Liar Liar

In the mirror, my cheeks appear flushed. My cheeks aren’t the only place blood has pooled to. But I have to work today, so I don’t have time to indulge myself in these memories. I also don’t have time to indulge myself in the real thing either, I consider, as I tiptoe back into the bedroom, hoping Remy is still asleep. Yeah, okay, that’s what I should be hoping for because I really do have to make it back to my apartment to get changed.

I realise as I open the door that Remy isn’t still sleeping, hearing his voice before my eyes feast on him lounged across the bed. One hand mindlessly traverses the prominent ladder of his abdominals as the other holds his phone to his ear. His smile is almost infectious as he turns to me.

‘Who are you calling?’ He holds up his index finger, beginning to speak again, this time in English.

‘Ah, yes. Bonjour. Am I speaking to Olga?’

My heart plummets, despite the worst rendition of an American accent I’ve ever heard. ‘What are you doing?’ I’m not sure if it’s my question or the frantic manner it’s delivered in that he finds amusing, though it’s not so hard to tell that he appreciates the sight of me wearing his shirt if the way his eyes keep dipping to the hem proves anything.

‘Ah, yes. Hello. This is Rose’s uncle—Rose’s uncle Fred!’ he adds, clearly pleased with his character’s name while also turning kind of British in his diction. ‘I’m afraid she’ll be coming in a little late today. I arrived in town last night to surprise her—an agreeable surprise, I should add. And well, let’s just say following our reunion she’s has some internal issues overnight.’

‘Remy!’ I hiss. No mean feat, considering I’m also smiling and also trying to steal the phone from his hand unsuccessfully as he holds me at bay with one hand. One tickling hand.

‘What kind of issues, you ask?’ And he’s back to the terrible American accent again. ‘Well, ma’am, I don’t like to say. Really? Oh, I see. Well, between you and me, she said it feels like her internal organs have been rearranged.’

‘Remy!’ I protest again without volume. I mean, he isn’t lying, but that isn’t the reason I drop dramatically to the bed. ‘Kill me now! Being fired isn’t enough to escape this embarrassment.’

His gaze cuts my way. One eloquent eyebrow raised, his way of reminding me he’s the boss, I suppose. Oh well, no need to worry about being fired, just dying from mortification, I guess.

‘I’ll be sure to tell her that, though it does seem a little unfair. In fact, I think I might need to mention your thoughts to the folks at the top. Come to think of it, I met one of your top guys last night. What was his name again? Let me see. Jimmy something, I think. Jimmy? Timmy? I’m getting there—there’s no need to take that tone with me. Ah, Remy! Remy Durrand,’ he says, mispronouncing his own name. Doo-raand. ‘Seemed like a decent fella. In fact, he said I could just go on ahead and call his personal assistant, Miss Bisset if I needed anything.’ Miss Bee-set. ‘Well, that’s mighty good of you. I’ll be sure to pass on your words to my squeeze, I mean, my niece. You have yourself a nice day.’

‘I’m dead,’ I groan, crossing my hands across my chest as though a corpse, only to throw them up in the air almost immediately. ‘Oh my Lord, what even was that?’

‘That was your line manager, not God, ma biche.’

‘Did you just call me your bitch?’ I lift my head from the mattress and glare at him. I’m nobody’s bitch. Unless I say so.

‘Biche,’ he corrects in that sinful accent of his. ‘It means doe. It was meant with affection. Like honey, or sweetie, or babe.’

Worst. American. Accent. Ever.

So long as he’s not calling me dough-y, not that is the only potential issue here. ‘Speaking of line managers, did you not think to ask my opinion before deciding I’d play hooky?’ My gaze flicks to my thighs poking out like undercooked sausages from the bottom of Remy’s shirt.

‘You’re perhaps less doe and more leonine, especially the way you’re glaring at me.’ His darkened gaze rakes over me, the brush of his gaze almost a physical thing.

‘Except you’re not looking at my eyes.’ Maybe he’s right; my response is more purr than reprimand.

‘What do you think has my attention?’

His question strikes a sudden chord within me. What exactly is it exactly that interests him? Is it the sex? Is it the novelty? Could it really be me?

‘What are we doing here, Remy?’

‘We are . . .’ A suggestive smile plays in the corner of his mouth. ‘Enjoying ourselves.’

‘No, really. We’re enjoying ourselves—enjoying each other. But what about tomorrow, and the day after that? Will you go back to you ignoring me in hallways?’