4. Elliot
Four
Elliot
C laire Montgomery has always made sense to me. Maybe not her every fleeting mood or impulse decision—god knows Claire makes plenty of those—but broadly, I understand her better than anyone else. It’s the lifeline of my existence.
Or it was.
“Your two-thirty meeting is stuck in traffic, so I bumped them up to four. And there are new contractors for you to approve, so check your in-tray.”
Claire’s wearing a burgundy shirt dress with a belt that accentuates her curves, and her blonde hair is woven into a braid. She frowns down at her notepad as she speaks, drumming the end of her pen against the page.
Even though everything has been digitized for years, Claire still insists on keeping paper notes of everything. She says she finds it reassuring.
I’m no expert on human expressions, but Claire does not look reassured right now. She looks tense, studiously avoiding my gaze.
I do not understand.
“Claire,” I say.
“We leaked the photos from the wedding online, so the information is out there now. The marketing department will keep track of how the masses respond.”
I don’t care how they respond. Maybe that was the original excuse to marry Claire, but I’ve never had much tolerance for lying to myself.
I just wanted her. I still do.
“So far, you’ve had mixed reactions. Some people think it humanizes you; others think you’re a complete jerk for marrying your assistant. There are still rumblings of a boycott, but it’s not as bad as before. The internet has a short attention span.”
“Claire.”
Pale green eyes dart up to mine, then flit away. My thumb taps against my desk, agitated.
In all the years we’ve been friends, Claire has never shut me out like this, retreating behind invisible walls. When I accidentally offended her so many times as a clueless teenager—she forgave me quickly. That time a few Christmases ago when I absently agreed with her that she’d put on a little weight—there were fireworks, then Claire dissolved into laughter.
God, I still don’t understand why that was wrong of me. She had put on a few pounds after all those holiday treats, and it suited her. She looked all the more beautiful for it.
Even back when we made the rocky transition to boss and assistant, Claire never blamed me for the initial awkwardness. She’d bristle when I gave her orders, stomp off and do her work, then come back and joke about how weird this all felt, gifting me an apology mug of coffee.
The transition to husband and wife is not going so well. In our first week of marriage, Claire has barely looked at me.
The longer she leaves me alone, the more hollow I feel. Was this all a miscalculation?
I blow out a long breath. The tension in this office is almost unbearable, clogging my throat and making my chest tight. It’s another gray day outside the penthouse windows, with clouds hanging low over the city, and that only worsens the claustrophobia.
“We can’t go on like this,” I say. Claire straightens, alarmed, but there’s no victory in holding eye contact with her now. Not when she’s so wary. Does she really think I’d ever fire her?
I’d be lost without this woman. I am lost.
Only a week ago, those lips grazed my jaw as she licked chocolate icing off my cheek. The memory shudders through my insides, and my abs clench beneath my shirt. Claire was so warm and sweet and pliant that night, arching against me and plastering our bodies together, her breathy sounds ringing in my ears—and fuck , I wanted her badly. Every cell in my body cried out for her, overwhelming my system until I nearly lost the battle with my rigid self control.
It’s so vivid, even now. I can feel every detail.
But my wife has barely looked at me since, all while I’m craved the warmth of her skin like an addict desperate for his next fix. This won’t do.
“Movie night tonight,” I say, aiming for a tone that brooks no argument. Like I’m giving another work order. “We’ll get Thai. Make sure you’re home.”
Because even though Claire’s clothes and toothbrush and stack of crafting magazines all live in my guest room now, she barely sets foot in the apartment except to scurry to bed each night. Where does she go when she’s not at the office? Is she safe? Wait, is she seeing another man?
A snapping sound echoes through the office, and we both glance down at the broken pencil in my hand. Claire snorts.
“Alright, Robocop.”
The two halves patter into the waste paper basket beneath my desk. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“No kidding.”
“It wasn’t a threat. You are not the pencil in this scenario.”
Claire grins, rolling her eyes, and my heart lifts at the sight. It’s the happiest she’s looked all week. “Elliot, I get it.”
But I need to be sure. When I held Claire close in the kitchen on our wedding night, when I memorized every dip and curve of her body against mine, it also became painfully clear how small she is compared to me. How much stronger I am.
I will have to be very, very careful with Claire Montgomery. She’s the most precious thing I’ve ever touched, and I just snapped my favorite pencil.
But god, I want to cover her body with mine and just… lose myself in her . Surrender my last shreds of control. Would she like that too? If I let loose, just a little?
“Hey, hello.” Fingers snap together a few inches from my face. Claire’s leaning over the desk, her mouth curved up on one side. “Anybody home?”
“Uh. Yes, sorry.”
I blink hard, but the image of our two sweaty bodies sticks stubbornly in my mind’s eye. My chair creaks as I shift position beneath the desk. It’s hot and stuffy in this room and my collar is too tight. Would it be strange to stick my head in the staff room refrigerator?
“So you’ll be there,” I rasp. “Movie night.”
