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I sound like the worst fun-murderer out there. Give me fun and I’ll kill it for you. He’s probably thinking that, actually.
“There’s boredom, but I’m not into that. I like women. I like sensuality. I like feeling good. And as I said, I do my job and as ridiculous as all this is, I’m doing it. Obeying the law of the land, dead-father-style.”
I study him a moment. “You don’t care about him?”
“I loved my father,” he says quietly. “But he was a hard man to love. An easy man to respect, but love? He didn’t hand it out string-free. It’s been a year since he passed, but in a way he’s been gone for much longer than that. To us, anyway. I guess he was the push the bird out of the nest and move on type. Or, so it seemed.”
He turns to face me and for a moment I can’t think of anything to say. It all sounds sad and I wonder what the little boy he was felt. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. And it’s too early for this.”
“You started it.”
“You didn’t want to talk about you and your aversion to fun.” He stops, his gaze skimming over me, and I fight the urge to pull the covers up as my nipples bead under that look.
“You didn’t hire me to be fun.”
He completely ignores me. “I’m amending that. You act like you have an aversion to it, but you’re a lot of fun, once you get going.”
“Wow,” I say, with heaping amounts of dry sarcasm. “Thanks. You’re a real flatterer.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“You didn’t mean to flatter me? Good thing because you didn’t. I think the word’s insult.”
Ryder laughs, propping himself a little higher with his elbow on a pillow, and he draws a pattern on my thigh, over the quilt. “I didn’t mean you’re anything like a bore. I meant you’re interesting and a good time when you don’t try and…disappear.”
“I do nothing of the kind.” This is true. I can’t help it if I somehow fade into the background. “Besides, it’s my job to not be seen.”
Ryder sighs. “I had a good time because of you.”
My head starts a slow spin. His fingers are magic and his words…
“I know you’re not hitting on me.” I make myself pull away from him and get to slightly unsteady feet.
“Of course not.” He rolls on his back and tucks the pillow under his head. “I wouldn’t do that.”
I stare at him, shaking my head as I try and think of something to say. Instead, I turn away and start grabbing things to take to the bathroom with me so I can emerge dressed and ready for the day. “I know you wouldn’t.”
“Elliot—”
“Stop. You have to get to work. I have to get to work for you. We have our plan to push forward.”
And I don’t wait for his answer. Instead, like the coward with a healthy dose of self-preservation that I am, I hurry into the bathroom like there’s a demon in my bed, instead of a man.
Demon, I think, locking the door, might not be too far off.
My day passes in a flurry of micromanagement and casting longer threads out.
Ryder’s at work, where he’s assured me in twenty texts that he’s behaving. And by that he means Elliot style, not Ryder style.
His words. Not mine.
There’s an event tonight. Boring and staid in his words, mine too, not that I’d admit it to him.
Nothing like a stodgy fundraiser that’s more about a tick on the resume and being seen by the right sort of old money and old-school Fortune 500 company execs than the charity in question.
I’m going with him because after last night, it’s the smart thing to do. Perhaps not smart personally for me, but smart for him, and he’s paying me a lot of money, so I can just swallow down the misgivings with a lot of dollar signs.
