Page 13 of One Little Favor
“The latter.”
“I think the easiest thing is to be as honest as possible, then. If we don’t tell them I’m your assistant tomorrow night, and then they find out on Monday when they stop by the office, that wouldn’t be a good look.”
That same sexy “hmm” rattles through his throat again. It’s different from his normal thinking sound, and I want to hear it more often. Does he sit in here in his office and make that sound? Does he even know he’s doing it? I’m so lost in considering how much this turns me on that I don’t realize he’s watching me until he clears his throat and my eyes snap over to find him staring at me intently.
“What’s that look?” he asks.
I feel the heat creeping up my chest, across the thin skin of my neck, and into my cheeks. I curse my fair, lightly freckled skin, certain I look like a tomato.
“I’m ... thinking about how embarrassing it would be”—if my boss knew how stupidly obsessed I was with him—“if your brother and sister-in-law found out I was actually just your employee.”
His eyes narrow, almost like he’s zooming in on my face. And he looks unhappy with what he sees. “What do you mean,justmy employee?”
I roll my eyes and look away, trying to break the intensity of the moment. “This is not exactly an impressive career, Tom.”
He’s next to me so quickly it feels like he moved at warp speed. “What is not impressive about your work, exactly?” He’s so close that I can feel his breath along the curve of my ear. I stop breathing entirely, afraid that if I exhale, it’ll come out like the moan that’s dying to escape.
I also stand there like a rigid mannequin, afraid that if I move I’ll lean into him, curl my entire body into the crevice between his chest and those impressive biceps I’ve been trying not to notice all day. Tom’s quite a bit larger than me, and instead of that intimidating me, I’m comforted by the size difference.
“I didn’t say my work wasn’t impressive,” I say when I realize that I’ve gone too long without answering his question. “I said it wasn’t an impressive career.”
“Because I don’t pay you well enough?”
“No,” I say. I’m paid extremely well, which is exactly why I took this job. “Because before I came to work here in the admin pool, I was a year away from finishing the coursework for my PhD in English Literature.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “My parents were so proud.”
“Where were you working on this? And why did you stop?”
“Columbia, actually,” I say, hoping he doesn’t ask why I never mentioned attending his alma mater. “And because I needed to be able to help my parents. The admin pool paid a lot more than my teaching fellow stipend, and I moved home for a bit to be there for my mom and dad. When I got this job, I moved out and got my own place and was still able to help my parents.”
Sometimes I still can’t believe they pay me nearly six figures to manage Tom’s schedule. Not that it’s not hard work—and it certainly requires a level of organization, professionalism, and attention to detail that not everyone possesses—but it would have taken me forever to earn this kind of money in academics. And “my own place” is actually a 350-square-foot studio, but it’s here in Manhattan and it’s all mine.
Tom’s knuckles graze my chin as he turns my face toward him, and I can’t help the small sigh that escapes my parted lips before I press them shut in an attempt to not embarrass myself further.
“That’s a way more admirable career choice than anything anyone in my family has ever done. Don’t ever be ashamed of that.” In response to his words, I close my eyes and give a small nod. I know he’s right. I should be proud that I’ve got a lucrative career that allows me to help my family. But I’d worked hard for that PhD, so having to leave the program really hurt. “When are you going to finish your PhD?”
“I don’t know,” I say, then look at my feet. “I’d need at least two or three years to do the work, and I can’t manage that with my job. It’s too much.”
“We’re going to figure that out.”
I open my mouth, but I’m speechless for a full minute of awkward silence. “What do you meanwe’regoing to figure it out?”
Tom steps away from me, gives me a casual shrug that feels anything but casual, and says, “I don’t think I’d be doing my duty as your fake boyfriend if I didn’t help you figure out how to finish your doctorate.”
That response is so night-and-day different from Logan’s “yeah, that sucks, babe” response when I explained the dilemma of having to leave my doctoral program. I don’t know why I’m comparing the two, except that Tom and I aren’tactuallydating and he’s being far more supportive than Logan ever was.
“Tom,” I say quickly, and he turns back toward me. “You don’t owe me anything. I don’t expect you to help figure this out. I’ve already figured it out.”
“Yeah? So when and how will you be finishing your PhD?”
“I won’t be. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Right. So you haven’t figured it out.” He nods definitively.
“Ihavefigured it out,” I say, unable to control the edge that works its way into my voice. It took me a long time to get past the disappointment of knowing that the degree wasn’t going to happen. But now that I’m on the other side of that pain, fully in the acceptance phase, I can’t dip my toe back into that pool of hope.
“Right,” he says again, and I practically growl in frustration at the blatant sarcasm in his tone. I can take his attitude when it’s work-related, but this ismy lifewe’re talking about.
“I’ve already made my mind up, Tom. I talked to my adviser, I know what my options are, and I made my choice.” In fact, my letter to withdraw officially from the program is saved on my computer, waiting for me to send it in. I try not to think about what it means that I haven’t actually sent it yet. I will. I just need a little more time to say goodbye to that particular dream. “Don’t get involved.”
