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It’s his voice I hear coaxing me on as my fingers slip inside and take up a slow but steady rhythm.
And it’sFinnthat spills from my lips when my thumb brushes against my clit one too many times and I see stars.
16
AMBER
The office has been finishedfor weeks. The walls have been plastered and painted, the fixtures and rugs have been fitted, the furniture is all in place — including a large wooden desk and several comfortable armchairs. But Hawthorne and I are still sitting on our beanbags.
There’s been a shift, and I’m not sure when it happened. It’s difficult to tell if it’s been a gradual thing slowly building since he started buying me lunch all those weeks ago, or if there was one moment — maybe that fancy riverside meal we had or our day at the fair and Primrose Hill — that sparked it. Maybe we’ve been building towards it for longer than I realised. All I know is that when Hawthorne’s leg bumps against mine as he fidgets on his beanbag, I barely register the touch because it’s become so familiar.
I want to say that it was Hawthorne who brought our beanbags closer together one day, but I’m not entirely certain. We no longer sit on opposite sides of the office sneaking curious glances at each other as we work. Both our beanbags are pulled up against the same wall, barely a couple centimetres apart, and these little touches between us have become commonplace. Sometimes it’s a leg, other times he’ll lean into me, strong arms brushing against mine. I find that I don’t mind the intimacy that comes with each fleeting touch.
One day, after a particularly irritating call with his uncle — a perpetually irritable man who I’ve come to dislike almost as much as Hawthorne does — he closed his laptop and snuggled up to me, resting his head gently on mine. I didn’t make any move to shake him off, and I didn’t want to either.
I liked it.
Liked the feel of him leaning on me, using me as a safe space to quietly breathe as he got back some of his strength after another stressful call.
We’ve become pretty open with each other too.
When my offer gets accepted on the property I first saw that day we went to collect the chandelier, Hawthorne is the first person I tell. Even before Bailey.
We’re in the office and I can’t stop my shriek of delight from coming out when I get the confirmation email. I wave my phone excitedly in his face so he can see the email, and from the way he matches my energy, you’d thinkhewas the onewho’d just bought his first house.
He tells me he’s proud of me — makes sure to drop a casualsweetheartin there too — and makes me promise to invite him over for a housewarming party when I’m ready.
And you know what’s weird? I agree to it.Happilyeven. Like Finn Hawthorne and I are good, good friends and inviting him to visit my new home is one of the most natural things in the world.
He shares with me too. Like when he tells me it’s been a full month since someone last copied him on a pointless email, and he feels like he’s breathing easier these days. Or when his sister FaceTimes him when we’re in the office together and he doesn’t think twice about tilting the camera toward me and introducing us like that’s a perfectly normal thing to do. And when I help him find a souvenir for his niece thatwon’tdrive his sister mad — a cuteBuild-A-Bearwearing a special edition London jumper — he thanks me and orders one for Noah too without even hesitating.
The lunches keep coming — even on days when I’m barely in the office, too busy running around the property making sure everything is still on track. He always comes to find me and hands me whatever it is he bought that day. I start trying to make time for him at lunch at least once a week and those, secretly, have become some of my favourite days. We’ll sit on our beanbags, legs bumping, arms brushing, quietly enjoying each other’s company as we eat our lunch.
It’s annoying to admit, but I’m starting to wish this project’s end date wasn’t rapidly approaching. If everything goes to schedule, the property should be finished in just over three weeks, and then Hawthorne is planning the official launch of The August Room in London shortly after. I’ve not asked him how long he plans to stay in London after the launch, but I don’t imagine he’ll linger for long.
In a month, this will all be gone; the little routine we’ve developed each day, the lunches, the quiet moments we steal when it’s just us, the strange sense of calm I feel when he drops his head onto my shoulder, the teasing look in his eyes when he calls mesweetheart,and the funny littlethudmy heart does every time he says it.
I’m going to miss it, but I take a little bit of comfort in the fact that we’ve still got a few weeks left to enjoy this new friendship we’ve developed.
And so, of course, Cynthia has to ruin everything.
* * *
Cynthia is smiling,which should actually be my first sign that something is about to go horribly wrong. I don’t think Cynthia has ever directed a genuine smile at me in the seven years I’ve been working for her. At best, I’ll get an upturned grimace that doesn’t extend to her eyes. But right now, she’s smiling wide and bright, looking like a cat who’s just found an unguarded bird’s nest.
“Amber, darling,” she purrs. “Do have a seat.”
It’s the first time I’ve visited the Zensi Designsoffice since I started working on The August Roomproject, and it takes me all of five seconds to remember why I’ve avoided coming here. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed it before, but working with Hawthorne in the club office has really made the difference clear. It’s silent in the main pen, but it’s not a comfortable, easy silence like the one Hawthorne and I have cultivated. It’s like the people in the office are scared of making a noise or doing anything to garner Cynthia’s attention from her glass-walled throne room.
It’s stifling.
How can anyone be creative in a place like this? How haveImanaged to survive in a place like this for as long as I have?
I drop into the seat. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is just divine, darling.” She pours herself a small cup of tea without offering me any. Back when I was her assistant, it was my job to fetch tea or water for Cynthia’s guests. Either Kirsty hasn’t been forced to take on that particular job, or Cynthia hasn’t deemed me worthy of a polite beverage. I don’t know which one annoys me more.
“How are things going with The August Room?”
