For a moment, I allowed my mind to shift back to my old life. Immediately after Jason—that terrorizing brute who I’d heard had accepted a job in the state of Illinois, for some political agency in Chicago—had been revealed by Xavier, I’d moved back into my apartment. Rachel had grown quite serious with Michael in the months after they met, and I knew that I needed to get out of their way, to bring myself back to the place I belonged. I remembered their wedding—the bright, outdoor ceremony the summer before Xavier’s second election. I remembered standing by her side at the helm of the ceremony, feeling myself brimming with such joy for her. My best friend in the world, finally meeting her happiness, head-on.
Suddenly, the cellar door creaked open. I stood, face-to-face with Xavier once more, in the kitchen. My fingers passed over the cold, beautiful countertop. My eyes met with Xavier’s. In that moment, a bit of tension flitted through the air. I swallowed, unable to breathe.
In Xavier’s hand, he held a bottle of aged wine and two wine glasses. He walked forward, his eyes still on me. He tapped each glass on the counter, and the sound rang throughout the air. He uncorked the wine and poured it, allowing it to breathe for only a moment. And then, he passed the wine to me.
I didn’t say anything. I waited as he pushed his wine glass into the air, as if he were about to make a toast.
He began.
“Amanda,” he said, his voice soft. “You have been a constant joy in my life. You’ve guided me through two presidencies. You’ve held my hand during difficult times. You’ve waited for me, until this final day when we can finally come together and be free with each other, find love with each other, without prying eyes. I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for it.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. My heart had begun to swell in my chest.
He continued. He brought his hand into his pocket and revealed a small, black box. He sent his wine glass back to the counter. I noted that his hands were shaking. He bent down on one knee, allowing his dark, penetrating eyes to look up toward me—so deep, so full of wisdom, so full of love, just as they’d been all those years ago, when this all had begun.
“I want you to be my wife, Amanda. I want you to be by my side through thick and thin, and I want to do the same for you. I love you.” He opened the box then, revealing this stunning, immaculate diamond ring.
I brought my hands to my face, feeling the tears riding hot, fast down my cheeks. My mind knew my answer. I brought my left hand toward him, and he drew the engagement ring over my finger. I watched as it glowed in the subtle candlelight of the beautiful kitchen. I nodded, with passion, with zeal, unable to form the words.
Xavier understood, just as he always had. He brought his body up, toward me, and he kissed me, bending me over the countertop in the new home we shared together. Our lives were joined, then. We were united: at the helm of the country, our hands linked and our eyes locked together. Nothing could tear us apart.
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SLEEPING WITH MY BOSS
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Asher
I glanced at myself in the mirror to see the image of a young man dressed in a subdued business suit reflecting back at me. He sat in silence on the sofa in the seating area, studying the artwork hanging on the wall next to the mirror.
It was a large piece, perhaps five feet across and four feet high. It consisted of a small red square in the top left hand corner against a white background. Countering the geometric, ordered simplicity were splashes of bold color sprayed across the entire right hand side in a chaos of strokes. It was as though all of the artist's pent-up rage and frustration had been poured out onto that canvas. It was a work of genius, really. In a way, that red square represented everyone trying to play their roles and keep the madness, and chaos, contained and controlled.
A young man approached and looked up at the artwork. He looked at the painting for a few seconds, shrugged, and then turned his attention to me.
“Hi,” he said, somewhat nervously. “Do you mind?” He motioned to the empty seat next to me on the sofa. “I have a meeting in this boardroom in a few minutes,” he added as he nodded toward the closed door to our left.
“Don’t mind at all,” I said, smiling warmly as I shifted to make more space for the newcomer. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” the young man replied, looking a bit flustered. His ill-fitting suit appeared to be uncomfortable, which only added to the somewhat flustered air he exuded. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his forehead and the sides of his neck.
“I'm Jason, by the way,” he said to me as he put down his briefcase and took a seat.
“Nice to meet you, Jason,” I said, extending a hand to the man. “I'm A—, er, Andrew . . . Andrew,” I replied as we shook hands. I caught myself before I could reveal too much. “I'm with the Sinclai
r Agency,” I added.
“Nice to meet ya, Andrew.”