Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard 4)

“No,” he agreed, “she reports to me.” Tony stared, his jaw tight, to where Ruby had left the room and closed the door behind her. “I guess I didn’t realize it would be so difficult for her to maintain professional boundaries.”

My eyes widened as it struck me: Tony was jealous.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could manage. Something had ignited inside my chest at his words. Tony wasn’t my superior; to the contrary. Technically speaking, I was being actively groomed for the position that would someday make me his boss. “You—the one who suggested I get a leg over, who called Ruby fit, who said—and I quote, ‘all legs, great tits’—who seems to hire only the best-looking interns for the Oxford program. You’re in here lecturing us on professional boundaries?”

He blinked, his eyes clearing when he looked back at me. “I’m simply saying I hope I don’t find her in here again.” With a little nod, he turned and left my office.

It seemed to take ten minutes for my pulse to return to normal. I was livid: pacing my office, contemplating taking this to Richard, to ensure that everyone was aware that nothing improper was happening, and to let Richard know that the way Tony had just spoken to Ruby was unacceptable.

But I was too angry. As a rule I didn’t have conversations when I was this worked up: the idea that I would speak out of indignation rather than maintaining a certain professionalism was unacceptable. The issue here was Tony’s behavior, and my case would be weakened if I appeared to be speaking from an emotional place.

For this reason, too, I waited another fifteen minutes before texting Ruby again. I didn’t want her to think Tony’s opinion mattered enough to anger me.

Tony was out of line, I told her simply.

I know, she replied. But it was still mortifying.

I’m sorry, darling.

It took several minutes for her to reply, but when the text arrived, I could hear the words in Ruby’s ever-patient voice: Don’t be. Let’s just enjoy your roommate-less apartment, your big bed, and the takeout you’re going to order tonight.

I smiled at my phone, typing, Looking forward to it.

And I was. I could barely wait to pull her into my arms and remind her that this, between us, extended far beyond the walls of any office.

* * *

Ruby went to her apartment to gather what she needed for work the following day, and I used the time to pick up dinner from my favorite curry place on the corner.

When she arrived, she looked around the entryway and then stepped past me, into the living room.

My flat was, perhaps predictably, tidy and simply decorated, with a smooth black leather sofa and broad matching chairs, a low marble coffee table, and a large, plush area rug.

“If I had been asked to draw a picture of your place, it would look just like this.”

Laughing, I took a step closer to her. “I’m happy to never surprise you.”

She turned, stepping into my arms. “The fact that you never surprise me is one of the reasons I love you.”

We both froze.

“Did I just say that out loud?” she asked, closing her eyes in a tight, mortified wince. “Please tell me those words were only in my head.”

I bent, kissing her forehead. “You’re lovely.”

Something inside me slammed into my lungs, a self-inflicted punch to the chest for being unable to come up with something better.

I love you.

You’re lovely.

It’s not that I was particularly surprised by her words, so why hadn’t I thought ahead and prepared some sort of response? It was official: I was the world’s biggest idiot.

Ruby tensed and began to lean away, but I pulled her back against me, kissing her neck as I madly searched for the right thing to say.

“Ruby.”

“It’s okay,” she said on a quiet exhale, hugging me and pressing her face into my neck. She didn’t sound entirely okay. I wanted to look into her eyes and see what I would find there, but I couldn’t seem to move. She took a breath and after a moment, visibly relaxed. “I know I’m farther along in the feelings department. I’m sorry I just dropped a bomb of awkward.”

“Please, it isn’t that . . .” Only I couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t pinpoint what this feeling for her was, if not love.

Did I love her?

I had no bloody clue what romantic love even looked like anymore; it felt like a foreign language. I cursed Portia for her coldness, for making me question every gesture, for undoing a childhood full of exuberant declarations of adoration, of wicked tiffs with my siblings, and constant affection from our mother. I cursed myself for managing to become such an emotional midget.