Or it could be the lost, almost vulnerable look in his eyes. He swims to the edge of the pool with long, sure strokes, and rests his forearms on the stone ledge. He looks out into the blackness—guess the staff was right to tell me he likes the night sky.
He sighs. Shoulders slumping.
With me, he’s got his dukes up. But here, he’s pensive and sad.
I don’t want to be curious about what that sadness is about or where it comes from. He’s my coworker.
I never ever cross that line. I’ve seen workplace romances end badly at every single restaurant and bar I’ve worked at.
Those romances end especially badly for women. I can’t tell you how many times my male colleagues stopped taking a woman seriously after discovering an indiscretion. Many of those women wound up leaving or getting fired, their reputations irreparably damaged.
But dammit, I am curious. The world knows Samuel as this flashy ex-athlete with a big smile and bigger bank account. You look at his Instagram, and that’s what you’ll see. He surrounds himself with wealth and beauty and success.
That sigh tells a different story.
Those eyes tell a really different story.
I can’t stop staring at his back. An image materializes inside my head: the bunching of those back muscles as he works over me. Gliding his lubed-up cock up and down between my breasts. Lips parted, eyes vulnerable, he loses himself to me. I dig my fingernails into his shoulder blades and drag them down the length of his spine. He hisses. I smile. He half grunts, half speaks.
I. Thrust. Appreciate. Thrust. Who you. Thrust. Really are.
This bone-deep yearning settles in the center of my being. Samuel never said those words. But God, if he did—if he was that ardent, that open, that real with me—I’m not sure I could handle it.
The sound of a twig snapping startles me out of my reverie. To my horror, I look down to see I’m the one who made that noise—my foot rests on a broken branch.
Shit.
I look up to see Samuel glaring in my direction.
“Is someone there?” he calls, standing. A sheet of water glides down his chest, plastering the dark hair there to his skin. His nipples are erect. “This is private property.”
I whirl around, back against the tree, and glue my arms to my sides. Oh, God, not only am I peeping my fellow employee like a total perv, but I’m also trespassing.
My heart nearly explodes when I hear Samuel climb out of the pool. He approaches, footsteps slapping against the wet concrete.
“Hello?” he calls, much closer than before.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray like hell he turns back around.
After several excruciating beats, he does. Thank God. Pulse hammering, I listen to him pad up the steps back to the house.
I need to get out of here. Stat. But apparently, I have no self-control when it comes to finding large men hanging out in pools at night because I glance toward the house one last time.
My pulse—it stops working.
Samuel is naked and turned away from me so I get a good view of his bare ass as he climbs the steps, using a towel to wipe his face. Like the rest of him, his ass is big and muscular. Two pale white globes that flex as he climbs, creating these delicious little indents just below his hip bones.
The whole thing is downright biteable. I imagine that’s how the muscles flex when he fucks. He’d be athletic in bed, the kind of sex that’d have you down a few pounds after a weekend marathon of it.
He shoots one last look over his shoulder. This time, I don’t take any chances. I scurry off, quiet as a mouse, careful to keep to places where pine needles cover the ground so they muffle the sound of my steps.
I’m out of breath by the time I get to my cottage. Closing the door behind me, I lean against it, struggling to get a grip on my runaway pulse.
I’m shaking, and I don’t know why.
Thankfully, I have my phone to distract me. It’s chiming from its perch on my nightstand.
My stomach dips the way it always does when I see a notification from Instagram, telling me my sister just posted a photo.
For a split second, I close my eyes. Overall, it’s been a decent night. I bested Samuel at a tasting and had probably the best cybersex of my life. Why ruin it by hate scrolling through my feed?
But like the social-media-addicted millennial I am, I scroll anyway. Lindsey’s is the first photo that pops up. Her feed is a beautifully curated collection of perfect images of her perfect life with her perfect husband, Palmer. Fabulous trips, fun-filled weekends, bright, sweaty smiles after a #Crossfit workout.
This particular post is a bright, cheery photo of her and Palmer, the two of them smiling on the sun-drenched patio of their beautiful home in Raleigh. My sister is, as always, impeccably put together, from her fashionable balloon-sleeved maxi dress to the stack of Cartier bracelets crowding her arm. She and Palmer are holding up flutes of sparkling wine. They’re clearly celebrating something, and I have a sudden, almost panicky need to know what that something is.
Cheers to my promotion to partner! Ever since I was a little girl, I’d watch my dad come home from a day of work at the law firm bearing his name. For years, I’ve dreamed of following in his footsteps, and as of today, I’ve officially done it! No better way to celebrate than with the dude who makes my heart sing. @PalmerK I wouldn’t have made it without you #BottomsUp #GirlBoss
Hashtag gross. Shit, I knew there had to be a reason she called earlier today. I haven’t had a chance to call her back.
I’m still shaking as I type a quick text to Lindsey, congratulating her. Honestly, I’m glad I missed her call, and that it’s too late to try chatting tonight. I’m happy for my sister. I’m proud of all that she’s accomplished; making partner at a law firm is a big deal. But seeing her hit overachiever milestone after overachiever milestone while I’m over here trading dirty puns with coworkers in an effort to keep my first salaried position is…
Yeah, it’s humbling to say the least.
A sharp-edged ache replaces the yearning in my center.
Envy.
And you know, I used to believe it was an unworthy emotion. But lately, I’ve come to realize that this particular kind of envy can actually be instructive.
It can show me what I want, and what I’m missing.
I don’t want to be on the partner track, and I definitely don’t want Lindsey’s Cartier jewelry.
It’s the success, the stability, the happiness that comes from making a good living doing something I love.
I try hard not to think about what my life would be like if I’d followed a similar path to Lindsey’s. Back in college, we were both pre-law. But a lot changed for me my senior year, and while my mom and dad really wanted me to toe the family line—they’re both attorneys—my heart led me elsewhere.
I don’t regret becoming a sommelier. But I do wish I had more to show for all the hard work I’ve put in over the past ten years.
I do wish I didn’t allow the world to make me feel like a joke as often as I do. I’m a lot less insecure than I used to be, but every so often, I can’t help but think no one would ever give Lindsey the side-eye for her career choice.
I crawl into bed, tired but unable to sleep.
I really, really want to make this job work. Not to compete with or impress my sister, although maybe she’ll finally stop looking at me with that condescending sympathy in her eyes every time I talk about my job.