Page 2 of Dirty Little Secrets
“Likewise,” I say, rolling my eyes in annoyance. If he wants to touch me, he’ll have to pay. Just like the others.He already did, remember?I shudder. That was a long night. I round the corner toward my office, and like clockwork, Tom jogs up beside me, holding two coffees. He hands me one. “Thanks.”
“You look beautiful this morning,” Tom whispers as I take the tumbler from him and sip on the overly sweet and creamy beverage. I give him a grateful smile like I always do. “Good, huh? I asked for a little vanilla this time.”
“Vanilla? Really?” I perk up a brow. “How scandalous.”
Tom grins, shrugging coyly. “Figured it’s good to shake things up occasionally, you know?”
“Don’t shake too hard now, wouldn’t wanna overexert yourself,” I say, continuing the walk to my corner of the floor. Tom follows behind me like a loyal puppy.Aren’t puppies supposed to be cute? He’s more of arescue that you can’t help but feel bad for.Stop it. “Is my computer fixed?”
“Yup. Came in early to double-check that all the programs are running smoothly.” He tosses me a wink that barely makes it past his rimless glasses. “You’re all set.”
“Great.”
Tom pulls my office door open for me and follows me inside. What is he doing? He knows the rules. No one at the office can know that we’re an item.Yeah, a clearance item.He paces around nervously as I settle in.
“Tom?”
He jerks his head in my direction and swallows.
I blink. “Is everything alright?” I fake checking my calendar. “I have a meeting in?—”
“I think we should move in together,” he blurts out, cheeks turning red as he ducks his head and scampers to the guest chair and sits across from me.HAH!I stifle an incredulous laugh at his ridiculous suggestion. He ignores my reaction and forges ahead in a quiet voice. “Move in with me, Em. I think it’s time, no? We’ve been dating for a little over a year and?—”
“And what?” I ask, tilting my head in confusion. “You think that means we shouldlivetogether?”
Tom and I have been “dating” for exactly 60 weeks. That’s 420 days. 10,080 hours. And most of those hours have been spent either at work or quietly watching movies over a bland chicken dinner. Sure, occasionally we’d venture into a bookstore or walk through the park, but that’s hardly anything special.Yeah, and out ofthose 10,080 hours, you’ve only had his cock inside of you 11 times. Is that really dating?
Tom shrugs. “It’s the next step.”
“A step?”
“Yeah, you know? A step.” His blonde brows crunch up. “Step one: Date. Step two: Move in together. Step three: Get engaged. Step four?—”
Jump off a fucking cliff.
“Please stop,” I say, my temples suddenly pulsing with the fear of lifelong mundanity.
“Emery.” His voice falls soft, almost hurt. Like a wounded animal.See? Told ya. A fucking rescue.Tom looks through the glass office walls before reaching out and forcibly taking my hand. He smiles at me. Genuine. So freaking genuine. “If you’re not ready yet, that's fine, but think about it, okay?”
“I don’t?—”
“Think about it.” He doubles down, nodding with unearned confidence. “That’s all I ask.”
“I will,” I lie, waving him out of my office as I pull up the daily news on my computer, needing sordid celebrity gossip to distract me from the fact I’m in a four-step program with Tom.
Just dump his ass already. You’re giving the poor guy unrealistic hope. He thinks you’re going to marry him. Just put the old dog out of his misery.He’s dependable and stable.Uh-huh, so is a Ninja but you don’t see me fucking a blender for the rest of my life.
Enough.
I scroll faster through the tabloid news, reading at warp speed, filling my brain with useless knowledgeand garbage journalism. My index finger slows down as I reach an article titled:“Mystery Still Surrounds Billionaire's Disappearance after Family Tragedy”.
Huh… I skim the article.
Two years ago… Helicopter crash over the Hudson River… Entire family killed except oldest son… Damon Cavanaugh hasn’t been seen by the public… Cavanaugh Industries’ recent stock plummets…
When an image of Damon Cavanaugh’s most recent headshot appears on the screen, my salivary glands go rogue, filling my mouth with a tiny pool of liquid lust.Hot damn. Now that’s a man. I can’t even argue. Logically, I know that this photograph is supposed to elicit command and power. I mean, he’s manspreading on a velvet navy armchair, sporting a tailored suit and cufflinks that cost more than Tom’s monthly rent.
With his ring-bearing fingers clasped, elbows digging into his thighs, and his dark, opal eyes staring right into mine, I can’t help but lean back and slowly, carefully, pull at the hem of my skirt.
