Page 31 of Based on You

I fluttered my eyes open.

The hallway ceiling moved past above me. I was being carried. I turned my head, still half asleep, and found a crisp white shirt at eye level, a solid arm cradling my back, a broad chest warm and steady against my side. I tipped my head up and traced the sharp line of his jaw from below, set tight with concentration.

I turned my head the other way. Through the open doorway of the office, I could see the leather couch silvered by the light from the windows. Right there, on the cushion where my face had been resting, were two dark, smeared marks where my mascara had melted off while I slept.

Simon stopped walking and looked down at me, his gray eyes dark in the shadows.

"You're coming home with me," he said.

TEN

SIMON

She kept a wide space between us in the backseat of the car.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the road rushing past the windshield, refusing to move, refusing to look at me. Manuel drove steady, the late-night streets all but empty beyond the windshield, while I sat on my side of the leather seat and watched her.

"So, why were you sleeping in my office?" I finally broke the silence.

She cleared her throat. She still didn't look at me when she answered. "It was only for tonight. I got home from work and found the deadbolt on my door had been changed. I couldn't go to Sloane's because she isn't in town, and I always forget to grab a spare key from her. I was stranded."

I nodded, taking it in. I glanced at her profile in the low light of the car. Her eyes were swollen, the skin beneath them darker than usual. She'd been crying alone on my couch, and she hadn't come to me. She hadn't knocked on a single door for help. She'd just curled up on the cold leather in her work dress and tried to handle it on her own.

There was also the obvious option of a hotel. She hadn't taken it. I decided not to point that out.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" I asked.

She swallowed hard. "I didn't want to intrude."

I'd expected a handful of defensive answers, but not that one. I studied her a long moment. "Intrude?" The word tasted bitter. "I thought we were friends, Violet. I'd have hoped you thought of me the same way."

She let out a short, cynical laugh. "I think of you as my boss. There are firm boundaries, Mr. Beckett. Ones we shouldn't cross."

I leaned back into my seat and let out a long breath. "Well. Looks like we're about to cross this one."

"You really don't have to help me, you know." She finally turned her head. "I can⁠—"

"Shut up, Violet," I cut in gently, pressing two fingers to the bridge of my nose to hold off a coming headache.

She went quiet. I could feel her staring at me from across the seat.

"The celebration party tonight was something," I said, steering us elsewhere.

"Are you drunk?" she asked, suspicious.

"No." I dropped my hand and met her gaze in the dim light. "But I don't want to sit here and listen to a woman whine about how I'm trying to help her."

She laughed, a light, brief sound, then turned her head back toward the passenger window. Her shoulders drew in, and they stayed there. I didn't push her any further. I stayed on my side of the seat, Manuel drove on, and the sleeping city moved past the tinted glass.

We arrived at the house and climbed out of the car. I unlocked the heavy front door and led her inside. The house was pitch dark, every light off, Marta long since gone home. Violet stopped just inside the grand entrance and looked around. She turned her head slowly, taking in what little she could see of the space, getting her bearings in a private part of my world she'd never been let into before.

"You'll be staying in a guest room upstairs," I said, keeping my voice low.

She nodded but didn't move from the foyer.

"Aren't you coming?"

She turned to face me, then followed as I led her up the sweeping staircase to the guest room at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open on the clean, made-up space.