Chapter 5
I’m pretty sure I passed out, because when I come to, I’m cradled in Piers’s arms. The water’s off, and he’s sitting on the bench, holding me in his lap. My mouth is lax, and I close it quickly so I don’t drool.
I let him dry me off. He fusses over me, rubbing a small towel over my scalp. “Your hair.”
“It’s unmanageable.”
“Like you.” He presses a kiss to my temple and rubs the towel over my chest. I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but the movement teases my nipples. My pussy gives a sad little pulse. It feels empty.
“You didn’t fuck me.” The whiskey and the orgasms removed my filter. I can’t keep my thoughts from tumbling out of my mouth if I tried. I’m exposed, swathed in fluffy white towels, but still naked in his lap.
“I will.” Another kiss and he lifts me in his arms. “All in due time.”
He sets me on the bed. “Get dressed. Unless you want me to help you?”
“I can dress myself.” I scramble to catch the towel before it falls and press it to my chest, covering my bare boobs. I’m feeling very vulnerable right now.
And Piers looks like he always has. Fierce and in control.
For a moment, his expression softens. “Don’t try to fight this, Wellesley. There’s nowhere to run. I’m going to get you fed and sobered up, and then we’re going to talk.”
“What are we going to talk about?”
“That night, for starters. Get dressed. I’m going to get some food. What are you in the mood to eat?”
He turns around, and I can’t look anywhere but his black briefs. I’ve never seen him in anything less than a suit. And now all those pretty muscles are on display, and his cock is tenting the sodden fabric.
“Wellesley? Are you craving anything to eat?”
“Pastrami,” I say, before thinking. Once I register what I’ve said, my eyes go wide, but it’s too late to take it back.
“Noted.” He smirks.
“I meant to say meat. You know, protein. Can’t get enough protein. It’s good for you.” I’m babbling. I shut my mouth and give him a thumbs up. It doesn’t seem enough, so I put up a second thumb. Double thumbs!
He shakes his head. “Just how much did you have to drink?”
I don’t have to answer because he exits after asking that question, closing the door behind him.
I could run. But where would I go? I’m trapped in this mansion. My hair would freeze before I took two steps outside.
Even if I did try to run, he’s made it clear he’ll chase me.
Shiver. Suddenly, I have a whole new index of fantasies to be filed under Primal Piers.
By the time Piers returns, not only am I dressed, but I’m swathed in the thickest, ugliest sweater I brought.
He walks in, carrying the entire Nantucket pie on a marble cake pedestal. Bare-chested, in loose gray pajama pants, he’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Beyond every fantasy.
This is Saturday morning Piers. Lazy holiday Piers. He looks so good, I ache.
He’s still Piers, though, so his gaze sharpens when he catches sight of me in my oversized fleece sweater monstrosity. It’s holiday-themed and covered in kitten heads. The kittens are wearing Santa hats, because Christmas.
Piers glowers at the kittens like he’s just learned they committed hate crimes. “What are you wearing?”
“Like it?” I raise my arms, which are draped in fabric that extends six inches past my fingertips. I could fit a whole other one of me under here, plus the cake stand. Which is good, because it’ll hide my food baby after I eat that entire pie. “It’s a HoodZou. You don’t know what a HoodZou is?”
He settles next to me on the bed and secures the cake stand between us. My stomach growls as he hands me a fork. “Enlighten me.”
“It’s a cross between a hoodie and a mumu. The most comfortable thing you’ll ever wear, guaranteed.”
His lip curls. “It should be burned.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I point a fork at him. “I love this thing. Now that I’m retired, I’m going to wear it nonstop.”
“Looks a bit warm for Addis Ababa.”
My mouth falls open. “How did you figure it out?”
“You have all these travel blogs bookmarked in your browser. I did some snooping after you tendered your resignation.” He passes a hand over his face.
He still looks tired. He probably only slept a few hours last night.
He likes to live on China Standard time.
The trouble is, he also likes to live on Eastern Standard Time and Greenwich Mean Time, too.
I dig into the pie. Piers is quiet, like he needs a break from talking. His shoulders slope a little, and lines are bracketing his mouth. I study them while I eat.
“How long have you been planning to escape me?” he asks.
“I…” I stop. I don’t want to lie. “From the beginning. But it wasn’t an escape. I never thought I’d last this long in the job.”
“Why not?”
Is he really asking that? “Because I’d make a mistake and you’d fire me.”
“Am I such an ogre?” His face is carefully blank. Is he upset?
I open my mouth. Close it.
He looks away. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer.”
