“You’re staring. Why are you staring?”
I shake my head and drop my gaze. There isn’t a thing wrong, yet a million things feel off. I don’t have a hard-on for Aimee. And glasses aren’t my kink. I just can’t shake Fee and her fucking glasses from my head.
I have feelings for the woman, feelings that should’ve driven me from the country already. Yet I’m still here, sitting in an office mere minutes from where she lays her head.
Pushing away the narrative, the fact that I’m still in the city because she is, I grab the folder. Balancing it on my palm, I flick it open to an invoice from Atelier Interiors. I decide their marketing must be shitty, given the company name, even if their prices are premium, I see as I reach the final page and the balance. But their work comes highly recommended, and that’s all I was interested in. Even if the plan, the why, made no fucking sense.
“Looks fine,” I say, helicoptering the folder back across the desk. “Why isn’t it with the accounts department already?” I’d insisted they finish the refurb of Lulu’s new room in under six hours. While there was no one around to stop them. The least I can do is pay them on time.
Lulu’s room, I find myself thinking with a huff. What the fuck was I thinking? That some families are chosen, as Remy said himself. And by that, I can consider Remy and Rose’s family as my own. Because my family sure as shit aren’t interested.
So I was bound to feel a sense of responsibility. Besides, who wouldn’t be charmed by that little rogue?
Refitting her bedroom was nothing to do with guilt.
Or because I desperately want her mother.
Because that can’t happen again, I remind myself. I’m not the right man for her.
Maybe I should give Rose a call just to check in. See if Remy mentioned anything about the Chicago fundraiser or if Fee has checked in. Fuck it, I can’t do any of that.
“Accounts flagged it and sent it to me.” Aimee reaches for the folder. “I thought you should see it.”
“And now I have. I don’t see an issue.”
“But the work is for the refit of a child’s bedroom.”
“And your point is . . . ?”
“You don’t have any children.”
“That you know of.”
“What?”
“I said that I know of.” The chair creaks as I lean back, steepling my fingers under my chin. “Do you think the fruit of my loins would be the Devil’s spawn?”
“I should think you’d have trouble getting a woman to give you children,” she mutters, slipping the folder under her arm.
“I think we both know I don’t have a problem attracting women.”
“Keeping them around, though? I bet that’s a problem.”
“But it only takes once. At least, that’s what science says.”
“You know what else science says?” she asks, backing away from the desk. “Finding the right woman might make your whole week. But anal beads the size of tennis balls make your hole weak.”
Laugher breaks free from the depths of my chest. “Why Aimee, I didn’t know you cared about my hole . . . being.”
“I beg your pardon?” She turns as she reaches the door, her nose scrunched.
“Never beg, Emmie. Not unless you’re into that kind of thing.”
“I am truly traumatised. And I’m going home. Early.”
“Get a cab,” I call as the door slams closed. “Put it on expenses.” Because the train will be packed.
After she leaves, I stare at my laptop for an indeterminable time, unable to concentrate on anything as the rain begins to fall harder, now hammering against the windows.
I call up my emails, but the one I’m waiting for isn’t there.
I realise I’m drumming my fingers against my desk, so I push back my chair with a little too much violence and begin to pace.
I hate this fucking office. The Aubusson carpet and library shelves. The drinks cabinet. Well, maybe not that. The fucking Edwardian desk that’s so large it makes me think that the old bastard must’ve had a tiny dick.
I could have it remodelled. Burn the old, bring in the new. Cleanse the place, like Aimee said. But somehow, I feel like in doing that, he wins.
And he will never win.
I stalk over to the window and slide my hands into the pockets of my pants as I stare at the streets below. The pathways are slick with rain as the weather washes the city clean.
She deserves better than me, I think as the rain lashes against the glass.
But what do I deserve?
Tomorrow, I guess. An Ardeo night, when I won’t be cleansed but bathed in sin for the first time in weeks.
The thought comes to me like an epiphany. I haven’t had sex since before I found Fee in my bathroom, so that must be it. That’s why I’m fucking obsessed!