Page 34 of Forbidden Desire

“I have a word count I need to hit…”

“I’ll let you have the morning to do so.”

I can see she’s trying to come up with another excuse, but I’m ready to serve it right back to her in this game of tennis we find ourselves in.

She takes a deep breath and I will myself not to stare at the slow rise and fall of her perfect breasts. Does she wear these things to torture me? I could only be so lucky.

“Fine. Okay,” she says. “Give me an hour?”

“Of course.” I nod.

Game. Set. Match.

An hour later, on the dot, I hear a knock at my office door.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Let’s go.” I smile.

We take a cab to Chelsea, when I realize I need to figure out some sort of imaginary thing I’m looking for amongst the furniture shops. I really just want this time with her, away from the office. We stroll the sidewalk, weaving in and out of various furniture stores. I like wandering aimlessly with her, seeing what she likes and doesn’t like.

“What exactly are you looking for?” she asks, as we leave another store empty-handed.

“Uh, new lighting for the desks. Maybe some frames for the reception desk.”

“Thisis the priority right now, in the middle of an acquisition?” she asks, looking unamused.

“I want people to feel like they’re at home.” I shrug.

“Then maybe you should have left them where they felt at home,” she mutters under her breath.

I wonder if this has been a fool’s errand with the cold shoulder she’s giving me. She still resents me for taking over her beloved paper. I wonder if she will ever get over it.

“Let’s try that one,” I say, pointing across the street. “Then maybe we can grab some lunch?”

“Sure,” she says, but she’s not enthusiastic about it.

In the store, she helps me pick out some midcentury modern brass lamps for the desks in the office. She also helps me narrow down a collection of frames. They’re all things I don’t need, but they’re worth the money if it means having this time with her, even if she would rather be anywhere else.

After I place my order and schedule a delivery, we walk a few blocks to an Italian restaurant I know of. It’s small, with white brick and light wood tables that line the walls, underneath black-framed mirrors. We are seated at a forest green leather booth where we both down our ice-cold waters, parched from the summer heat. I notice she barely breaks a sweat, but her skin is glowing. Summer suits her. The green of her eyes starts to melt into the color of the booth.

“What?” she asks, and I realize that I’ve been staring.

“Oh, nothing,” I say, looking down at my menu in concentration.

“What?” she asks again, and she’s looking at me with her head tilted.

“I’ve just noticed your eyes change colors. I was seeing what they were today.”

I see her cheeks deepen in color.

“Sorry, if that’s inappropriate,” I say quickly, reminding myself that I’m treading a fine line, given she almost quit yesterday.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “They’ve always done that, ever since I was little. My mother swore she could tell what sort of mood I was in just by the shade of green.”

I want to tell her that I’ve figured that out myself, but hold back.

“Must have helped when you were a teenager.” I smile.

---