Page 9 of One Little Favor
Mom
All set. The cruise ship has a walker if we need one. Thanks for the suggestion.
I hand the phone to Avery and let her know she has a text. “Oh good,” she sighs.
“Not to be nosy, but what’s the walker for?” I know I’m prying. I know we don’t normally talk about personal stuff like this. But I want to know what her life is like outside of the office.
She bites her lower lip and I look away before I grow hard watching her teeth sink into the flesh.God, I wish I knew what her mouth felt like on my skin.Then I’m mentally cursing myself out because I’m a complete asshole. I should not be thinking about her that way, but for reasons I can’t pinpoint, I can’t stop. There are millions of women I could sleep with in New York City, and I only want the one I most definitely can’t have.
“My dad was an NYPD officer who was shot in the line of duty two years ago. The bullet shattered his femur, and it’s a miracle the doctors were able to save his leg, but it’s been a long, hard road toward recovery.” She exhales a deep breath. “And we’re still not there yet.”
“Why not?”
“The leg the bullet destroyed doesn’t work as well as it should, even after multiple surgeries. And the insurance company was only willing to cover physical therapy for the first year post-surgery, then they said he’d maxed out his benefits.”
“So he’s just left to ... what? Heal on his own?” The thought of an officer wounded in the line of duty not getting the medical care he needs makes my blood boil.
“No, it’s fine. I was able to work it out.” She takes a deep, shaky breath and lies back on my office floor and sets her phone facedown on her stomach. I try not to focus on the swell of her breasts, and the way they rise and fall as she breathes, but it’s pretty hard not to notice with that pale pink tank top she’s wearing. It’s almost the color of her fair skin, and it’s entirely too easy to imagine that she’s not wearing a top at all.
“You got the insurance company to cover it?”
She clears her throat. “Not exactly.”
“Avery,” I say. My voice is firm even though I know this is none of my business and I have no right to know. “How did you work it out?”
“I’m just paying for it myself.”
“Out of pocket?”
“Yeah. It’s fine. He only goes three times a week, and the physical therapist is giving me a bit of a discount because he knows how much my dad needs this.”
“That must eat up a lot of your take-home pay,” I say, but it’s a question and we both know it.
“It’s fine, Tom. I’m well paid. I get by, and eventually—hopefully—Dad will get better and won’t need PT as often.”
“And your parents are okay with you spending this kind of money?” It must be close to two thousand dollars a month, at least, if he’s going to someone decent.
She looks away and the heat creeps up her chest and across her neck.
“Avery?”
“They don’t exactly know.”
“Where do they think the money to pay those bills is coming from?” I’m being a nosy son of a bitch, but I can’t help it. Here I am, demanding a ton from her at work, and she’s out there spending probably close to half her take-home pay on her father’s medical bills. It’s none of my business what she spends her money on, but I hate to think of her scrimping and saving and making every penny count.
“They think I convinced the insurance company to pay for it.”
I’m not sure how to respond. Is this why she agreed to work on the weekend, hoping what little she’ll earn here will chip away at the enormous cost covering? It’s heartbreaking, sometimes, the way our health care system works. I want to offer to help, because I can, but it feels like it would be wildly out of place and intrusive to offer. How could I do so without making my feelings for her completely obvious?
I realize I’ve waited too long to respond when she groans and says, “I need to text my mom back.”
“No problem.” I now have this restless energy coursing through me, so I stand and walk over to my office door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I take a lap around the floor, passing closed office door after closed office door. I know she doesn’t need privacy to send a text, but I felt like I had to get out of there. Being so near her is intoxicating, and it makes me want things I can’t have. Namely, my executive assistant.
The cubicles outside each office are empty and there’s an eerie air of desolation in the bright white office space—something I’ve never really noticed before. It makes me extra appreciative of how unexpectedly cozy Avery has made her space and the way she’s helping me with my own office. When I return to my back corner of the floor, I pause at Avery’s desk. Her coffee mugs are lined up neatly on a shelf to the side of her desk. The thought of her with different mugs every day brings a faint smile to my lips. I can always tell what kind of mood she’s in by which cup she’s chosen.
When I open the door to my office, I find her pouring a gallon of paint into a paint tray. It’s a deep navy blue color. I don’t say anything or even walk into the office farther because I’m afraid of a repeat of the coffee incident, but with a gallon of paint all over the office instead. Plus, from my spot at the door I have a great view of her ass in her leggings as she bends over.
