflex, folder still open in my other hand, because my body's faster than my brain right now.
"Thornwood residence." My voice comes out almost normal. A small miracle. "Madison Berwick speaking."
"Oh!" A woman, warm and bright. "This is Gertrude, dear, I'm Mr. Thornwood's assistant. It is so lovely to finally hear your voice."
"Hi, Gertrude." I'm looking at my name on the folder. "Demetrius is on another call. He said to tell you yes on Boston and that you would understand."
"Wonderful, I'll put it in his calendar." Gertrude lets out a pleased little breath. "I'm so glad it's you who picked up."