Did I hurt his feelings? I didn’t know he had feelings to hurt.
I cover his hand with mine, and his head snaps back to me.
I don’t know what to say, though, so I fork a piece of pie and hold it up.
“I don’t know what this is, but I think you might like it.
” He leans in to taste it, but I pull the fork back.
“It has dairy. You need to take your pill. In my purse.” I wait until he’s dug out the Lactase bottle and swallowed a pill, then feed him bites of the pie.
We both agree that the texture is more like cake.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” he says in a rare show of appreciation.
“You’re welcome.” He has loads of people catering to his every whim. But who really knows him? “I don’t think you’re an ogre.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re confusing me with Sloan. And everyone else in the office.”
He’s not rude, I once defended him to Sloan. It’s just his dry wit. He’s actually hilarious.
He’s not, she told me. You’re just uniquely equipped to handle him. God help us all when you realize you deserve better.
He gives a bitter laugh. “They think I’m the worst.”
“You’re not the worst, you’re just British. Upper crust. Keep a stiff upper lip, guv-nor!” I try for an Eliza Doolittle accent.
“Never do that again.”
“You’re not the boss of me.” I lick my fork clean.
“Was it really so terrible working for me?” He sounds like he doesn’t care, but I sense that he does. He cares a ton.
“No. The perks were nice. I am going to miss the perks.” I’m not going to give in and tell him I loved working with him. His snark, his intensity. The long work hours watching his brilliant mind take on the toughest business problems.
I can’t tell him I’ll miss him. The highs and lows, the rollercoaster. The giddiness I felt when I walked into his office early Monday morning.
I can’t risk it.
I have to guard my heart.
“Jetting to Tokyo. Eating at five Michelin-starred restaurants in three days. Front row seats at Milan Fashion Week. Owner’s box at the Thrusters game. They were my mother’s favorite soccer team, you know.”
“I know.” His golden gaze is fixed on me, unblinking. “Is that all?”
I shake my head, refusing to give him an answer. “Will you miss me?”
“Yes.” He answers instantly. I’m shocked he’s sharing so openly. He usually keeps his cards close to his chest. “But will you miss me? I want to know.”
I cross my arms over my chest. I’m getting overheated in my Houdzou, but I’m not taking it off. I need all the armor I can get. I want to answer, but I need to protect myself. He’s not hiding anymore, but I am.
He grips my ankle. It’s an innocuous touch that has me swallowing hard and pressing my legs together because I don’t think my panties will keep me from leaking on the sheets.
“What can I say to get you to tell me the truth?”
I raise my chin. “Tell me who Sandra is.”
He sighs. I can see the walls coming back up, and my heart sinks. But then he says, “She’s my therapist.”
“What?” I drop the fork.
Piers retrieves it. It’s already spotless, but he cleans it off in his mouth. My inner muscles clench at the sight.
“Therapy? You’ve been in therapy?”
“Since Marty…” His Adam’s apple bobs. My normally stoic boss looks away, his expression suddenly lost. It’s the most human I’ve seen him. And it’s the same expression he wore as a child, in the photo of him I found. The one he told me to throw away.
“Sandra’s your therapist,” I repeat. I can’t believe it.
“She is. Once a week for two hours.” He huffs. “She gets me to feel my feelings.”
I gasp.
“I know, I have feelings outside of greed and avarice. It was a shock to me, too.”
I fumble for his hand. “Don’t do that. Don’t put yourself down before anyone else can.” The way your parents did. “Of course you have feelings, you’re human. Men often get socialized not to show anything but rage, but they still feel all those emotions.”
“You sound like Sandra,” he mutters.
Something unclenches in my chest. “Therapy. Who knew.” I want to laugh, I feel so light. Piers in therapy is a goddamn Christmas miracle.
Maybe there is something in him worth redeeming. Maybe deep down, there’s a lost little boy who just needs love. But haven’t I always known that?
I still have the photograph. I didn’t throw it away; I hid it in my wallet.
Whenever Piers was being particularly insufferable, I’d pull the photo out and imagine him as that boy.
It made me a little kinder. I vowed to be a ray of sunshine in his gloomy life.
I choose to see the best in him, at every turn.
Until this morning, when I gave up on him. I thought I’d have to give up on him for good, but maybe…
“It’s helping. And I needed it. No man is an island, no matter how much I want to be. And after Marty passed…” His expression is pained. Here’s more proof that Piers is human: he’s still grieving his business partner. “He was alone, you know. At the end.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But he wasn’t alone. He had you.”