Page 87 of For the Plot
She laughs as she stands. Her fingers trail across the edge of my desk. "I’ll let you get back to work."
But when she walks out, I don’t get back to work. I stare at the door like she took every rational thought I had with her. And I already know… I’m not going to survive this.
Archer's textcomes in a few hours later.
Archer:Landing at 9. Can swing by the office tomorrow, midmorning. Thought we could go over Q2 projections.
My stomach knots. He's coming here. To my office. Where Skye will be. I rake a hand down my face, sitting back in my chair, dread rising in my throat like acid. It shouldn't matter. She's a temp. Nothing more. Except she isn't. Not anymore. Not to me.
He'll recognize her voice. He'll see the way she looks at me. The way I look at her.
Fuck.
I pace. I consider telling her the truth. That Archer is coming and it’s complicated. That it’s better if she isn’t here. But what would that say? That I’m ashamed of her? That this, whatever the hell this is between us, can’t survive the daylight?
I hate myself for even considering it. But I still pull out my phone and search for thebest spa in Chicago.I find it and book the full-day package. Massage. Facial. Steam. Wrap. Lunch. The works. All under her name.
Then I text her.
Me:Take tomorrow off. My treat. No arguments. Confirmation attached.
A moment later, her reply pings.
Me:This is insane. And sweet. Should I be suspicious?
I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering.
Me:I just want to take care of you a little. You deserve that.
My stomach knots tighter when I read the lie. It’s partially a lie anyway. I do want to take care of her, spoil her, pamper her, but that’s not where the motivation is coming from this time. She doesn't respond right away. I imagine her curled up on her couch reading it, brow furrowed, cheeks pink. Eventually she texts back.
Me:Thank you. For real.
I put my phone down and stare out the window. I’ve never hated myself more. And yet my chest feels lighter knowing she’ll be pampered. Safe. Unseen. Just for one more day.
The next day, the office feels colder without her.
Her laugh doesn’t echo from the front desk. Her perfume isn’t laced into the air. The corner of her jacket isn’t slung over her chair, tempting me with the fantasy that maybe this could ever be simple.
It’s not. It never was.
Archer walks in fifteen minutes late, casual as ever, in dark denim and a navy Henley like he didn’t just throw my entire emotional equilibrium into a blender with one goddamn text message last night.
“Dad.” He nods, dropping onto the leather chair in front of my desk like he owns the place.
“Morning,” I say, voice low. My tie suddenly feels too tight.
He glances around. “Where’s the assistant? She ditch you already?”
My jaw tightens. “She took the day off.”
“Already?” He lifts a brow. “Damn. That’s a bold move for a temp.”
“She’s been helping with the quarter-end reconciliations,” I deflect. “She earned it.”
He lets it go for now. We launch into projections. Numbers. Strategy. He flips through spreadsheets, clicks his pen, questions my allocations like he always does. And I answer because this, at least, is still familiar.
But somewhere between supply chain margins and expansion projections, I feel it. His eyes on me. Studying.
