Page 40 of The Physical Attraction Seminar
“You’re going to think that I’m crazy for saying this… but I think we should stay.” I look down, skimming through the itinerary on the pamphlet. “How are we supposed to go back to our day-to-day life without finding out why men shouldn’t suppress their moans in the bedroom?”
“What about…”
“No. Nope. Nuh-uh.” I shake my head. “That stupid non-fraternization policy was shot to shit the second you kissed me the other night. Don’t even try to use it as an excuse. If the two of us stay, we’re going to sleep on our respective sides of the bed, with a respectabledistance between us. And when we’re not sleeping, we’ll enjoy a nice little vacation and have a few laughs while we scope out some of these seminar sessions. That’s it.”
Barrett stares at me, his eyes never leaving mine, carefully processing what I’m asking and weighing the risks involved. Minutes stretch into an eternity, the silence between us growing heavier by the second.
I half expect him to respond with a disapproving frown, shaking his head “no.” Or to tell me that we can’t do this and that we’re going to fly back home, erasing any memory of this experience. Then, in his smooth voice, he mutters the words, “I could use some time away from the office.”
My eyes light up. “So, that’s it? We’re really doing this? We’re staying?”
“I couldn’t help but overhear that the two of you will be joining us for the seminar this year?” The woman who was standing behind us at the check-in counter interrupts, beaming from ear to ear. “How long have you two been together?”
“Oh, we’re not—” I start, but Barrett cuts me off by slinging his arm over my shoulder, pulling me in close.
“Seven years last November,” he says matter-of-factly.
He shoots me a “just go with it” look, and I immediately wedge my elbow into his rib cage. A wince spills past his lips, and I whisper out of the corner of my mouth, “I was a minor seven years ago, you idiot.”
He might be my boss, but I swear I’m going to strangle him in his sleep.
“Forgive me,” he corrects himself. “Did I say seven? I meant six years ago. Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“Six years!” The woman exclaims while waving over an elderly man with salt and pepper hair to come join us. “Would you look at that, Buster? They’ve been together for six years already.”
“Nice to meet you two lovebirds.” The man shakes both of our hands before tenderly wrapping his arm around his wife, pulling her close to him.
“Well, I’m Charlene, and this is my husband, Buster. We’ll be teaching a few of the seminars this week,” she explains with an overly eager smile. “Oh, I know! You two should come to our ‘Fooling Around With Foreplay’ session on Wednesday. It’s a real hoot.”
Barrett chokes on his saliva, and I instinctively slap a hand between his shoulder blades and give Charlene and Buster an apologetic smile.
The couple shares a knowing look. “I take it you two are first-timers?”
“Yup,” Barrett confirms after composing himself and looking down at me with a sly grin. “We’re looking to rekindle the spark in our relationship. We’ve had a few bumps in the road lately that made it… fizzle out.”
"Sounds like the two of you are in the right place," the old man says with a playful wink, his words laced with a hint of mischief.
Oh, Buster. Sweet, naive, Buster.
He has no idea how wrong he is.
SIXTEEN
BARRETT
“Get in the bed, Lyla.”
“I’m just…” she calls from the en suite bathroom, where she’s been fiddling around for the last forty-five minutes, avoiding coming to bed.
I’ve never seen her this nervous before. Throughout Elliot's farewell speech to the Solus staff on the day of her interview, she maintained a poker face, concealing her uneasiness while we were sitting right next to each other. We sat there for forty-five minutes, so close that our shoulders were touching, and I'm certain no one could tell we spent the entire night before fucking each other’s brains out.
Yet, ever since she got in the car this morning, she’s been a walking ball of anxiety. She's so scared to climb into bed with me that she's putting all her effort into avoiding it. The sink has turned on and off half a dozen times, and she’s spilled her make-up bag twice. She’ll open the door and flick off the lights only to flip themback on again and close the door again, repeating the process countless times.
At first, I thought it might be one of those elaborate nighttime routines that women seem to have, with a never-ending list of steps. I remember my old assistant, Rhonda, tried to explain all the products and rituals once, but I got confused when she started talking about step four, and everything else went over my head.
What Lyla is doing is different, though. The air around her is charged with her nervous energy, making it blatantly obvious that she's trying to stall for time.
I can only assume that she’s trying to waste enough time until I drift off to sleep. Only then, when the room is silent, she will cautiously slide under the sheets on the opposite side of the bed. I can picture her curling up against the edge of the bed, clutching the blankets tightly to avoid touching the pillow barricade she created to separate us.
