Page 47 of Lying to the Boss

About me. My feelings. Not just in general, but specifically about him.

I don’t know how I let this happen, but it’s happened.

And I really don’t want to stop it.

Blake picks us up and takes Lane’s keys with a nod, like they have some kind of secret silent dialogue. Initially, I don’t take the seat beside Lane; I take the same one I took that very first night. But a few minutes into the ride, I move; slide right up beside him and lean into his side.

His arm comes around me without hesitation, and I reach over to take his other hand.

My eyes fall closed, and the slow rocking of the car and his warmth against me lull me into a peaceful sleep, where everything is right.

The car comes to a full stop, and it wakes me. I look up, confused about where we are.

“Sleepyhead,” Lane says softly, then kisses my head.

The door opens. Blake is standing there, waiting for us to get out. We untangle ourselves. Lane gets out first, then offers me his hand.

I step into a dimly lit garage with only a few cars parked in random spots spaced throughout the place.

“Where would you like your car, sir?” Blake asks.

“Here, please. I’ll need it for the morning.”

Nodding, he closes the door and goes back to the driver’s seat, then takes off.

“Is he always on call?” I ask.

“Not usually, but he’s paid well for when he is.”

I don’t doubt that for a second.

Lane uses a card to get us into a small and cozy, but expensive, lobby. Then he swipes it again to get into the elevator, and it automatically takes us to the top floor.

“Is this a private elevator?” I ask.

He just smiles, and I know the answer without needing the words.

It doesn’t make my skin crawl the way it did in the beginning. It doesn’t make me feel much of anything. It’s just… a thing. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be anything.

I step off the elevator into a spacious and minimally decorated living room that has windows for walls in every direction. The lights turn on the moment we step inside, but it’s still dim enough to see out at the city and all the buildings lit up.

A wide staircase curves up into a loft area with multiple rooms, and I spot the beginnings of a kitchen past the living area and to the left, tucked behind the stairs.

“So, this is home?” I ask.

“This is home,” he says as he shrugs off his jacket and toes off his shoes, that he picks up.

I take off mine too, leaving them by the empty coat and shoe rack beside the door.

“Do you want something comfortable to wear?” he asks.

“We could just stay naked,” I suggest.

He smiles. “I’m not opposed to that.”

“Show me your bedroom.”

He gestures with a jerk of his head for me to follow him up the stairs. We walk down the hall into a room that is way too big to be a bedroom, yet it is. The walls are lined with shelves and glass doors, all used for storing clothes. More than any man could ever need. Shoes are lined precisely along the bottom. Ties are rolled and placed into little holders. Everything is so neat that it looks like a showroom, and I can’t help but wonder if he does this himself or if he has cleaners or even a maid. The house is quiet, so I can’t imagine anyone is here right now.