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I stared at my computer for a few long seconds before I opened my email. It was a relief to have something to do, something to distract me from the intense energy emanating from Michael or obsessing about the Russians. Actually, I preferred thinking about Michael, despite the complicated situation, over the ever-present danger of the Russians. Michaelwas always so present, so intense—it was hard not to feel like I was being pulled into his orbit. I needed to focus on work, on the task at hand. I had files to upload, emails to answer, and deadlines to meet.
If I still had a job.
I might be fired. In fact, I probably was.
I picked up my phone and sent my boss a text. It was late in Hong Kong, almost ten in the evening, but I knew he’d be up. He always was. My phone dinged back, but even as I worked up the nerve for the conversation at hand, my mind kept drifting back to Michael.
The way his eyes seemed to see right through me. The way his body moved with a fluid grace that made me feel clumsy and awkward. The way it felt to sleep next to him, so warm and safe and secure. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to bewithhim, to feel his hands on my body, to taste his lips on mine.
No, I couldn’t go there. I turnedhimdown, I reminded myself. There were good reasons then, and there still were, so I should keep them in mind. If anything, I had to save him from me.
My boss had taken me in when I fled the family business. Despite that, I just disappeared on him, so it was fair for him to have a lot of questions. As nice and patient as he might be with me, when I went on tangents, he was still the person I had to constantly convince that I was right. Every day, every moment, having to prove myself correct got exhausting. And not just with Teddy—he was an Edward, but he preferred Teddy—but also with my father before him. I made these people a lot of money, yet I was always the one they stared at like they weren’t sure I could be trusted.
Maybe it was my age? More likely, it was because I was a woman who once featured in blogs where they talked about my hair. My father could be blamed for the public image of me, notthat it ever mattered to him one bit. Still, it didn’t bother me then, but I hadn’t realized how much worse it would eventually get.
“Hi, Teddy,” I said when he picked up the phone and I closed my computer. It would be a long conversation, because I was done lying. He employed me, so he should probably know how fucked up my life was.
Hours later,I stared at the wall. It wasn’t giving me any answers, and I couldn’t exactly decide what to do next. I twisted my hands together and tried to count myself out of my funk. Sometimes that worked. At that moment, though, I kept losing track of where I was around the three hundreds, and then I had to start over again.
My head hurt, so I rubbed my eyes. When I opened them, something was different.
A glass of water had appeared in front of me on the desk. No, that wasn’t possible. Water and glasses had to beplacedon a desk.
I blinked twice before I looked up at him. Michael stood over me, his gaze unreadable in my state of not knowing what the heck to do. Maybe I could read him another time? I said, “Thank you,” and picked up the glass of water.
“What’s going on?” He ran his hand through my hair and knelt next to me, so that I had to lower my head to look at him. Michael wore a pair of khakis and a black shirt, yet he looked flawlessly put together in his simplicity. I couldn’t remember what I wore from the bag of clothes he gave me, not that it mattered. A glance down reminded me—white t-shirt and a pairof jean shorts. If I had to go outside, I’d be freezing, but the room in his cozy cabin was warm enough.
“Bridget.” He drew my attention to him again. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
“How did you know something was wrong?” I’d start with that, since my thoughts kept wandering away. Was I doing something to indicate my sense of dissonance?
He stroked my hair again, a long soothing stroke which had me sucking in a breath. The air smelled like him, all warm and masculine and safe. “Tell me what’s wrong first.”
“Well, I might be fired. Ha! I mean…he’s not wrong, if he does fire me. I have a lot going on right now, and my mind can’t possibly be on his investments. It just can’t. I mean, itcouldbe. I can always think about money. I can think about it when I should be doing other things, in fact. In movies. At the doctor. Eating. Sleeping. I dream about investments sometimes. I once thought about it during sex.” He blinked when I said that, but he didn’t otherwise comment. “I’m cold like that.” I shrugged when I confessed it, as if it would somehow normalize the statement. “So anyway, he says that we can part ways now, or I can try to come back when this is over, and we’ll see where we are.”
He blew out a breath. “Nothing like a little sympathy from an employer when you’re going through a tough time. Fuck him. Leave now.”
“It’s not that clear or that simple. I need a job. I have to, you know, earn money. Eat. Pay rent.” Surely, he understood those things. Unlike my father and brother, who sometimes forgot reality, this was Michael. He lived in the real world; he owned a business.
“Let me worry about those things for you for now. Give it to me to worry about. Let me ask you a question. Why do you have to work for anyone at all?”
I blinked. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“You’re brilliant. The smartest person I know, and from all accounts, you’re very good at your job. Can’t you do it for yourself?” He rose. “Do you have to do it for someone else?” Michael offered his hand and I took it.
But he asked a very good question. “I…” Truthfully, I’d never considered it before. I always assumed I’d work for a person or a company. I wasn’t an entrepreneur, more like a quant. Could I work for myself?
Logically, there were factors to consider. “If I move back to the States, I’ll need health insurance.”
He nodded. “You can buy that.”
Yes, I could. In what way could I work for myself?
“Sit here.” He tapped the stool where I’d eaten dinner the night before. I never actually sat at breakfast, I realized. “It’s dinner.”
Was it? I lifted my head. Yes, it was dark outside. “Sorry, I’ll make something quick. I saw that you had…”
“Bridget.” He kissed my cheek. “I cooked. Okay? I came in to tell you I made dinner. It’s not going to be as good as what you make, but it’s food. So sit there and let me feed you.”
