13. Meg
13
MEG
I crept barefoot toward the oak door that led to the secret passage and eased it open in a crack, only to hear Byron’s voice muttering a string of curses from the kitchen.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I strolled inside to investigate.
The scene was akin to catching a cold-blooded murderer in the act.
The fancy espresso machine lay in two pieces on the floor, and what I assumed was coffee splashed across the wall and over the floor.
Byron stood with his back to me, hunched over the brewing mess, clutching a small plate with a fat slice of chocolate cake.
“What the hell happened?” I asked.
Clearly, he didn’t expect me. As if that huge bang wasn’t going to alert everyone in the immediate vicinity. With me being right next door.
He spun around, surprised, and with me leaning over to inspect the chaos, I collided with his cake, leaving a gooey glaze smack in the center of my left breast.
“Oh shit,” we both stuttered. As I leapt back, my bare feet slipped in a puddle of coffee, but no fear because Byron was there to catch me, pushing me against the wall to keep me from crashing to the floor.
Once again, my gaze leveled with his chest, and thank God, this time he was wearing a shirt.
But as I glanced up, our eyes met, locked in some stupid mesmerizing spell, causing a thrill to rush down my back.
“Are you okay?” he asked, shoving the plate of chocolate cake onto the table next to him.
All I could do was nod, his hand sliding from my ribs to my waist. And he was close enough for his relieved exhale to send a rustle of warm breath across my cheek.
We both waited for our heart rates to calm down.
"I’m sorry,” he griped eventually, “but could you please not walk around barefoot?"
I would have plucked myself out of his grip in an instant if I’d been sure not to slip on the wet floor again.
Instead, I stayed still, pretending not to notice the heat from his long fingers on my waist burning through my dress, leaving his red-hot fingerprints on my skin.
“Why, is there a dress code that forbids me from getting comfortable?” I asked, trying not to pant.
“No, but I would like to hear you coming.”
Mortification entered the chat, and the silence that fell was so loud I could hear the blood buzzing through my veins. All the while, tingles were spiraling up my spine, and I was beginning to doubt that I lacked enough motivation to annihilate this crush.
My only saving grace was that right now, Byron was on the defense.
An involuntary smirk tugged at my mouth, and he closed his eyes in exasperation. “Oh God, that’s not how I meant it…”
I extricated myself from his grasp and tiptoed around the splatters of coffee to safer grounds. “Oh, how did you mean it, because I took it as you not wanting me to sneak up on you in my bare feet.”
He braced himself against the fridge and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I meant. Not that I care about you walking barefoot, don’t get me wrong--”
“You just want to hear me coming.” And yes, it slipped out. Unintentionally. One would hope. Leaving me to wonder why ridiculous stuff like this kept happening whenever I was around this man.
A flush rose from my chest into my cheeks, and I had to marvel at the fact that I still had the ability to blush. Byron’s eyes were gleaming with ruthless satisfaction as if the score between us was even now.
He cast a glance at my feet, a few spatters of espresso decorating my toes.
“Stay right there,” he said, as if I had elaborate plans to run for the hills.
He carefully stepped around the muck on the floor, grabbed a linen rag, and swept it under a running tap. “Let me clean your feet.”
Oh. Okay , I thought. Not words I’d ever heard a man say, but in this whole circus, what was one more awkward situation. I mean, come on. My feet.
Somehow, I knew protesting would make it worse because why would his cleaning my feet become a crisis of any kind. It wasn’t as if he was aware that I was nurturing a little crush.
But then he hunched down in front of me, and I realized the many, many ways this was not the brightest idea.
Now, if having my hands on his naked back had me panting so hard you couldn’t keep a matchstick lit, just imagine the effect of his hand curling around the back of my bare heel as he gently lifted my foot to clean between my toes.
My mind went blank, leaving my imagination off the leash and free to roam, and hell if I couldn’t imagine him kissing my toes one by one until my insides were a blissful inferno, his mouth and tongue venturing north and— oh Hell no, did I just whimper?
“There you go,” he rudely interrupted my thoughts as he stood up straight again.
If he heard me moan, he was steel, not an iota of a response to the stupid sound leaking from my throat. Maybe it was just another woman, another whimper to him, who knew.
I took the clumsy moment of silence to calibrate and finally croaked out. “Thank you… and again, how did you manage to do this to the espresso machine?”
“I wanted to make a cup of coffee to have with my cake, and the rules you had taped to the fridge distracted me and…you know what, it was just an accident. I’ll get someone to clean it all up.”
I had to scoff at the irony. “So inadvertently, it’s my fault because those are my rules. See, I don’t even have to be physically present to create chaos in a room.”
My insides didn’t get a bit squishy when he laughed. They got a lot squishy.
“When you said rules earlier, I thought it was going to be a long list,” he said. “But there are only two rules. It's not hard to remember two rules. Not that I plan on putting my name on anything inside the fridge.”
“Then don’t come crying when your stuff is consumed.”
Byron leaned in and smiled. “You can consume anything of mine. In fact, see it as an invitation to knock yourself out.”
