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I'm not just tired. I'm exhausted. So, when I finally fell asleep, I slept. And I slept hard. I didn't wake until nearly ten in the morning. By that time, Nick had already closed the door to his office.
What did he do in there? Clearly, he works from home. But what kind of job could he possibly have from home? What kind of job provides this house? This life he lives—from home?
I have to ask him.
I have so many questions I want to ask him. I want to know all about him,everything.
After gulping a cup of coffee and downing a piece of toast, I packaged all the goodies I baked into neat little totes before stacking them in the freezer in Nick’s garage. They’d stay fresh that way for Trevor and his family.
Then I baked more.
I really don’t know what to do with myself, and it's very clear.
Baking keeps me busy. Maybe tomorrow, I'll read. I’ll curl up and find a good romance book. I'm thinking something Christmassy and sweet. Something that makes me feel the holiday since Mr. Grinch won't set up a Christmas tree. I really must sway his mind on that. I can't imagine spending Christmas with no tree, no lights, no glittering bulbs.
The thought is so depressing, it almost hurts.
Nick comes out of his office around five. I'd been itching for the last two hours to go to him. It took all of my self-control and two glasses of wine to stop me. I'm amazed to say that I miss him. I haven't seen him since last night. Which, after my orgasm, was kind of awkward. I hadn't known what to say to him. And Nick isn't a man of words.
He's quiet.
He’s comfortable in the quiet, I think. But I'm not.
I’d excused myself early to go have a bath because I just couldn't with the silence. I couldn't handle the way my gaze continuously found his hands—and I couldn’t cope with knowing that his fingers had been inside me.
I didn't know what to say to him. I didn't know how to tell him that I wanted him to do it again. That I wanted him to kiss me.
That I want more than his fingers…
I swallow my groan. My lack of ability to communicate sucks big time. Seeing him now, all I want to do is jump him.
I settle for a smile. “Long day?”
“You can say that.” I don't ask if he wants a glass of wine. I just pour him one, handing it to him. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I answer. “What do you do for work?”
“I'm in marketing, online marketing.”
“Do you always work from home?”
He shrugs. “Mostly. I'll go in if I absolutely must, but I'm usually good to stay home. Most marketing is online, and there’sZoomfor whatever needs a more personal touch. It’s rare that someone demands my presence, and rarer still that I agree to give it.”
“Rare that you agree to give it?”
“I contract myself. If I don’t like the terms of the job, I don’t take it.”
“Must be nice.”
“It is. I worked hard to get where I am.”
“I'd love a job where I could work from home.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It's always been the goal for me.”
“Why?” I’m curious about this man. I want to know why he does the things he does.
“I’m good at marketing. I know people. I know how they think, how they perceive things. I am in marketing, but I generally don't like people.”
