Chapter 12 Liam
Liam
Iwas planning on showing Henri the main office anyway, remembering how she was a Spitfire reader before we met, and now that we’re here, I seize the chance to show her around.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I could take a picture of this and sell it for thousands?” Henri asks, stepping back to take in the concept wall for our December digital articles and print issue.
When it was first put together, the wall was organized and easy to read, but now it looks a bit like a murder board from a crime show. Fallon’s scribbled notes mark what pieces have priority or need to be pushed to give them time to be reworked, now that we’re in the thick of it.
There isn’t much to see. There are other magazines in the building under the same publisher and ours is one of the smallest. Beyond the fashion closet, there are a few conference rooms, the main glass-walled offices, breakroom/kitchen with the busted coffee machine and promotional mugs, and here, the main bullpen, with our islands of desks for non-senior staff members.
“Probably not. I think every publication has about the same variety of gift lists and movie recommendations this time of year.” I lean against my desk, taking in the view and sipping on my coffee.
She’s enraptured. The same way she looked when she spotted the Christmas market in Union Square. Unfiltered Henri. My favorite.
While she’s occupied, I take a moment to pull out my notebook that lives in my back pocket—I’m not joking when I say I have an imprint of the rectangular shape in a majority of my jeans—and write new details about her down.
Drinks coffee (if it’s good). Need to find out what kind she prefers.
Hates gifts. Or maybe just uncomfortable?
Fashion.
At the sound of her voice, I snap the notebook closed. “Why is your name next to Jasmine’s on a card that says Santa Sutra?” She taps a card just above her head.
I cough and pull at the collar of my sweater which has suddenly become suffocating.
“Before the sex positions go out for publication we, umm, have to make sure they’re physically possible.
Jasmine and I check a lot of them since I have the most upper body strength of the writing staff.
So, we try them—fully clothed. In a completely platonic way.
” And have felt like a mundane part of my job up until this moment.
“Says the guy who was panting with me after climbing three flights of stairs.”
“That’s completely different and you know it.”
“I think I’ll need a visual. Is there a picture somewhere of how to do this one?”
“You’re terrible,” I grumble.
Her eyes go wide and a hand flies to her heart as she feigns innocence. “I just have a thorough interest in your work. This way I can talk about it with your family.”
“If there is one thing you shouldn’t do, it’s talk about how I help with sex positions at work.” I don’t even want to imagine what they’d say if they knew.
“I promise I won’t talk to them if you give me a demonstration.”
“It’s like this.” I kick my feet out so my knees are at a ninety degree angle and prop my hands behind me, gripping the edge of my desk the way I would if I were prepping for a tricep dip.
I lower myself once. “But you know, someone is on top and the movement is supposed to add, umm, stimulation.” Just a regular exercise.
I try to remind my body of that while trying my hardest to not picture Henri as a partner in this scenario.
“It just looks like you’re working out.”
“That’s probably because I’m one half of the equation and these positions are supposed to be possible but not necessarily recommended.”
She walks over to me and examines me for a second as I freeze.
I’m about to quit this stupid thing when she takes another step then swings her leg over my hips, landing so she’s rubbing against me, which would be good if we were actually having sex, but due to the circumstances, it is an absolute test of my control.
Control that is threatening to snap at any moment.
I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes darting up to the wall trying to read anything to distract me.
Mistake because when my gaze lands on the words All Wrapped Up on one of the cards all I can picture is Henri naked on my bed, secured into place with ribbon. Fuck. I’d give anything for that.
“Like this?” Her hand lands on my chest. “Or is it facing the other way?” She twists, unconsciously working her hips, creating even more friction between us. Is she trying to kill me?
“I don’t think it matters,” I grit out.
“Have you considered pushing a desk on the other side then maybe the person on top could bend over?” She moves again.
“Henri,” I rasp.
“What?”
“Could you get off of me? I get what you’re doing, but my body doesn’t know the difference.”
“I thought you did this with Jasmine? Why would it be different with me?” she cocks a brow, daring me to tell the truth. I just might to see what would happen.
“He does what with me?” Jasmine asks as she turns the corner, seemingly unfazed by the scene before her. “Oh, Unnamed Position three-fifty-four. Henri, put him out of his misery. What he’s trying to say, while praying not to get a boner, is that I don’t rub my ass on him like that.”
