Chapter 8

I had to give it to the man: Elijah Wilder knew how to make an entrance. As if to prove my point, a visibly instantaneous change swept through Kentucky as soon as his presence became noted, and chairs scraped the floor as everyone, regardless of company hierarchy or age, stood up.

A slight incline of his head was all he gave as acknowledgement, and slowly they lowered themselves back into their seats, though more than one offered up theirs to him, gestures he firmly but politely always turned down.

Watching him cut through the room like a knife through butter in an expensive bespoke suit and polished oxfords—saying nothing even as he bended the room to accommodate him; it became evident that I had gravely underestimated the effect his presence would have on me, and as if he’d plucked my thoughts out of thin air, as if he could hear them, Elijah’s gaze fell on me in that very instant, and just like that I was robbed of all common sense.

I remembered what it had felt like to run my fingers through his hair, which was shorter now than it had been; how the five o’clock shadow he’d sported then felt against my skin as he nuzzled his face into the crook of my neck, whispering dirty commands as his body drove me mad with pleasure. For a moment I forgot that I stood in front of a room of execs, and that my livelihood was on the line. There was nothing but Elijah. It was any wonder I managed to remain on my feet without any form of support.

Everything begins and ends with him.

These words rang clear though my thoughts and in them I recognized something dangerous, a threat big enough to send me hurtling back into the present, where I remembered that he was my boss, and he was engaged. I looked away first.

The room went quiet. Truly quiet this time, in a way I hadn’t thought possible, and I noticed that almost everyone sat a little straighter, more alert. Notepads appeared where formerly there’d been none, and every single eye in the room including his was trained on me.

“What is the problem?” Elijah asked, his painfully familiar baritone interrupting the silent spell of cast over the room by simply arriving.

They were the first words he’d uttered since he stepped into the room, and I clutched the remote to my chest like a shield as I realized he’d directed the question at me.

“There’s something wrong with the projector,” I said, ignoring how funny my voice sounded even to my ears—high-pitched, breathier. “It refuses to come on.”

Like everyone else I expected him to simply nod and indicate I carry on regardless, but a thoughtful expression came over his face and after a moment he surprised us all by wordlessly striding from his spot at the back past me, over to my MacBook, which he powered off. The projector soon followed, and after tinkering with a couple of cables, he turned on my laptop and asked me to power on the projector.

I obliged, and this time the startup process of my laptop was displayed on the projection screen.

A smattering of clapping hands broke the silence (accompanied by no cheers of course: They were too dignified) but he ignored all of it, looking to me instead for approval.

I was surprised to find the beginning of an adorable smile play at the corners of his mouth, one it would’ve been easy to return. After all, his excitement was boyish and contagious, but then I remembered that he was not just any man, and I for one had no interest in getting burned.

“Thank you, Mr. Wilder,” I said curtly, flashing him the most insincere smile I could manage—ignoring him like I’d told myself he would.

For a split second his expression fell, but then he recovered.

“You’re welcome,” he answered, glancing at his watch as he returned to his former position. “Forgive my interruption. Carry on.”

It was long overdue, but hearing the order reminded me that I’d done the right thing. This was what we were, an employer and an employee, as far removed from each other’s realities as could be possible.

Even if he hadn’t been engaged I could see no way we could carve a future for ourselves. But he was engaged, and more importantly he was a cheater. And I didn’t think I would ever be able to tolerate the latter.

•

Hours later I was in the office distractedly listening to Sidd, who had a date later that evening with a guy he’d met on Tinder that called himself BJ, and my mind wandered once more to my assessment and how well I thought it had gone even though it got off to a rocky start.

I’d struggled hard to put my presentation together, seeing as it had to tread the fine line between informative and engaging, but somehow I managed pulled it off and even now I could feel a ghost of the confidence I’d felt take hold of me in Kentucky, with each nod I received for the cost-effective customer outreach suggestions I made.

“So what do you think?” Sidd called, snapping me out of my reverie. I looked up to find that his lips pressed into a thin line and ducked my head as soon as I felt my face begin to heat up in embarrassment.

“You didn’t catch any of that, did you?” he rejoined, and at the furious shake of my head he asked me to prove him wrong.

I wracked my brains, searching for a plausible answer.

“Something about BJ wanting to give you a BJ,” I muttered after a short while, and as soon as Sidd let out an exasperated sigh I knew my gamble hadn’t paid off.

“I was asking your opinion on what to wear tonight.” He frowned at me. “Not once did I say anything about blowjobs, Jesus Christ, Rory.”

He was pricklier today, more so than usual, and I had to chalk it up to nerves.

“Look,” I intoned, “you’re young and attractive—”

He cut me off with a sarcastic snort. “Yeah, like the hundreds of other twinks he probably matched with.”

And apparently, he was more mercurial too, if you could believe that.

It fell on me to raise his spirits as Markus had (for the first time since I met him) gone out for lunch, because contrary to all indications he was an expert at micromanaging Sidd.

“Think about it like this,” I started, suddenly inspired. “You’re getting worked up over a guy who calls himself BJ.”

“I am not.”

