Chapter 18 Off Limits
Point of view: Eric
I shouldn’t have touched her.
In my head, the plan was clean: I sleep with Catherine once or twice, the novelty wears off, I cut the contract, wire her enough to disappear, and I go back to my life like nothing happened.
Except the girl doesn’t stay in bed. She moves into my head.
At night, I close my eyes and hear the way she holds her breath. In the morning, I wake up hard because of a dream where she doesn’t say a word, she just looks at me. At the office, I count how many seconds I can stare without it showing.
Pathetic.
So I made an executive decision: dilute. A different woman for lunch every day this week. Lunch, small talk, weather. Something to remind her of her place, and to remind me of mine.
Except Catherine’s place, in my head, is under me with her hair spread across my sheets. Between nine and five, that’s off limits. So I fall back on Plan B.
Today, Plan B is Jenny Laurent. Just seeing her name in my calendar gives me acid reflux.
“Mr. Wood?”
I don’t even look up from my phone. Catherine is standing in front of my desk in a white blouse that screams private school. I’ve spent three hours trying not to imagine that collar open, and here she is handing me the fantasy on a platter.
“Yes?”
“Jenny Laurent is downstairs.”
I can’t help the grimace. Jenny. The heiress who thinks Port-Louis revolves around her Kelly bag. Daddy’s girl personified.
I see her because I have to. Her father, Hiram Laurent, was just named commissioner at Port-Louis. When you have containers coming through the port, nightclubs that close late, and deals that prefer shadows, you don’t slam the door on that kind of connection.
“Send her up.”
She doesn’t move. I feel her eyes burning into me.
“Something else?”
The vein at her temple pulses like a metronome. Bad sign.
“She wants a finger bowl. Because she, quote, doesn’t touch public sinks. And she’s demanding guayusa tea we don’t carry. I told her we were out. She threw her mink coat and her bag on my keyboard. Are we in The Devil Wears Prada or what?”
I want to laugh. I don’t.
“It’s a movie,” she adds, like I was born yesterday.
I tap my screen to look busy. With Catherine, busy is a survival strategy.
“We have salted sakura in the executive lounge. She’ll deal with it.”
“She won’t,” Catherine says quietly.
“She’s difficult,” I admit.
“Then why are you having lunch with her?”
The question isn’t possessive. It’s worse. It’s personal. And it stings.
“I don’t have to justify my lunch meetings to my assistant, Ms. Hale.”
Her face shuts down instantly. The vein is back.
“Perfect. Enjoy your lunch, sir.”
She leaves. Two seconds later, Jenny walks in like she’s on a red carpet. Velvet dress fighting to contain what surgery inflated, plaster makeup, heels clicking.
“Eric, darling! You get hotter every time.”
I glance at the door Catherine just walked through, then at Jenny’s botoxed forehead. If I flipped a coin at it, the coin would bounce.
I sit her at the steel table in the alcove. Fifteen minutes on her acrylic nails. Fifteen minutes of my life I’m never getting back. Then Catherine comes in with the tea.
“Here you go, Ms. Laurent.”
Jenny sniffs the cup. “No guayusa?”
“We’re out of stock,” Catherine replies, polite as a blade.
“Disappointing.”
Catherine doesn’t smile anymore. She steps back, and Jenny snaps her fingers without looking at her.
“Wait. My coat? My bag?”
“On my desk. Where you dropped them.”
Jenny barely lifts her chin. “That coat costs more than your yearly rent. Take care of it.”
Catherine’s jaw tightens. For one second, her mask slips. If looks could burn, Jenny would be ash on the tile.
And I don’t hate the idea.
The door closes. Jenny rolls her eyes. “What an idiot. You can’t find decent staff anymore.”
Something hot and sharp rises in my chest. One clear thought: no one talks about my woman like that.
My woman?
Shit. Since when?
“Eric? Are you listening, handsome?”
I blink. Red spots dance in my vision. Better than her face, anyway.
Lunch drags on. She talks weddings, engagements, babies. Every sentence ends with my friend who’s expecting or my friend who’s trying. I keep my phone in my hand like a shield.
“...don’t you think?”
I missed the question. I throw out my wildcard. “Hm.”
She lights up. “I knew it. Silent men are teddy bears.”
Wrong.
“It would be a shame to waste that jawline, Eric. Those genes need to continue.”
I cut her off. “Kids aren’t on the schedule.”
One: I’m not father material. Two: I don’t even remember what she looked like before the injections. Three: the idea of getting her pregnant makes me nauseous.
“Oh.” She pouts. “But”
I check my Rolex. “I have a board meeting.”
“Should we do this again? Dinner next time?”
“My assistant will check with yours.”
I open the door. She presses against me, hand on my chest, eyelashes fluttering. She aims for my mouth. I turn my head. Her lips land on my cheek.
“Jenny.”
I shut the door on her cracking smile.
Mess over. But it leaves a bad taste.
Everyone talks about babies. Except me. And maybe that’s the problem. The contract is clear: Catherine checked the pill box. Responsibility is on her side. On paper, that worked for me.
Now it itches.
I’m not a fan of condoms, but I prefer latex to surprises. Especially with my assistant.
And like my brain wants to punish me, the image hits: Catherine, in that same white blouse, but resting a hand on a rounded stomach. My kid.
No.
It’s instinct. The old male reflex to claim. I don’t want a child. Especially not with her.
Too bad my body didn’t get the memo.