Page 7 of One Little Favor
My backside springs off the edge of Tom’s desk so fast that I manage to both drop my bear claw and also spill my coffee down the front of my sweater.
“Shit!” I say as I spin toward him, now covered in coffee. The coffee isn’t that hot because, as Tom likes to remind me when I’m reheating my coffee for the third time, it’d stay a lot hotter if I used an insulated mug. And it probably wouldn’t have spilled if I’d at least kept it in the lidded cup it came in.
“I’m sorry,” he says as he rushes around the desk, grabbing the napkins I’d left there as he moves toward me. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.” He reaches out to blot the coffee off my chest with the handful of napkins, and the minute his fingers land on the swell of my breasts, I stop breathing. My eyes travel up his neck, over that chiseled jawline with the cleft in his chin, lingering on those full pale lips before moving along the straight bridge of his nose and locking on his dark eyes.
Tom is fair, with light hair, but his eyes are the color of the midnight sky on a moonless night. Nearly black, but up close they are alive with flecks of color—indigo blue, dark brown, forest green—like a kaleidoscope.
We stay there, eyes locked, for so long that I’m in danger of passing out from not breathing, but I don’t want to ruin the moment by moving even one millimeter. Eventually I take a heaving breath, because the moment will be even more ruined by me passing out at Tom’s feet. And as I feared, that movement drives Tom away. He jumps back, all apologies and regret.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put my hands on you,” he says from the safe distance of two feet away. He reaches out and hands me the napkins, already damp from where they’ve sopped up some of the spilled coffee.
“It’s fine, Tom,” I say as I dab at the coffee on my sweater, trying to absorb as much of it as possible while simultaneously avoiding any eye contact. “Really.”
There’s nothing fine about the way I wanted to push myself into him when he was standing there staring down at me. How I wanted to hold his hand to my chest, let him run his fingers across my body. The longing I usually feel around him is child’s play compared to the heat that’s spread through me now that he’s actually touched me.
“Don’t fucking‘really’me, Avery.”
When I look up at him, I’m surprised by the hard glint in his eyes. His face is pinched, his pain evident. It’s such an open view for someone who’s usually so closed off. And I have no idea what it means. Or what he means.
“What?”
“You only say ‘really’ when thingsaren’tokay.”
I dip my eyebrows in confusion. What is he talking about?
“Like how it’sreallyokay that your parents are going on a cruise without you over Christmas after you’d taken the week off to spend time with them.” He pauses. “You told your mom thatreally,you’d be fine without them twice yesterday—when you are obviously notreallyfine.”
His comment stings. Am I that transparent?
“Itreallyis fine, Tom.” I swallow the lump in my throat and try to ignore how my eyes have become glassy with the tears I refuse to shed. “This is a good thing for them. Does it suck for me? Sure. But is my happiness for them greater than my disappointment? Also, yes. Soreally, it’s fine.”
He tilts his head and studies me for a minute. Finally, he nods, but he still doesn’t say anything.
I glance over at the doorway and see that he’s brought in all the painting supplies I’d left downstairs at the security desk, and all four cans of paint. Which means he made multiple trips in here to drop stuff off while I stared out his window with my stupid ass planted on his desk, and I was so lost in thought, I didn’t even hear him until he was right behind me. My cheeks grow warmer, and the coffee that’s all over my chest grows colder.
I nod toward the supplies. “Let me get myself cleaned up, and then we can start painting.”
“I’ve got a stain remover pen in my desk.” His voice is so deadpan that it makes me laugh. About a month ago, I’d given him that pen right after he’d spilled coffee on a shirt before an important meeting. I’d had it in my desk for months, knowing that eventually he’d require it. Anticipating his needs and delivering the right thing at the right time ... that’s how I’ve kept this job when so many others before me couldn’t. That, and I don’t let his grumpy attitude get to me. He gives me his piss and vinegar, I give him a healthy dose of sunshine right back.
He reaches over to the drawer next to me, opens it, and drops the pen in my outstretched hand. I’m relieved when his fingers don’t touch my palm, because I’m not sure how I’d react if he touched me again. I already feel like I’m on fire, but maybe that’s just because the heat clearly hasn’t been fixed and it’s probably eighty degrees in here.
“Feel free to use my bathroom,” he says as I turn away from him. I almost glance back at him in surprise, because even though I know he has a bathroom in his office, I’ve never seen it—and the idea of being in there feels like an invasion of his privacy.
“You sure?”
“Of course.” I can hear the disinterest in his voice. It’s the same“you’re dismissed” tone that always lets me know when our conversations are over.
The bathroom feels like it was kissed by an expensive designer—dark fabric wallpaper, expensive slate tile, and a sleek glass shower. It makes me wonder: if Tom can afford this kind of design for his bathroom, why in the world has he askedmeto help him with his office—the part of this suite that everyone will actually see. He must be extraordinarily desperate on such short notice.
The stain pen is all dried out so I have to run the fabric under the faucet until the water runs clear. And while the stain is thankfully gone, I can’t put the sweater back on now that it’s soaking wet.
Why do stupid things like thisalwayshappen to me?
I lay my sweater out over the towel rack by the shower, hoping that with the heat cranking like this, it’ll dry quickly. At least the tank top is more comfortable, given the temperature.
When I return to Tom’s office, he’s also taken his sweatshirt off. It’s practically tropical in here, and he wipes the back of his hand across this forehead as he sets the paint tray and liner on the drop cloth he’s placed near one of the windows. He’s already got an edging brush and a roller set out. He glances over at me when I walk out of the bathroom but then looks away just as quickly.
“I figured I’d edge and you can roll the primer on. Sound okay?” he asks to the room, still not looking at me.
