It’s a contradictory mix of exciting—because I’m feeling something other than unrelenting despair—and anxiousness because I feel like I am way out of my depth.
I make it to his office, albeit on annoyingly shaky legs, and glance around the impressive space, reacquainting myself with it. All of the screens on one wall have a different channel on, all news channels, and his desk is scattered with newspapers, his laptop open on the end. His chair looks like you could sleep in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does sleep in it.
I take in the walls and look up at the ceiling. It doesn’t look like he’s tried to paint anything. Frowning, I lay down the drop cloths in my working area and start stirring up the spackling until it’s smooth and consistent as I go to the wall. I locate the holes and take my loaded filling knife to the first, pausing halfway there when he strolls in. He doesn’t acknowledge me as he wanders to his desk, and my eyes follow him the whole way, my neck craning to see him. He moves a few things around and then tugs his trousers up at the knees and lowers to his chair, pulling his laptop forward.
What?
My arm starts to ache where it’s held in midair, and I slowly turn toward him, staring at him in question. Either he’s unaware or he doesn’t care. Something tells me it’s the latter. He eventually stops browsing his screen and looks across to me, tilting his head.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pointing my filling knife at him. His eyes switch from mine to the knife, an undetectable smile at risk of showing. But he won’t let it loose. He’ll control it.
“Working.” The fingertips of each hand meet, forming a steeple at his chin, and he rests back, looking comfortable. I’m anything but.
“Excuse me?”
His eyes dance. My fucking heart gallops. No. Please tell me . . .
“I work from home.”
I swallow.
“Every day,” he adds.
“Every day,” I murmur, scanning his office once again, for what reason I couldn’t tell you. “So you’re just going to . . . be here?” This close? All. The. Time.
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes.” It’s out fast, indignant and unstoppable. “I’ll need to put drop cloths over everything when I start painting,” I rush on.
“That wall is a good thirty feet away from me. If you manage to get paint on this table from there, I might question if I’ve got the right person doing the job.”
I can answer that for him. I’m the wrong person. He should have someone who can keep themselves together in his presence. I expect his options will be limited. “And the ceiling?” I ask, pointing up.
His head drops back, taking in the dozens of tiny spotlights, as if they’re new to him. His throat. The taut flesh of his throat. Fuck. This isn’t going to work. The resistance I’ll need not to admire him all day will kill me. “Why are you here, Beau?” he whispers.
“What?”
His laser eyes drop, but his head remains tilted back, as if he’s aware of my battle to keep my eyes from that place. As if he knows I’m at risk of sinking my teeth into him. I can only imagine what he must taste like. Intoxicating. So bad but so good. “Why are you here?” he repeats.
I blindly indicate his office, and his eyes cast around the space before returning to me.
“But I make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs quietly. “So I’m still wondering why you’re here.” He holds my wide eyes for a long, long time before going back to his screen, and the moment I’m free from his fire stare, my body starts to convulse uncontrollably. I need some air, and I’m not likely to find it in this box of tension.
I leave the room hastily, feeling his piercing eyes follow my fleeing form, and close the door behind me. And then I stand like an idiot on the other side, wondering which door I need.
“Second on the left,” he says, and I jump, swinging around. The door is still shut, James on the other side.
I take backward steps, feeling his eyes on me, even with the frosted glass between us. “How did you know?”
“I can hear your heart hammering.”
I close my eyes and apply pressure on my chest, feeling the uncontrollable pound.
“I can still hear it,” he whispers, and I breathe out shakily.
“You didn’t try to paint at all, did you?” I ask.
“No.”
I don’t know what that means, and I haven’t the mental capacity to figure it out. Not now. Why am I here? Easy. Because as fucked up as it is, I’m riveted. Already addicted to the distraction. But why did James entice me here? Could it be for the same reasons?
I turn and hurry to the bathroom, shutting the door, locking it, and glancing around. More glass. The tub, the sink, the tiles. And not a waterdrop on any of it, every square inch sparkling. He’s one single man. How much space does he need?
I go to the sink and wash my hands, reluctantly assessing myself in the mirror. I know what I must look like—I don’t need my reflection to confirm it—but the mirrored tile spanning all three walls isn’t avoidable. My cheeks are pink. My eyes bright, if a little round.
I glance back at the door.
Who are you, James Kelly?
And how can you hold me captive with curiosity I know is dangerous?
I feel like every cop sense I have is dulling. And senses I never knew existed are heightening. I brace my hands on the sink and take some time to get my breathing under control. Then I retie my hair, use the toilet for the sake of it, and spend a good five minutes rubbing the sink clean with one of the luxury towels to rid it of water splashes.
I finish. Swallow. Stare at the door that’ll lead me back to the unknown. I leave the bathroom feeling no more settled than when I entered, making it back to his office in no time. I take a deep breath as my hand grips the handle hard, and I enter on my exhale. He looks up, pointing a remote control at one of the giant TVs on the wall. The screen goes blank, and I look from him to the TV a few times. “Would you like me to leave?” I ask.
“No.”
Then why is he looking at me like I’ve just intruded?
I wipe my palms down the front of my jeans and collect my filling knife, carrying on with what I’m here to do. Painting has been an unexpected savior over the past two years. Something I get so into, I forget everything else. Right now, I need to forget James Kelly is sitting behind me. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Yes.
No.
I’m debating that for the next hour as I work my way across the wall, filling in the holes and imperfections as I go. I finish up, replace the lid of the spackling, and leave the room for a welcomed break from him, heading downstairs to collect everything else I need. I gather my box of brushes, my pot of undercoat for the woodwork, some sugar soap, and my sandpaper. With my arms full, I turn to head back upstairs.
And crash right into something.
Him.
Everything falls from my arms. “Shit,” I murmur, stepping back, catching sight of something in his hand as he reaches behind his back. But when his hand appears again, it’s empty. I look up at him. He looks pissed off. He has a nerve. My veins are throbbing, both in fright and because of his proximity.
His eyes clear in a moment. “Let me help you,” he says, crouching and gathering up my things.