And suddenly, the urge to press myself against him and offer my mouth nearly paralyzed my every sane thought.
It was time to leave this damn kitchen but somehow my now clean bare feet seemed welded to the floor.
“So, no more cane for you, huh?” I asked.
“Not since you worked your magic with that cream on my back. How’s the bump on your head?”
“Can hardly feel it. A bigger problem is how I’m going to explain this chocolate glaze stain on this dress to my sister,” I said, going for a lighthearted tone while feverishly planning my exit. “She’s going to kill me.”
Of course, his gaze dipped to my chest to the chocolaty stain strategically imprinted in the middle of my breast where my nipple was pointing mightily through the damp fabric because, you know, it was chilly in the kitchen.
No doubt the same thoughts swirled through both of our minds. I held my breath in a moment of anticipation, wondering if he would actually try to clean the stain as he had done with my feet.
But he didn’t. With embarrassing effort, he extracted his gaze from my chest and tossed the wet rag into the sink.
“Why would your sister have a problem with a stain on your dress?” he asked.
“Because it belongs to her,” I said. “I needed to look nice for my first day on the job. And since I didn’t have the perfect dress for the occasion, she let me borrow hers.”
He stared at me, the concept of borrowing a sibling’s clothes never having been part of his world.
“We don’t all have our own private tailors, you know,” I added unnecessarily.
A flippant glint flashed in his eyes. “We don’t all have warm, cuddly families to share our clothes with, you know.”
“How would you know if I had a warm, cuddly family?”
A few seconds dripped by as Byron watched me, hesitancy flickering behind his azure gaze. As if what he was about to say could change everything.
“Because you radiate a confidence that comes from years of strong support from a close family,” he said. “People who love you unconditionally, who believe you’re capable of achieving anything you set your mind to. And that has never made you doubt your own abilities. You’re very lucky because that’s the kind of backup most people don’t have in their lives.”
When his words faded into silence, we stood there in the confines of the kitchen, puddles of coffee at our feet, and that relentless spark dancing in the air.
“And you got all that in the little bit of time we’ve known each other,” I asked, wondering if it didn’t say more about him than it did about me.
“If I have no other talent,” he said. “I’m good at reading people. In my cutthroat world, that can save you a lot of time.”
“So, what you’re saying is you’d rather have a warm, fuzzy family than have all this money.”
Byron laughed. “God no, I never said that. To have both would be amazing. But in the absence of a warm, fuzzy family, money does an okay job of filling the gap when that family isn't a possibility. Although Emily has tried her best.”
“And let’s say nothing of landing the role of CEO in the Belmont Trust without a resume.”
“That really seems to bother you, doesn’t it?” he said.
I moved closer to the door for a quick getaway. “Maybe I’m just curious if you could actually pull it off, being the prodigal son and all.”
“Well, it seems Roman shares your doubts,” he admitted. “Then again, I’ve given no one any reason to think I can pull it off. Here’s to hoping, right?”
I glanced at the wall, trying to figure out what was with this unexpected feeling I had wanting to voice my support for his future as CEO.
What did I care? I was just going to be with the Belmont Trust for a year.
All of a sudden, embarrassment flashed across his features. “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. This is one of those days I wish I could erase, but I cannot. So, if you’re willing, can we just forget about everything that’s happened in the last few hours? I’m completely out of my depth in this new position, and I really need to make it work. Roman is about to assign the two of us a major project, and I can't afford to fuck this up. I’m sorry for everything that’s gone down here today, and I’m sorry for texting you in the library. I’ll try to do better from now on. And if you’ll let me, I’ll find you an exact replica of that dress.”
I swallowed, wishing he didn’t regret everything so intensely , even if his shunning me would make killing this crush so much easier.
“I’m in over my head with the new job too,” I said. “So I’m with you on that. It’s important for me to make the most of this year I’m at the Belmont Trust. And don’t worry about the dress, my mom will know how to get the stain out. You also don’t have to apologize for the texting, we both kinda got carried away. We just won’t let it happen again.”
In the wake of our treaty, uncertainty lingered.
We avoided eye contact, staring at the broken espresso machine instead, both trying to figure out how this promising-to-be good would actually work.
Lines had already been crossed, and some things would be difficult to let slip from memory…okay, make that impossible .
I bit my lip while he chuckled softly, combing his fingers through his hair.
Escape from the kitchen became my only salvation. “I need to get back to work. Sorry, your cake is ruined.”
His gaze dipped momentarily to the stain on my chest again before he hastily looked away. “It just touched your…The cake isn’t ruined. Well, I’m still going to eat it, so there.”
And if those few words didn’t send a flush of heat crawling into my cheeks.
“Okay then,” I said, attempting a harmless, coworker-ish smile as I left the kitchen. “Enjoy your cake.”
Scrambling back to my office, barefoot, I planned on working myself stupid…until the image of Byron looking at me the way he did disappeared.
His last words followed right on my heels. “Thank you. And you bet I plan to enjoy every last crumb.”