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And maybe it’s tragic to carry around this crush for years with zero encouragement; maybe I should get a new job and try to forget this man. But for this weekend at least, I’m living the dream.
Play-acting as Sebastian Bamford’s girlfriend? This is my Disneyland.
Especially when he pulls his glasses off like that, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. He crosses to the bed and places them on a nightstand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world; like we’re an old couple with sides of the bed. It’s so domestic that my heart clenches.
But then he glances around at the floor. Frowns at the plush rug, like he’s trying to judge its softness.
“Don’t.” I grip the handle of my bag, standing on the other side of the mattress. “Just… don’t, okay? Sleep in the bed.”
With me.
Sebastian’s mouth twists. He looks younger without the glasses; more vulnerable, even with those broad shoulders and the late night stubble shading his jaw. Hell, he’s a decade older than me, and right now I want to ruffle his hair. “Is that a good idea?”
Um, it’s a genius idea. The best damn idea I’ve ever had.
“If you sleep down there, the pillow assassins could just step right over you.”
“True.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles, and now that we’re alone, it’s the most relaxed he’s looked all day. “But what if I hog the covers?”
“You can owe me an extra hour of overtime,” I say. And it’s meant to be a joke, meant to set him at ease, but just like that, the tension is back in his shoulders.
My boss sighs, rolling his neck, and grabs his own bag before heading for the bathroom. “That works,” he says without turning his head. “Good thinking.”
The door snicks shut behind him, and I bite my lip so hard it hurts.
Why did I say that? Why remind him that we’re boss and assistant, nothing more?
This weekend is all I’ll ever get with this man. No more self sabotage: I need to make it count.
Four
Sebastian
Somehow, I hadn’t anticipated this awkward dance: taking turns in the bathroom, negotiating sides of the bed, climbing under the covers together in tense silence. The mattress dips as I settle as far from Felicity as I can get without toppling onto the floor. I flick my lamp off and stare at the ceiling.
Her pajamas have yellow pinstripes. And such tiny shorts.
“Night, boss.” Her lamp clicks off too. Felicity rustles and sighs and plumps up her pillow, and meanwhile, I stare blindly into the darkness.
It’s worse with the lights off. Suddenly I hear every soft breath, every rustle of bed sheets. Her berry scent fills my lungs, unmistakable in its sweetness, and all my senses are heightened. I’m rigid with tension at the very edge of the bed.
My fists clench at my sides.
“What a day,” Felicity says, like we’re making conversation in the back of the car.
I grunt.
She sighs and wriggles to get comfortable.
A clock ticks somewhere in the guest suite, the pitch black darkness slowly turning to shades of gray as my eyes adjust. The drapes are shut, but moonlight filters through the sheer fabric. I’ve counted eighty four breaths when Felicity hums and leans over the side of the bed, rummaging in her bag.
I turn my head and watch.
In all the four years I’ve known her, Felicity has never become predictable. It’s one of her many excellent features. Sometimes I like to play a game with myself, guessing her next move, and I’m hardly ever right.
So, what’s she rummaging for? Here are my guesses: her phone. A bottle of water. An entire ham sandwich. A framed picture of her cat to place at her bedside.
My assistant settles back in the bed, and a glowing rectangle lights up. An e-reader.