“Oh shit.” My arms give out and I fall on my ass, Henri landing on top of me.
“Fuck.” Henri’s eyes flare wide and she scrambles off me now that we have an audience.
“Just don’t bring it up at Christmas,” I mutter.
“Yeah. I don’t think I will.” The pink flooding her cheeks lets me know that at least I’m not alone in my mortification. My back thuds against the side of the desk.
“I think we need a drink!” Jasmine chimes.
“Yes, that would be great,” Henri says.
“Oh, not for whatever the hell I just walked in on. We’re celebrating my shoot being done. Despite being thwarted at every turn, Henri came through. Liam, can you come help me grab cups?”
I clamber to my feet and follow Jasmine to the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure it was an honest shipping mistake.”
“And I’m pretty sure what I saw wasn’t an innocent moment between you and the woman you’re interviewing for a career-making article.”
“She asked me to show her.”
And you do anything she asks? Or is that just for sex positions no one should perform in a real-life circumstance if they value their dignity and pleasure?” Jasmine quirks a brow as she lowers herself to the floor and opens one of the cabinets. Tins clink and plasticware tumbles as she searches.
“So, yeah, if she asks me to do something, I’ll do it.” I say, knowing it’s true.
Jasmine rocks back on her heels to look at me. “You’ve been here for years and the first girl you show any interest in is one being paid to spend time with you? Please tell me you know this.”
“It’s easy spending time with her.”
“Is it easy, or is she someone who has experience becoming anyone’s dream girl?”
“She’s different with me,” I snap, growing defensive. Lowering my voice and checking my temper I continue. “I’ve seen her on those dates—we were at the same restaurants remember? She’s so composed when she’s with her clients. Professional.”
“Not sitting on their dicks?” Jasmine supplies and I shoot her a glare.
“Point taken, but still, be careful. She’s a runner.
Iris talks about how she’s never seen her really date.
Commitment scares people like that. She’s the absolute last person you want to start a long distance relationship with. ”
My jaw ticks at the reminder that soon I’ll be across the country. “I’m not gunning for a relationship. I just like being around her.”
I barely have any time left in the city and I’m happy to share it with Henri; she makes it feel like magic.
It’s the same magic I know she shared with her clients, pushing them to become the versions of themselves she knows they’re capable of being, but I get another version of her.
I know I do. One that’s brighter and will say whatever’s on her mind.
“Oh, the sweet strains of denial,” she sings before returning to the cabinet. “Here it is.” She pulls out a large cookie tin and pops off the lid, revealing a selection of canned cocktails I recognize from three months back.
“I thought you said we were out of the Bellinis?” I demand.
“I lied. But because of that, you can have more than you would have. Now, get some wine glasses and let’s hope someone remembered to refill the ice tray.”
I find a single ice cube that Jasmine claims because it’s her celebration and her (stolen) drinks.
Jasmine pauses, cocking her head. “Is that?”
It takes me a second to pick up on the chatter she’s hearing but when I do, my blood runs cold.
“Shit.”
We rush around the corner and back to the bullpen. Henri is standing where we left her, but that isn’t the problem. Fallon is there too. Henri has a visitor badge and is allowed in the building, but that doesn’t make this interaction any less awkward.
“Liam, your girlfriend was just telling me how she helped out with the photoshoot. You didn’t say you knew Marty and Alexi?
Their shop is one of my favorites in Brooklyn,” Fallon says.
There’s a twinkle in her eye that tells me she knows exactly who Henri is, and also means Henri is playing the part perfectly.
She really does have a gift for it. Could Jasmine be right afterall?
Am I just another guy mesmerized by the attention Henri gives?
“I don’t really. I’m just lucky to be with someone so connected. She’s a big fan of the magazine so I offered to show her around as a thank you,” I say.
“And what do you think of our little publication?” Fallon asks Henri.
Henri beams. “It’s a dream. I feel like I’m living out a scene from The Devil Wears Prada.”
“That’s too kind; our fashion closet is nowhere close.” Fallon cocks her head toward me. “Has Liam invited you to our holiday party? Significant others are invited.”