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“This is not about Paul.” I shove my hands into drawers, rummaging through notes, pens, a calculator, and some highlighters. “It’s about your hunger for distraction.”
“At least I’m hungry for something.” His words cut straight into me. “When you’re done with the drawers, power up that PC and let me know if it requires a login code, will you?”
For the next hour, we work silently. The PC doesn’t require a code. At the same time, we don’t find anything of interest on it. The filing cabinets turn out to be duds too. We go through letters, flip open the pictures, roll the carpets, seeking hideout spots where Paul could’ve kept something secretive, but it’s one disappointment after the other. There’s nothing in the office to suggest Paul had ever been anything more than a boring, married hedge fund manager.
At some point, I start feeling foolish and actually—bizarrely—become mad at Paul. I’ve built up this office to be the holy grail of all secrets, and nothing is coming out of it. I feel like I’m disappointing Arsène.
Why I care about disappointing this man is beyond me, but I do.
Another hour ticks by. We recheck everything we looked into before. Our nerves are shot, and the silence piles up on us, like deadweight. No stone is left unturned. But we’re no longer friendly, or hot for each other, or even mildly civilized. The tension is everywhere, tangling around our limbs like ivy.
“Stop.” Arsène’s voice slices through the silence. It is sudden and makes me gasp as I browse through another one of Paul’s clients’ files. “You and I both know we’re not going to find anything here. It’s a waste of time.”
“That can’t be.” I clutch the file closer to my chest. “Paul was so uptight about his office. So secretive—”
“That’s because he has sensitive information here about companies worth billions of dollars. Not because he kept Grace’s panties under the printer.” He stands up from the floor. A thin film of sweat coats his forehead. “We gave it our best shot.”
Is that all? He can’t leave! Not like this. Not so soon.
I follow him out of the room, dejected. “Well, you know. It’s late, and I haven’t even offered you anything to eat, not to mention drink . . .”
He rolls his sleeves down his muscular forearms. “Don’t worry about it. I have some leftovers in my fridge.”
Still, I trail behind him. Out of the hallway, to the living room, and toward the door. Panic flares in my chest. Arsène may be callous, cold, and full to the brim with venom, but he’s been a friend for the past few weeks. A brother-in-arms of sorts.
“Have a good life, Bumpkin.” He swings the door open abruptly.
“Stop!”
This shrill, foreign voice, I realize, came out of me.
He does stop, his back still to me. He doesn’t move, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I need to say something. Anything, Winnie. Finally, I find my voice.
“There are still some things I want you to see. Albums . . . stuff like that. Maybe I’ve missed something.”
Arsène turns around to face me. His expression is utterly unreadable.
“I know it’s hard. There’s a level of acceptance attached to us saying goodbye. We found out everything there was to find, and none of it was good. After I leave here tonight, we probably won’t see each other again. And your last connection to Paul will be gone. I get that.” But he doesn’t get it at all. My grief for Paul is independent from my relationship with him. To me, Arsène became his own entity. Not just means to an end. “But it’s better to Band-Aid it.”
“We can Band-Aid it tomorrow,” I hear myself say, though nothing in my brain authorized these words to leave my mouth. “Tonight, we can avenge what they did to us. Come full circle.”
“How?”
I lick my lips, staring down at my feet. “We can have sex.”
His stare alone gives me whiplash. I can tell he thinks it’s a terrible idea.
“Are you drunk?” He narrows his eyes.
I huff. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.”
“No,” he drawls. Then, in case he wasn’t clear: “I mean, yes, of course I’ve thought of it, but this is a terrible idea. Even for you, Bumpkin.”
Though as he says this, he is also closing the door behind himself to allow us some degree of privacy.
“Why not? You were the one who couldn’t stop kissing me—”
“The problem’s not attraction.” He steps forward and wipes a strand of hair from my face. “The problem is it’s going to complicate things, resurface issues, and very possibly make your bleeding little heart confuse rebound sex with feelings. Plus, there is still the little issue of my technically being your boss.”
“Not for long,” I point out. “You want to sell Calypso Hall. And don’t be so sure I will magically like you just because we sleep together.” I lie brazenly. “Plus, think about the revenge—”
