Too Good to Be Wrong

“Fine, I’ll come to work for you willingly. You better not talk to me like crap. I’m only doing this for her.”

For the remainder of their meal neither of them spoke. Henry didn’t mind the silence. He got the chance to simply watch her.

April got her tears under control after several minutes of looking away from him. He hated bringing Julia up. The woman who died in that car had touched both of them in some way.

Once their meal finished, he helped her back into the car then drove toward her place. Instead of letting her go inside, he took her key and entered her small apartment. Without wasting any time, Henry paid the landlord for the coming month’s rent. He had no intention of her being here to stay, but the amount was so small, he didn’t mind.

Inside her place, he gathered some clothes along with personal items. He noticed the photos of all three of them. Surprise struck him when he saw there were pictures with him. He ignored the memories and packed up two cases along with some personal items and made his way back to the car.

“I could have packed my own bag,” she said, folding her arms over her full tits.

“You wouldn’t have come back out. I’m not stupid, April. Don’t treat me like I am.” He gave the order for the driver to move away.

She stared out of the window, ignoring him. Her hands were fisted at her sides. What would she do if he reached out to touch her? Her dark skin called to him to touch, stroke.

Fisting his own hands, he stared out of the window.

He needed to remember April wasn’t his woman to touch.

Chapter Two

The first few weeks working for Henry were a nightmare. Sleeping in the spare bedroom, she tried not to get in his way. Everywhere she turned, he was there. She found herself bumping into him when she tried with all of her might to avoid him.

She tried to get up a little later than he did, yet she’d find herself bumping into him.

Henry refused to go to work until he saw that she was fine. His actions were sweet, in an annoying kind of way. He would demand her presence at breakfast where she had no choice but to serve him.

The first few mornings she’d hated the intimacy of serving him breakfast. The days passed, and she found there was little to no intimacy involved in serving him. He made sure she ate breakfast with him before he set off for work.

The worst part of being alone in his apartment was finding something to do. His place was spotless. All she needed to do was dust over the counters with a cloth. When it came to dinner, she found her element. Henry didn’t criticize her when it came to dinner. When he refused to tell her what to cook, she simply walked into the kitchen and allowed inspiration to take over.

He talked about his work, asked about her day, and then at night, they’d sit and watch a movie, forming a routine together.

Three weeks into her time at his place, April started to feel more and more at home. Pushing hair off her face, she turned to glance across the kitchen counter as he stood beside the window looking out onto the city with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a phone in the other. She didn’t know why he even came home at times. All he seemed to do was work.

Stirring the tomato sauce, she added a dash of pepper before taking a taste. Satisfied, she dropped in the seafood giving it a quick stir. Once the seafood was almost cooked, she added the cooked spaghetti.

Serving their meal onto two plates, she grabbed her crutches and walked over to him. She had tried to master carrying plates to the table. The attempt caused a mess, stained his white carpet, and forced him to get a new one.

April tapped him on the shoulder, letting him know dinner was ready. He nodded, and she turned away to take a seat at the table. She placed the crutches beside her chair then waited for him to bring their food.

“I’m sorry about that. Business never stops.”

“You own the company. Of course it never stops.”

He paused with the fork in midair. “Why would you say that?”

She shrugged. “If I had my own company, I’d struggle to leave for an hour let alone a day. It must be hard getting some relaxing time.”

“You’re the first person to see it like that.”

“I don’t mind how many calls you have to make. We’re not a couple. You don’t need to explain anything to me.” She twirled the spaghetti around her fork and stared at him.

“This is good.”

“I do have one question,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“If you need to still be making calls, why do you bother coming home? I mean, I know this is your place and all, but why come home if all you’re going to do is be on the phone?” She bit her lip when she realized she’d started to ramble.