“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling away and surreptitiously adjusting the sizeable bulge in his tuxedo pants. “That was—I shouldn’t have—”
“What?” I frown, my head still spinning. “No, I wanted you to. I still want you to, I—”
“It was inappropriate,” he says firmly, his face blank again. “And unprofessional.”
And quite possibly the hottest thing that’s happened to me in my entire life.
“I should go,” he says, bending to scoop his jacket up off the floor.
“Liam—” I’m dazed from the orgasm and the emotional whiplash of this entire encounter, unable to think quickly enough to get him to stay. What is happening here? “Can you just wait a—”
“Ah, have a great night, Eliza. I’ll see you at the office!”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me standing alone in the middle of my apartment with my head reeling and my body still aching for more.
11
Eliza
There’s no way I can go into work the next morning, and not just because I’m too humiliated. I was up half the night tossing and turning, reliving my encounter with Liam, and the other half asleep, having hot and heavy dreams about him. I call into the office and let Rachel know I’m going to be working from home today, then set up on my couch with my laptop and a massive latte from the coffee shop around the corner.
Okay, a massive coffee-cake muffin, too. I deserve it, after the week I’ve had.
I open the file I’ve got to work on—a memoir I’m actually really excited about—but I can barely concentrate. I read the same paragraph three separate times without registering a single word.
Finally, I give up and click over to Instagram, typing Liam’s name into the search bar. Just, you know, out of idle curiosity. I’m not stalking him or anything. Promise.
I’m not really expecting him to have an account—he definitely doesn’t seem like the type to fritter away valuable work time on social media—so I’m not surprised, when I come up empty. I try Twitter and Facebook next, then take a Hail Mary pass at TikTok just in case he’s got a super-secret penchant for making raunchy dance videos to rap hits of the early 2000s. No luck. In fact, as far as I can tell, the only current information about the guy on the entire internet is his LinkedIn account—and even that doesn’t have so much as a headshot.
I’m about to throw my phone across the apartment in (sexual) frustration when it buzzes in my hand. I gasp when I look down at the screen.
Liam is calling. As if somehow he could sense me wasting time e-stalking him during work hours…
My thumb hovers over the button to answer but in the end, I chicken out and send him to voicemail. Besides, what is there to say? Thanks for the orgasm, looking forward to a long and productive professional relationship?
He calls again.
I bite my lip. I want to talk to him—I’m dying to talk to him, actually—but then I remember how fast he high-tailed it away from me last night. Something tells me, there’s nothing but awkwardness ahead.
Sure enough, Liam doesn’t leave a message, but a moment later he sends me a text. Hey, it says, looking for notes on conference call from last week. Can you email them over?
That’s it? I feel like I’m being punked. This jerk had his fingers buried to the second knuckle inside me not twelve hours ago, and that’s what he wants to talk about now? Conference call notes? I send them over with no comment, and a moment later the phone chimes again.
Thank you.
Then, a few minutes later, another text: I also want to offer you my sincere apology for last night. It was unprofessional and unbecoming of both of us. It won’t happen again.
Now I really do throw the phone across the room. Then I sigh and go pick it up off the rug. I scroll to Katie’s name. SOS, I text her. Wine lunch?
She texts back a minute later. Always.
I meet Katie and her cousin April at a tiny French bistro downtown, where we order a dozen oysters and a bottle of crisp white wine to share. Not to mention a double order of fries.
“I mean, sure,” I concede, once I’ve filled them in on my sexual misadventures, “maybe it wasn’t a great idea, career-wise, to get to third base with my boss on a work night.” I pop a fry into my mouth. And then another. “But still.”
“Is finger-banging third base?” Katie asks thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m almost thirty years old, I’m allegedly a relationship expert, and I still get so confused about the bases.”
“I’m being serious!” I wail, trying not to laugh. “Honestly, I’m insulted! He should want to do all the bases with me, no matter what they are!”
“He should want to do all the bases,” April agrees.
I take a sip of my wine and sigh. “Is there something wrong with me?” I ask in a small voice. “I mean, the guy practically had an open invitation last night to take things further, and instead, he sprinted away from me at top speed!”
“What? Definitely not,” Katie insists, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “Honestly, I’m sure he does want to—”
“Hit a home run?” April supplies. “Score a three-pointer? Get a hole-in-one?”
“I’ve lost track of the sports metaphors here, but yes.”
“I’m sure he wants to bone you,” April says firmly, “and honestly from what you’ve said, he’s just… Shy? Formal? The Fitzwilliam Darcy of the New York publishing scene?”
“Now there’s a comparison I understand.” Katie laughs. “Speaking of which,” she says, emptying the last dregs of the wine into her glass and nodding at the ponytailed waiter, “it is a truth universally acknowledged that three girls with empty wine glasses must be in want of another bottle.”
“Yes, please,” I sigh, and we spend the rest of lunch catching up. Both of them are annoyingly, blissfully happy in their current relationships, and April even hints that she might be thinking about the M-word.
“Seth is going to propose?” I ask, my eyes wide.
“No, I meant, moving in together!” April snorts with laughter. “It’s only been six months!”
“Still, that’s a big deal,” I say, a little envious. “And meanwhile, you and Wes are still going strong?” I ask Katie.
She gives a smug little grin, the kind you give when you have hot sex on tap. “I mean, the man drives me crazy, but that’s not necessarily a good thing.”
“Ugh.” I sigh. “And I mean that in the best of ways.”
Katie laughs. “Don’t write yourself off so quick,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I have a good feeling about this hot boss sex robot of yours.”
I’d love to spend all day boozing with Katie and April, but technically I suppose I am supposed to be working, so I switch to water before heading back to my “home office”—by which I mean, my laptop and my couch. A change of scenery—and some quality girl talk—really did help clear the cobwebs out of my brain, and I’ve made some pretty good progress on the book when my email dings with a new incoming message. I feel my stomach flip with excitement when I see an email from Verity, with the completed manuscript of Rock Hard attached!