Smoothing my skirt down, I trace the grooves of my braid making sure it’s still in tact and then I turn the lock. It clicks loudly and brings the women to silence.
I walk with my head down to the sink and wash my hands quickly, glancing up into the mirror to see the women in the reflection in front of me.
A tall, thin blonde woman stands with her arms folded to her chest; her small lips pursed tightly together with annoyance flaring in her eyes. Her hair is short, stopping before her shoulders, but falling in a single wave. The other woman is the same build-tall and thin, both of them dressed impeccably. She wrings her hands in a piece of brown paper towel, both of them silent, watching me. I could smile to them. I could. But why? One of them-I can’t be sure which-wants Owen. Though I know he isn’t mine, I can’t help but think… my Owen.
My inner voice comes from somewhere deep inside me, rearing her ugly head and I’m unable to silence her.
He’s not yours! They’re far better suited for him, either of them! They’re his age, at least, and they aren’t best friends with his daughter!
Heat runs through my veins and settles in my cheeks at my own inner dialogue and I push past them, sighing loudly as I make my way back into the main office.
As I walk through the hall, I am overcome with the need to see Owen. In the month I’d been working in his office I’d not once visited him. He’d not come by our office, either. Perhaps this would be unwelcome and I did, for a moment, consider the idea that he had intentionally not set foot in our office. Would it make people gossip? Would it start rumors? But I’m on a mission now, heel to toe, heading towards Owen’s office with a fury in my belly that I’ve never felt before. What am I coming here for? What will I say? I have no plan. I stop in front of his door, the blinds pulled shut tightly so neither he or his office are visible to the rest of us.
My inner voice shouts to me.
This is needy!
Don’t do it!
And just as I am ready to succumb to her rational thought, the women from the bathroom are crossing the office, walking in my general area. The one who had her arms crossed lets her mouth fall open as she sizes me up at the threshold of Owen’s door. The look on her face gives me a rush of adrenaline. I rap lightly on the door. His secretary isn’t at her station. Perhaps he’s out? I will look like the hugest asshole alive if he’s out. Red crawls up my neck and settles in its favorite spot in my cheeks. Just as I turn on my heel to walk away, my tail between my legs, giving the snotty women a reason to smirk, his door opens.
There’s a quizzical look on his face but despite that, just seeing him takes my breath away. I forgot that he is wearing a fitted black suit, the one that wraps his body so perfectly that I can see all the definition in his shoulders and back when he walks. I gasp, quietly, but audible and visible enough that he feels me shudder. How do I know he feels my reaction to him? He steps forward to me but stops himself, nodding to the women who lurk behind me, then ushers me inside his office, resting his hand on the small of my back right before he closes the door. I feel a gush of liquid in my panties at the pressure of his hand on my back.
Come on, get it together, my inner voice howls.
He opens his mouth, his eyes darting between mine. We are standing close, with probably just a foot of space between us. His office smells like him and when I breath it in, I feel weak in my knees, in my heart. He is studying me; his brow is less furrowed now but pensive still. I look down at my toes, my hands clasped together in front of me.
Say something, you interrupted him. This isn’t a game; this is his career. Don’t be a fool.
Jesus my inner voice can really be a bitch sometimes, can’t she? But she isn’t wrong.
“I don’t know,” I say quietly, apprehensively, afraid to look up at him. Afraid that if I meet his vivid gaze I may buckle at the knees and fall to his feet, the remarkable things I feel for him rising to the surface after being stuffed down and denied for a month. But really longer because I think, and if my inner voice will let me just say this, I think I’ve been falling for him since the night he called Kyra and I answered.
And then I see him reach for me, with just one hand. His pointer finger scoops the underside of my chin and lifts my face, red with embarrassment, to face him. His touch is gentle yet it tears through me, electricity soaring through my veins, my nipples hardening to him.
“It’s okay,” his voice is filled with something that is hard for me to place. It’s complex and settles on my shoulders like a blanket. What is this? I look into his eyes, which skim between my own as he studies me, and I realize: it’s worry. I can safely say that no one has ever worried about me or my well-being, and being on the receiving end of concern is strangely powerful.
And erotic.
I want to stand on my tippy toes and wrap my hands around his neck, I want to cover his mouth with my own and taste him. But my inner voice is there to remind me; you’re at his place of work, you may be temporary there but he isn’t! DIFFUSE!
“You don’t have to swim. We don’t have to do that. If it’s worrying you, it’s certainly not worth it.”
Relief washes over me as he’s given me a reasonable out for my unprofessional behavior.
“I am nervous,” I say quietly. And then, with all sincerity and truth, a thought comes to my mind and rushes to my lips before I can stop myself. “I got in a pool once when I was little. My mom took me to this guy’s house and I guess maybe he was her boyfriend? I can’t remember. But I didn’t know how to swim. And I didn’t have any floaties or anything. And she just put me in the pool with a rubber ducky and went inside. I remember wanting to get out but I couldn’t pull myself from the water, it was so heavy, you know?”
His face changes rapidly from concern to anger and then, I think for a brief moment, I see sadness.
“I would never let anything happen to you. But it should be your choice. I won’t mention it again. You let me know, okay?”
We are still standing so close. So close. But we don’t make physical contact again. I step back and smile while looking down at my toes. I turn on my heel and pull the office door open and right as I’m stepping out, he calls quietly after me “you’re going to love dinner.”
I turn back and smile to him over my shoulder and though he doesn’t smile, I see the corner of his mouth lift slightly.
I pull the door closed behind me and see the two women from the bathroom standing adjacent to his office door. I give them a nod of acknowledgement before tucking myself back into my little office, a smile painted on my lips for the rest of the work day.