“Movie night,” Claire agrees, and the way she looks at me is warmer than it’s been all week. The first thawing of frost. I could punch the air if my whole body weren’t so taut.
* * *
A glass of iced lemon water for me: check.
A mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows and a maddeningly fluffy blanket for Claire: check.
The opening credits of a spy movie are paused on the TV screen, because Claire favors movies about handsome men hitting things. The living room is lit only by a floor lamp, and the city lights glitter outside the dark windows.
Dinner has been ordered. Conditions are optimal.
“It’s been ages,” Claire says, padding into the room in a pair of blue leggings, fluffy white socks, and some kind of slouchy sleep t-shirt. She grins when she sees me waiting in the same button-down shirt and pants that I wore to work, then puts on her best David Attenborough voice. “Ah, yes. Here we have the CEO, relaxing in his natural environment.”
I blink down at myself, smoothing a palm down the line of buttons on my chest. It hadn’t occurred to me to change. These textures are minimally distracting; that’s why I bought them. But maybe I do look a little… formal.
“Would you like me to wear something else?”
“No, no.” Claire flops down onto the sofa, tugging the blanket onto her lap. “You do you, Ramsay. Oh!”
She lunges for the mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table, like I might snatch it away. As if I didn’t make it especially for her. As if I don’t do everything for this woman in some way. Baffling.
“ Thank you.”
Claire moans as she takes a long sip. She’s smug as she licks half melted marshmallow off her upper lip, and I’m frozen in place for two heartbeats before I can finally move again. I round the sofa and sit beside her, as close as I can get without touching that demonic blanket.
“You’re welcome.”
It’s easier to breathe once the sounds of gunfire and squealing car tires fill the living room. Claire watches the screen, rapt, as bright light washes over her delicate features. Meanwhile, I watch her.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
My heart slams against my rib cage, hard enough to bruise.
Because Claire’s here. She’s here, and she’s my wife, and she’s relaxed enough to chat between fight scenes, trying to guess the secret villain of the movie, wondering out loud how these fictional men can possibly survive all these stab wounds and bullet holes.
“I’m just saying,” she says, setting down her empty mug with a dull thud. If I kissed her now, would she taste of chocolate? Our wedding night encounter has already rewired chocolate in my brain to be the most erotic taste in existence. “I could barely walk when I twisted my ankle, and here they are jumping off trains while bleeding from open wounds.”
“That’s spy stamina.”
Claire laughs softly, snuggling deeper into the blanket. “Guess so.” She eyes me, the lights from the movie flickering across her face. “ You’d be a good spy.”
It’s such a ridiculous statement, I think I’ve misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“You would!” She sits up straighter, excited now, eyes sparkling in the gloom. “Think about it, Elliot. You’re, like, Mister Vault. You never give anything away. Are you happy? Sad? Plotting world domination? No one ever knows!”
“ You know,” I point out, feeling oddly sick at this new game. Is that really how Claire sees me? As some blank, emotionless robot?
“Not always,” Claire says, and my insides churn even worse. So that is how she sees me.
“I’d be a terrible spy.”
“You’d be awesome.”
“I physically hate lying.”
Claire shakes her head, pointing at me. “But you like fancy tech and codes!”
What ? “I code for my job,” I say, facing her fully now, the movie forgotten. “That’s not the same as speaking in code. You do know that, right? James Bond isn’t going around speaking Python.”
“Or is he?” Claire raises both eyebrows, and I realize way, way too late that she’s teasing me. Relief drifts through me, soothing my jagged insides.
It’s been so long since Claire teased me like this, I forgot the warning signs. But hey—this spat isn’t over yet. When it comes to Claire, I can dish it out too.
“You’re wearing it.” Reaching across the fluffy blanket wasteland, I catch her hand and raise it to the light from the screen.
Her ring sparkles. The ring.
My thumb traces her delicate knuckle, and Claire is so soft, so warm, so perfect.
She sucks in a sharp breath, right as gunfire rattles through the TV speakers, then snatches her hand back, cradling it to her chest. Claire narrows her eyes, but I grin at her.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she says, but I can read her expressions like my favorite book, and I know when my best friend is lying.
“It means something to me,” I tell her.
Claire goes incredibly still, like a prey animal on high alert. Wrinkling my nose, I pinch her ridiculous blanket and tug it away, dropping it on the floorboards.
Now there’s nothing between us; nothing to keep my hands off her. Heat simmers in my blood.
My new wife stares at me, chest rising and falling beneath her sleep shirt. Her lips part, and her tongue flicks out, wetting them so they shine. She looks as rattled as I feel.
Claire.
Fuck. I need her.
The sofa creaks as I lean forward. She raises her hands—either to touch my chest or push me away, I’ll never know—because the buzzer sounds, more jarring than any explosion on the TV.
We both freeze.
“Thai,” Claire gasps after a long pause, like she’s coming up for air.
Right. Thai.
Clumsy with frustration, I lurch off the sofa.