Chapter 8
Henri
Can you stop checking your phone,” Jasper demands as we stand next to the thoroughly picked over remnants of the office party’s buffet that’s been set up in the open reception area of the law firm where he works.
A cheap move, but I don’t work here so I don’t exactly have a right to complain about the thrown together affair.
Can you stop trying to touch my ass, I want to say. Instead, I put my phone away, plaster a smile on my face, and tell him, “Sorry, I have a friend who’s been in the hospital a lot lately.” Not exactly a lie, just an omission about why said friend is there.
“You promised me your full attention tonight. Isn’t that what I’m paying you for? You look good and help make me look good.” His hand slides down my waist to my hip, again. “You look great by the way.”
Pinching his hand between my thumb and forefinger I remove it and step away so there’s a foot between us.
“Thank you. I’m a professional.” I shouldn’t have taken this job.
He’s the exact type of guy I’d reject after an initial meeting.
Slimy and entitled. Iris, if you could hurry up with the getaway car or emergency call that would be great.
“So you have a lot of experience then?” Suggestion drenches his words.
“If you read your contract, then you’d know if you continue this behavior I’ll leave without processing a refund.”
“C’mon, all that legal shit is just to cover your ass—make what you do seem legit.”
Sex work is work, hard work, but it’s not what I do.
I’m not above kneeing this guy in the balls in front of all his coworkers, but I’d prefer not to.
Angry customers are dangerous. Not just physically, but they could also leak my information.
It doesn’t matter if they’ve signed an ironclad NDA.
Angry men are unpredictable and their unpredictability ruins lives while they get to walk away with a slap on the wrist.
Stupid. I was so stupid.
Wanting and wishing for a dream life made me reckless.
“I’m leaving,” I say, ducking away from him. I take a step and a hand wraps around my wrist. As I tug, his grip tightens, making my eyes water with the shock of pain that radiates from the pressure.
“Bitch,” he hisses. “I want what I paid for.”
No one around us notices. The party has been going for two hours, moving past the point of casual chats and into drunken-mistakes-turned-HR-violation territory.
Bunching the skirt of my dress in my free hand, I stomp firmly on his instep, grinding my foot into his shiny leather loafer.
It’s painful, or startling enough, for him to let go.
I don’t look back to see the damage as I weave through swaying bodies.
Men with their ties undone, dangling loose around their necks.
Women dancing with their heels in one hand and drink in the other.
My gaze remains fixed on the glow of the exit sign; the only stop I make is to grab my coat.
I shove through the door and slam into what feels like a wall. One that wasn’t there when I came through these exact same doors earlier.
“Fuck,” I yelp and stumble away from the structural anomaly.
Firm hands land on my shoulders, steadying me. “Henri, are you okay?”
I flinch at the sudden contact. “Liam, what are you doing here?” As I register the familiar voice, I tilt my head back to see him looking down at me, his unkempt brown hair hanging over wild, searching eyes. His face is the picture of unbridled concern.
“Iris,” he explains, his voice is thin and breathy as if he ran here. “But it seems like you were just leaving.”
I take his hand at the reminder that I need to get the hell out and start guiding him down the hall toward the elevator bay. “Yes, the princess saves herself in this one. But let’s not wait around and see if I actually need reinforcements.”
I jam my finger into the down button. The elevator chimes and doors swing open. We slip inside and I press the first floor and close door buttons in quick succession, my pulse still pounding in my ears.
“You didn’t answer my question yet. Are you okay?” Liam squeezes my hand, causing me to realize I’ve forgotten to let it go.
I do now, bracing myself with both hands against the rails lining the elevator car. “I got out.”
“Still not an answer.”
“This has only happened twice before. I do the prep work to make sure it doesn’t.
It’s my fault; I shouldn’t have been so impulsive.
” My breath quickens, and I fix my gaze on the ceiling.
This is so embarrassing. I’m good at this, but every time Liam’s around, I slip up.
Confronting him at the restaurant, reading too much into the interview the other night, and now this?
He must think I’m some sort of joke.
“From what I heard, this is my fault, not yours. And even if I didn’t contribute to why you were in that room, no one has the right to demand anything from you that makes you uncomfortable.
” His voice is soft and coaxing. My job is to be concerned about other people, not myself.
His worry for my well-being causes something to tighten in my chest.
“Why do you think this is your fault?”
“You’ve been getting cancellations since the article dropped, right?”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“See, my fault.” He raises his brows. Touché.
“But at least it’s a sign the article was good, which is expected since you wrote it.”
“I’ve written a hundred pieces. None of them have taken off like this. I owe that success to you.” There’s a seriousness in his tone that causes me to finally look at him. When I do, my gaze latches with his and my breath catches at the firm intensity of his stare, leaving me no room to argue.
The elevator releases us into the lobby and we head out past the security desk and into the bitter cold of the night.
“So, where’s the car waiting? Or did you take the subway?” I ask, walking toward the edge of the sidewalk, eyes on the cars parked on the curb. I’m ready for this night to be over with.
“I kind of ran here?”
I look behind me. Liam’s flushed from the cold or embarrassment, I don’t know. He’s scraping a hand through his hair, and for the first time, I notice his clothes. Flannel pajama bottoms, boots, and a half-zipped parka.
“You rolled out of bed and ran here? It’s freezing out.”
“Technically, I was on the couch. Any other way would have taken too long. I live nearby—that’s why Iris called, since I could get here faster than she could.”
A smile teases the corners of my lips. “You look ridiculous.”
“Excuse me if fashion took a back seat to your safety.” Even with his anxious movements, his eyes are firm as they catalog every detail of my face. Snow starts to fall, clinging to his long dark lashes.
