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Since we had sex, I've thought about how his hands felt on me. His mouth. His cock. He’s the rollercoaster ride that stays with you long after you’ve left the amusement park.
I close the journal and put it back into the drawer. Then, I look at the Post-it note I made to myself with a message from his grandmother. Oh, shit.
The lovely lady called earlier when he was in a meeting. She asked me to remind him not to "forget to take a picture."
Whatever that meant.
I use the excuse to enter his office and find his handsome self focused on his computer, a pensive expression on his face.
"Mr. Cromwell." I'd be lying if I said I didn’t use his surname to annoy him. It's immature and a petty way to get back at him for telling me to call him Archer only on that Saturday.
He's partially redeemed himself by being generous when it comes to my dad and, of course, railing me in his office days ago. But I want more—even though I know I shouldn't expect it. Or want it.
"Yes?" he asks without taking his attention away from the screen.
"Your grandmother called earlier when you were in a meeting. She said your cell was off. She asked me to remind you not to forget to take a picture today."
He rocks back in his chair at those words, running his strong hands down his face. "Jesus, fuck," he says under his breath. "It's today."
"What is it?"
I scavenger hunt the corners of my brain, wondering if I forgot any particular date on his calendar. I mean, his grandma is in Florida. What could she be talking about?
"Have I forgotten anything?" I ask.
Have I been a lousy assistant again? A bad… girl? The words sting at the tip of my tongue, but I bite the inside of my cheek, inwardly telling myself to behave. His serious expression doesn't hint at sexual foreplay. A wave of disappointment washes over me.
He pops his knuckles, a twinge of sadness touching his eyes.
I frown. "What's wrong?"
"Every year, my grandmother visited my mom's grave. Today is the anniversary of her death. When Grandmother moved to Florida a few years ago, I took over. Now, I visit on my mom's birthday and the anniversary of her death. I take flowers and send a picture for my grandmother so she knows I did it."
My heart skips several beats, and when it resumes, it does so in a much warmer fashion. God, I’m a fool… "That's kind of you."
He waves me off. "Don't peg me for a do-gooder. My grandmother will send me on a one-way ticket to rock bottom if I don't oblige her."
I cross my arms over my chest. I can’t even begin to understand the relationship he must share with his grandmother. But I want to. Despite common sense, the more I discover about him, the more it motivates me to find out more. I try hard to portray a cool exterior, but every inch of my insides is warm and soft for him. "Okay. Well, you'd better get to it. You have an important appointment at four."
"Right. I have to get going."
"I can tag along," I offer. I swallow the lump in my throat. What am I doing? I should stick to the Mr. Cromwell treatment and vent my frustration in my journal entries.
He lifts an eyebrow. "Why would you do that?"
"I don't know. On the way, we can talk and get some work done. If you leave now, I won't have much time to brief you about your four o'clock meeting by the time you get back." Good save, I tell myself.
"Okay. Fine. Let's go."
In the car, I can't help but think that having him take me with him is a small victory. Why did I insist on coming? Because that impulsive heart of mine is a stubborn bitch and doesn't always listen to my brain's directives.
But the idea of him visiting his mom's grave alone seemed so sad. From what he said at the hospital when Dad was in the ER, he didn't have a whole lot of support when his mother was ill.
He's probably used to handling everything on his own. He needs me to cater to his orders, book appointments, and take notes. But he does any emotional lifting without help.
No one should ever deal with so much at such an early age.
Life doesn't work that way, of course. I wish Archer had a better support system or someone who’d looked out for him as a child. Maybe his grandmother was that person, and he was too young to share his pain with her. Or didn’t know how.
