46. Spring
46
Spring
Evan
I thought my father would be disappointed when I finally told him about my decision to turn down his offer and stay at Inkspill.
But when I step into his office on the thirtieth floor and close the glass door behind me, he just looks at me with an expectant spark in his eyes.
His office, which once felt intimidatingly large and serious, seems smaller for some reason, more welcoming than I remember it, a photo of Mom in a sundress smiling from one of the bookshelves.
“So?” he says, watching me as I take a seat opposite him.
“Have you had a good think?”
I nod.
He tilts his head, a smile playing on the corner of his lips.
For some reason, I have the impression that he already knows what I’m about to say.
“I’d like to stay at Inkspill,” I tell him.
My voice is steady even though I expected to be nervous.
Dad shifts back against his desk, arms folding over his chest. “Well, I thought you might, but you understand that means I can’t make good on our deal, right? Inés’s in charge of Inkspill,” he says.
“She runs it, she loves it, and she’s not going anywhere. If you stay, it’ll be in the same capacity as you’re in right now.”
“I know.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“I like the position I’m in, Dad.”
And as I say it, I realise how much I mean it.
I like my dusty corner desk, tucked between old bookshelves and half-broken filing cabinets.
I like looking after the plants that have been steadily dying for years, bringing them slowly back to life—I even made a watering schedule now pinned above my computer screen, which Matt makes fun of constantly.
I even like Matt’s insults, sharing late-night takeaway Chinese with him while we problem-solve distribution nightmares and he complains about being underpaid and over-caffeinated.
I like the smell of the office, old books and dust and paper and warm printers and coffee and the perfume of cinnamon buns floating from the little café next door.
I like listening to Inés and Patch bickering over marketing campaigns and placing bets on anything and everything.
I like being sent on errands around the country like the office knight-errant, showing up to last-minute book events, meeting authors and cranky, interesting academics.
I like all of it. A lot .
And maybe my father sees that; there’s no disappointment in his face, no tired sigh, no attempt to persuade me otherwise.
Just a long, considering look before he says, simply, “I’m proud of you, son.”
I blink and let out an awkward chuckle, brushing my hand through my hair.
“What, even though I’m just some publishing dogsbody?”
Dad scoffs, shaking his head .
“ I started as some office dogsbody, too.” He leans against the desk, eyes glittering.
“There’s value in that, son. In hard work, in learning, in being part of a team. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you: the best thing you can do with it is spend your time doing something meaningful.”
I swallow thickly, suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of unexpected emotion.
“You don’t think I’m making a mistake?”
Dad smiles, a genuine grin that has the exact same dimples framing it as when I smile.
“I don’t think you’re making a mistake, son. I think you’re finding your way.”
I bring a box of cupcakes and a bottle of champagne into work when I announce that I’m staying.
Matt, his mouth stuffed full of cupcakes, sits up in alarm.
“Is that why we’re getting a new floor?” He almost chokes on his food and is forced to take three hasty sips of coffee.
“You’re not getting the new office, no chance.”
“Relax,” Inés says, rolling her eyes.
“The new floor is yours, since you’re getting your own team.”
“I don’t even want your office,” I add.
“I like my desk.”
“You’ve done a great job with the plants, to be fair,” Mina points out, grabbing a second cupcake out of the box.
“You’ve earned me fifty dollars.”
“ Another pool?” I shake my head.
“Patch, you bet against me? Again? ”
Patch shrugs.
“To be fair, I thought those plants were already dead.”
“It’s that psychotic little watering schedule he’s made. Why are you saving those plants anyway?” Matt asks me with a suspicious frown.
“Is this a metaphorical thing?”
“He’s saving the plants because he wants to impress his girlfriend when she visits,” Inés pipes in.
She’s been typing on her laptop, pretending not to listen, but as usual, she never misses a thing.
“Agh, when do I get to meet her?” Mina exclaims, looking genuinely in pain.
“I can’t believe I didn’t get to see her at the retreat!”
“That’s what you get for sneaking off into dark corners with corporate fuckboys,” Matt says.
Mina ignores him, propping her chin into her palms.
“What does she look like, Inés?”
Inés answers bluntly.
“Tall, standoffish and drop-dead gorgeous.” She points at me over her laptop.
“Evan’s definitely punching above his weight.”
“Thanks!”
“Don’t worry, son,” Patch says warmly.
“I was punching above my weight when I met my husband, and we’re still married fourteen years later.”
Inés laughs.
“That’s because Arty’s too tired for divorce.”
“The way Evan looks at his girl,” Matt says slyly.
“I’m sure she’s plenty tired.”
“Smart move,” Patch says, winking at me.
“Solid tactic. Good on you.”
I stand up and glare at them all.
“You all know I’m never bringing her here now, right?”
“Oh, come on!” Mina calls after me.
“Evan,” Inés says, and I stop to peer back at her around the door frame.
“We’re all glad you’re staying, just so you know.”
I grin and leave.
Behind me, I hear Matt mutter, “I’m not”—followed by, “Ow! I didn’t even mean it!”
