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I lean against the kitchen counter. “Don’t deflect. What did you mean?”
“Mean about what?” She bobs her head as she rips off the plastic lid, like she’s still listening to music. The white lace edge of her bra peeks out of her neckline and it’s suddenly all I can see.
Cecilia in her underwear. Cecilia in nothing at all.
Sleeping in the bedroom opposite mine every night.
She looks up at me, catching my eyes. A slow smile spreads across her lips.
I clear my throat. “My no-praise policy. That I don’t have. You saidouch, afterwards.”
She laughs, and the sound expands in the kitchen, fills it in ways it’s never been full before. “If you say you don’t have a no-praise policy, that means I’ve just never done anything praiseworthy. But as a stellar assistant—don’t object—I know I did. I was great at my job.”
I frown, watching her flow through my kitchen, opening drawers and finding utensils. She looks like she was the one who designed it. Like she cooks in here every day.
Maybe she does. I don’t have any insight into how she spends her days when I’m away.
It suddenly strikes me as a crime.
“I praised you.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “When?”
I stare back at her and rack my brain. A workplace isn’t helped by excessive praise. It doesn’t increase morale or motivation, and too much devalues the entire operation. “We worked together every day. I don’t know when.”
Cecilia hums, a smile in the corner of her lips. “I can tell you how often. Never.”
I frown, watching her as she dips a carrot into the hummus. Swirls it around. “So I don’t believe in participation trophies,” I say. “Every office I’ve headed has been successful.”
She smiles, and it’s a private smile, like I’ve made a joke only she understands the punchline to. “Of course they have.”
“Of course? It took hard work and dedication.”
“I know, I know. I’m not disputing that. You’re the hardest-working person I’ve ever met.” She tosses the compliment out like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. Obvious. Self-evident.
I watch as she opens the fridge again. I didn’t know the day would come when I missed Miss Myers’ prim hairstyles, but I miss them now, watching the dark hair curl down her back. It’s far too distracting.
“Here it is,” she murmurs to herself and pulls out a glass bottle. She tries to twist the cap, but it won’t open.
I’m moving before I decide to and knock her hands softly aside.
“Oh,” she breathes, looking up at me.
It’s a move from a bad high school movie. But I unscrew the lid for her and feel like I’m ten feet tall. “Here,” I mutter.
Her voice is warm. “Thank you.”
“What is this, anyway?”
“Kombucha. Want some?” Her hands brush mine as she takes the bottle back and the simple contact makes me mute. I watch as she takes out two glasses, and after she’s gone through the trouble…
“You drink kombucha when you’re drunk?”
“I’m not drunk,” she says and pours a healthy amount into each glass. “This is restorative. It’s healthy. And it means I’ll feel absolutely terrific tomorrow.”
“Why wouldn’t you? If you’re not drunk now?”
She narrows her eyes at me, but it’s playful. “Do you want your kombucha or not?”