I fidget, uncomfortable. No one’s ever shown up for me like this. My first instinct is to run hard and fast, it’s the same gut feeling that’s convinced me to ignore his email. But when was the last time I felt like I didn’t need to be in complete control?
Easy, the other night with him at my place when I fought the urge to graze my fingers across the galaxy of freckles on his skin. But before that? I don’t know.
“Thanks for showing up. I guess I should get a car.” I hesitate, before reaching for my phone. “Unless you’re hungry. I haven’t eaten yet. I’ll buy.”
I wasn’t all that hungry at the party, but now my nerves have settled and I feel like I’m running on empty.
“No way I’m letting you do that.”
I argue with Liam about who should pay, until he lets it slip that he already started eating and has food back at his place. He insists that he has enough for the both of us, which is how I end up sitting on his floor, ravenously stabbing at re-heated sesame chicken.
“Maybe I should order more,” Liam says, watching me as I dig in. He’s let me borrow sweatpants and a worn Beach Boys shirt that has that fresh, almost powdery, scent of laundry detergent.
“I’ll be fine,” I reassure him, even as I try to remember if I finished off the bag of Doritos last night. I’m in no mood to cook, especially now that the adrenaline has drained from me and I feel boneless with exhaustion.
“Why is it that I’m the only person who’s not allowed to buy you food? Lunch and now this?”
“I guess this means we have to find a way for me to turn down breakfast,” I say as I mix sauce into my rice.
“Do you hate me so much that you won’t even take free food from me?”
“It’s not just you—don’t go thinking you’re special. The only men who buy me food are the ones who are paying me.” I huff a laugh. “You don’t think I actually hate you, do you?”
“I mean I’m going zero for three on emails. You tell me.” He picks at his food, as if pretending not to care, but the divot between his brows gives away how much my answer must matter to him.
“I don’t hate you, I’m just—” Scared how much I wanted to be close to you the other night? Terrified that this life I’m building will fall apart and I won’t be able to stay in the city I’m slowly falling in love with. “I’m not the best with people.”
He scoffs. “C’mon you’re great at first dates. That’s one of the hardest things when it comes to people.”
I pick up my fork and point at him with it.
“Keyword: First. And then there’s the fact that I’m not actually me, I’m a character.
People like me because they literally made up a version of me that they wanted.
I’m not good at making friends when it comes to the real me.
” I try my best not to think of the past, of Kurt and Laura.
Of how they knew me, yet found me so easy to leave when I needed them the most. The only person I can guarantee will show up for me is me.
“You have Iris,” he points out, and he looks like he’s holding himself back from saying more.
“I have Iris,” I agree, “and we move every five or six months, land in a new city, make some money, and then we rinse and repeat. It’s not exactly a lifestyle that lends itself to anything long-term.
” As I tell him this, there’s a part of me that seems to scream, See, there’s no point in knowing me.
No point in buying me food and asking me questions.
Don’t care about me. Stick around long enough and you’ll learn who I really am and be disappointed.
“But you’re done with that now. You’ll be here for grad school for three years? That’s how long your program is, right?”
“If I can afford it.” I push a limp steamed green bean across the plate, my appetite shrinking as my stomach churns with anxiety.
“I’ve been saving for a long time since I don’t want to go into debt.
The clients who canceled were supposed to push me past the finish line with a small cushion.
I thought the article wouldn’t be a big deal since I had planned on this being my last year being a date for hire. ”
“Shit,” he says softly, as if reprimanding himself. “Sorry, I keep bringing it up.”
“It’s fine. Not talking about it isn’t going to make the problem disappear.”
“What are you doing for Christmas?”
“Seriously, you don’t have to change the topic .
. . but, nothing. My client for that week canceled.
” This will be my first Christmas not working in years.
It would be nice to get a bottle of wine and watch all the shows I keep swearing I’ll get to.
There will be plenty to do in the city. I’ll be off for a whole week.
I can’t think of the last time I had so much time for myself.
Nope. Just like that I’m hit with a new muscle-tensing wave of anxiety. How fucked up am I that the idea of having time for fun makes my body feel like I’ve just been threatened at knife point?
His brows pinch. “And you’re not doing anything with your family?”
“My mom’s in Europe with my stepdad for their honeymoon. And Christmas isn’t really a big thing for us, so I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything,” I explain, then brace for the pitying look.
I don’t mind not having Christmas traditions.
At this point, work is my tradition. What I do mind are the looks from people that then make me feel like I should feel like shit.
And then they make a big deal about it, and I have to make them feel better.
This is my normal. Sure, I’d love to have a Christmas full of light and warmth, but that’s just a dream.
“For the record, I’m not trying to change the subject. My boss wants a follow-up to our interview. I’ve been cleared to pay your fee to go out with you. I’m assuming taking you with me for the holidays will help cover a good chunk of your losses.”
“Wouldn’t that be redundant? If your family has read the article, don't you think they’d ask questions if you suddenly brought home a girl out of nowhere.” I should just say, Yes, please solve all my issues, but for some reason I feel the need to talk him out of this—talk him out of me.
Like we’ve already crossed some invisible line in the sand that will make it impossible to uphold the professional boundaries that I cling to. But all we’ve done is talk, and yet, there’s an intimacy between us I’d be a fool to deny.
“They don’t read my stuff. I don’t think they know where I work.” He flushes as his eyes travel to the books stashed on a shelf in the TV stand. “I’m just their son who writes puff pieces when he could be doing something better with his life.”
“Liam—” I start.
“It’s fine. You have Christmas; I have this.”
“I get it,” I say.
“So is that a yes?” Hope shines in his eyes.
“Take me home for Christmas, Liam.”