I’m still grinning like an idiot by the time I reach my desk.
Sophie and I spend our first Valentine’s Day together holed up in my apartment.
With the end of law school finally in sight for Sophie, you’d think she’d start breathing a little, but that’s just not what my girl is built like.
Ever the perfectionist, ever the academically gifted good girl, Sophie is working harder than ever: running on caffeine, staying in the library past midnight every other day, avoiding distractions like the plague.
Between advanced electives, seminars, and clinics, her work with Harvard Law Review, final rounds of moot court competitions, Sophie’s firing on all cylinders.
I’ve never been more in awe of her.
I have to essentially kidnap her out of Cambridge to force her to spend Valentine’s Day weekend with me, and she still brings her laptop and armfuls of books with her.
In the evening, I come home to find her in exactly the same position as I left her, sitting on the living room floor with her laptop on the coffee table, papers and books strewn all over the couch and floors.
It’s dark in the apartment and the only light is coming from her laptop screen, as if she’s not even realised night fell.
Letting out a small breath of laughter, I turn on the lamps and kiss the top of her head.
She barely looks up, typing furiously, the light from her laptop screen reflecting off her glasses—I can practically hear the overheated whirring of her brain.
I don’ t even need to tiptoe around the flat to avoid disturbing her: she’s in full concentration mode as I clear away all the empty coffee cups from around her laptop, bringing her over a cup of fresh coffee, placing a pillow behind her back.
When she finally snaps her laptop shut, she stands up and springs over to me, throwing her arms around my neck.
“All done! Do you still want to do dinner?” She checks her watch and pulls away from me, face falling.
“Shit, it’s so late already. I’m so sorry.” She looks at me in dismay.
“Do you think we’ll still be able to get in somewhere if we leave now? I can get ready quickly.”
It’s almost insane to me: the contrast between Sophie’s dismay and my own emotions, bone-deep satisfaction, pure exhilaration and the surprised realisation that this is my life—a life I once wouldn’t have even dared imagine for myself.
“Relax, love.” I slide my hands up her neck, cradling her head gently.
“I’ve already ordered pizza.”
I can practically feel the tension melting from her shoulders.
“You have?”
“Uh-huh. And dessert. And there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge and a box of those boozy chocolate truffles you love.”
She gazes up at me, and the expression in her face is the kind I never dreamed I’d ever see on Sophie Sutton’s moody little face: admiration and relief and pure adoration.
“Evan Alexander Knight,” she says in a sigh.
“I could kiss you.”
I smirk down at her.
“I dare you to.”
She looks up at me, and then it’s her turn to smirk.
Grabbing me by my collar, she suddenly shoves me back.
I stumble in surprise, and the backs of my legs hit the edge of the armchair behind me.
Sophie pushes me back, and I grin up at her, heartbeat quickening as I wait for her to straddle me, but she doesn’t.
Instead, Sophie kneels between my legs.
With her black turtleneck and her short denim skirt and her thick-framed glasses, I could come just looking at her.
She catches my eyes and bites down on a smile, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she unbuckles my trousers.
“I didn’t say where I could kiss you.”
“Sutton,” I say—but the rest of my sentence dies in my throat as she wraps her fingers around me.
“Fuuuck.”
“Language,” Sophie tuts, and she shoves me back into the armchair, and my eyes roll into the back of my head when she takes me into her mouth.
There’s really no sight in the world more erotic than the sight of Sophie Sutton with my cock in her mouth.
Seeing her on her knees knowing what a proud creature she is, meeting her dark, defiant gaze as she glides her mouth up and down the length of me, and, as my pleasure builds under her commanding tongue, gathering her long hair in my fist to control her head, the little glare she tosses me when my thrusts become rougher and less controlled, and then seeing her cheeks darken to a heavy pink, her thick eyelashes grow wet with tears, tiny moans vibrating low in her throat as I fuck myself into her mouth.
“Fuck,” I whimper, my entire body tightening with pleasure.
“Fuck, Sophie, you take my cock so well.”
She lifts her mouth off me to catch her breath, and I wipe a string of saliva off her wet, swollen lips with my thumb.
“Gorgeous girl,” I rasp when she lowers her mouth back on me, my words growing incoherent as she builds an irresistible rhythm that makes my entire body grow tense, my fingers tightening around her hair.
“Sophie, fuck, yes, god.”
She looks up at me, and I come looking into her eyes, bucking into the hot, tight heat of her mouth.
She weathers my orgasm like a champion, too proud to pull away, and when I slump back, stunned and spent, she straightens herself, swallows and dabs her puffy lips with the tips of her fingers, elegant and imperious as anything.
“Fuck,” I whine, covering my eyes with a hand.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says smugly.
“Wipe that arrogant smirk off your face,” I say huskily, shoving myself up to my feet.
“Your turn.”
“Pizza’s going to be here soon,” she says, stepping back.
I catch her by her waist and throw her over my shoulder. “Pizza can wait.”