“Yes. Yes, you are. And what if he matched with a million other twinks? You’re Siddhartha.” He muttered under his breath that it was not how his name was pronounced and I apologized immediately. “What I’m trying to say is you’ll just go on that date, be yourself, and have the time of your life. Okay?”

He nodded, and a moment after that a freckle-faced clerk strode in, holding up an interoffice envelope.

“Aurora Martin?” he inquired looking directly at me, and at my nod he handed it over, turning to leave.

“Excuse me.” Slowly, he did a complete 180 until we faced ourselves. “Is this a mock-up for one of the Wilkinson ads?”

“I’m just the messenger, Ms. Martin,” he pointed out with a shrug, slowly backing his way out of the room. “You’ll have to open it to find out.”

I stared at the brown envelope for a long moment before opening it to retrieve a note card.

Two p.m. My office.

It wasn’t signed, but even at that I knew of only one person who could have penned down a note so casually commanding, and a glance at the wall clock let me know that I had barely fifteen minutes left until two.

I was annoyed at how he hadn’t even closed his request with something to indicate that he was leaving it up for discussion, whether or not I wanted to meet him—which in all honesty I knew was a very trivial thing to fixate about when you considered how it wouldn’t take more than a gesture for this very man to ruin me.

Everything I’d worked so hard for was in jeopardy all because of one stupid decision I’d made when I was tipsy. If I could go back in time I’d throttle myself first before warning me off him, because however you looked at it, back-to-back orgasms weren’t worth losing a job over.

My plan to ignore him had obviously gone to shit, and I was left with no other option than a head-on confrontation. I’d need a pair for what I intended to tell him—that it was a mistake, we owed each other nothing and would be best off playing the roles that’d been assigned to us—but that would not be a problem, seeing that I still brimmed with the high from that morning.

I rehearsed the words in my head as I got up, dragging my steps to prolong the inevitable, though for all the good it did me I inexorably drew closer regardless of whether I took the elevator or not until finally, I stood by the desk of his secretary whose eyes twinkled with speculation even as she buzzed me in wordlessly.

It was a mercifully short walk to his office, and I took a moment to smooth out the creases on my pencil skirt before pushing through the doors with only a perfunctory knock to announce me, though I was sure he’d been made aware of my presence as soon as I arrived.

Elijah was on a call and barely spared me a glance as he motioned for me to take a seat, which irritated me to no end, but despite this I couldn’t help the feeling of awe that stole over me as I took in his command station.

To begin with, the view it boasted was breathtaking as floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Manhattan borough of New York City in two directions. The floors were hardwood; his ceiling wood paneled, and at the center of it all sat a massive Italian Oak table behind which he sat—and I startled when I noticed—eyeing me the way a predator would prey.

It was a space designed to dwarf and intimidate any who stepped into it. A room fit for a king.

My legs felt jittery as I walked over to the chairs he’d indicated (custom made and also Italian Oak), and a sigh of relief escaped me as soon as I slid into one. Elijah’s eyes clung to my every movement even as he gave brisk orders to whomever it was he was speaking to at the other end of the line, and I made a point of holding his gaze even as everything in me begged that I look away.

Time seemed almost inconsequential in a place so grandiose, I thought, and it was only when he hung up that it crossed my mind to consider how a place like this set one apart. How quickly all this power could turn to loneliness if one remained isolated.

Elijah pressed a button on his desk which elicited a single beep, and I watched on fascinated as clear glass walls frosted over, shielding us from the view of his employees and ensuring that whatever we did remained private.

I remained rooted in my seat as he got up, casually shrugging off his jacket to reveal the waistcoat he had on under before closing the distance between us at a leisure pace, like he was giving me the opportunity to bolt off and I might’ve if my body did not feel weighed down. If the sight of him in just the vest did not make me feel lightheaded with lust.

Thankfully he lowered himself into the sofa across from me, with a coffee table positioned between the both of us, though this was weak consolation for all the good it did. All my justifications from earlier, the arguments I’d prepared for why this was a terrible idea—they had all vanished.

When I realized he wasn’t saying anything to give me an opportunity to start, I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably as I looked away.

“Do you regret it?” he inquired lowly, leaning in so his elbows pressed firmly on his knees.

I didn’t need a PhD to deduce what it was he was talking about, and opened my mouth to admit that yes, I regretted everything. Except the words stumbled in over themselves just as they made to escape my lips, and for the first time I hesitated, letting myself consider the events of that night.

I regretted that he was my boss and this revelation had led to several sleepless nights of worrying about the fall out if the fact that we’d had sex went public. I’d lose my job, but beyond that his fiancée was a media favorite, had even been dubbed Miss Americana, which was all the proof I needed to know that the blow to my reputation would be complete and devastating.

In itself, however, I did not regret the act. The realization came as a jolt to my system, and I sat up.

“No,” I answered, surprising the both of us as I’d uttered the word with an almost desperate vehemence. “No,” I repeated. “I don’t.”

Slowly, I watched as the tension I hadn’t noticed drained out of his face, to be replaced with a look of sheer contentment.

“Good,” Elijah said, with a determined nod as he relaxed into the sofa, and I found myself mirroring his actions, unsure of what it was I’d just put into motion.

“I don’t regret it too,” he added, matter-of-factly. “Would you like something to drink?”