10. Simon
TEN
SIMON
She kept a wide space between us in the backseat of the car.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the road rushing past the windshield, refusing to move, refusing to look at me. Manuel drove steady, the late-night streets all but empty beyond the windshield, while I sat on my side of the leather seat and watched her.
"So, why were you sleeping in my office?" I finally broke the silence.
She cleared her throat. She still didn't look at me when she answered. "It was only for tonight. I got home from work and found the deadbolt on my door had been changed. I couldn't go to Sloane's because she isn't in town, and I always forget to grab a spare key from her. I was stranded."
I nodded, taking it in. I glanced at her profile in the low light of the car.
Her eyes were swollen, the skin beneath them darker than usual.
She'd been crying alone on my couch, and she hadn't come to me.
She hadn't knocked on a single door for help.
She'd just curled up on the cold leather in her work dress and tried to handle it on her own.
There was also the obvious option of a hotel. She hadn't taken it. I decided not to point that out.
"Why didn't you just tell me?" I asked.
She swallowed hard. "I didn't want to intrude."
I'd expected a handful of defensive answers, but not that one. I studied her a long moment. "Intrude?" The word tasted bitter. "I thought we were friends, Violet. I'd have hoped you thought of me the same way."
She let out a short, cynical laugh. "I think of you as my boss. There are firm boundaries, Mr. Beckett. Ones we shouldn't cross."
I leaned back into my seat and let out a long breath. "Well. Looks like we're about to cross this one."
"You really don't have to help me, you know." She finally turned her head. "I can—"
"Shut up, Violet," I cut in gently, pressing two fingers to the bridge of my nose to hold off a coming headache.
She went quiet. I could feel her staring at me from across the seat.
"The celebration party tonight was something," I said, steering us elsewhere.
"Are you drunk?" she asked, suspicious.
"No." I dropped my hand and met her gaze in the dim light. "But I don't want to sit here and listen to a woman whine about how I'm trying to help her."
She laughed, a light, brief sound, then turned her head back toward the passenger window. Her shoulders drew in, and they stayed there. I didn't push her any further. I stayed on my side of the seat, Manuel drove on, and the sleeping city moved past the tinted glass.
We arrived at the house and climbed out of the car.
I unlocked the heavy front door and led her inside.
The house was pitch dark, every light off, Marta long since gone home.
Violet stopped just inside the grand entrance and looked around.
She turned her head slowly, taking in what little she could see of the space, getting her bearings in a private part of my world she'd never been let into before.
"You'll be staying in a guest room upstairs," I said, keeping my voice low.
She nodded but didn't move from the foyer.
"Aren't you coming?"
She turned to face me, then followed as I led her up the sweeping staircase to the guest room at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open on the clean, made-up space.
"Can you do me a huge favor?" she asked, lingering in the doorway.
"Sure. What do you need?"
"Can you come with me tomorrow morning to confront my landlord? I can't go alone. I doubt he'll take me seriously."
I stopped just inside the room and looked at her, confused. "What do you mean?"
She walked past me into the bedroom and looked around. A decent size, spotless, the bed freshly made. She studied it a few seconds before turning back to face me, her expression grim.
"My landlord is a very traditional man," she said, flat, no heat in it. "If I show up and confront him about why he illegally changed the locks, I doubt he'd even apologize. Women get taken a lot more seriously when there's a man standing right beside them."
I nodded, the ugly truth of it settling in. "I'm sorry," I said, apologizing like the whole crooked architecture of the world was somehow mine to answer for. "Whatever you need. I'd be glad to help you handle him."
She offered a small, tired smile. "Thank you, Simon."
I turned to leave, then stopped. I pivoted back. "There's a fresh robe hanging in the bathroom. And if you want something comfortable to sleep in, I can get you a pair of my pajamas. They've got to be better than sleeping in that dress."
She looked down at her wrinkled work clothes, then nodded, grateful. "Thank you, sir."
"You're in my house now. Drop the 'sir.' Call me Simon. You can go back to 'sir' tomorrow when we're at work."
She smiled, worn out, and agreed. I went to my own room, walked into my closet, and grabbed a pair of sky-blue pajamas off the second shelf without really looking.
I carried them back to her room, knocked on the door frame, and waited for her okay before stepping inside. I held the folded clothes out to her.
"They're mine. I hope they're comfortable enough."
She took them and looked down a long moment, running her thumb across the weave of the fabric. "They're so soft. I'm sure I'll like them."
I was unreasonably pleased by that.
"So, we've officially crossed another boundary," she said, a hint of teasing back in her voice.
I arched an eyebrow at her. "Have we?"
"Not only am I spending the night in your private house, I'll be sleeping in clothes you've worn." She raised her eyebrows in challenge. "That's pretty intimate, Mr.—Simon."
"You make it sound like I just handed you something scandalous."
"Isn't it?"
I couldn't deny it. Wearing my clothes was its own kind of intimacy, and I also happened to have a spare pair, and the two facts sat side by side in my head without canceling each other out.
"Don't you want to wear them?" My voice dropped.
"What's my alternative?" she mused. "Sleep naked, or keep this stiff dress on."
I froze.
The words landed, and my brain did the thing I hadn't given it permission to do. I pictured her sleeping naked in the guest bed down the hall. I pictured what she looked like under that buttoned-up dress.
The hidden tattoo she'd mentioned at the restaurant came to mind, and then the second one, the one I hadn't seen, and I had no idea where either of them sat on her body.
Was the first one at the small of her back, right where someone standing behind her would catch it?
Was the second somewhere lower, somewhere only ever visible in a context I had no business imagining?
I cleared my throat, desperate to break the spell.
"Well." My voice came out tight. "Get some sleep, Violet. I'll see you in the morning."
She nodded. I all but fled her room, pulling the door closed behind me, and retreated to the safety of my own.
I shut the door and stood in the dark a long moment, heat moving through me.
The dangerous truth was, this wasn't the first time my mind had gone there.
Back when Lara was still in the picture, she'd cornered me once, complaining about how much private time I spent alone with Violet.
I'd told her there was nothing between us, and I'd meant it. At that point, it had been the truth.
But then Lara and I ended, and something shifted between Violet and me.
It started at the disastrous investor dinner. Violet had shown up in a stunning red dress that night, the kind that was technically professional and practically devastating.
I'd kept my hand on her shoulder during the tense pre-dinner introductions, telling myself it was just corporate positioning, strictly professional. I'd repeated that lie while my thumb stayed where it was and refused to move.
When the dinner ran long and she'd had far too much to drink, she'd gone quiet and pliant against my side.
Her warm body leaned into mine, her chest pressing against my hand so directly that every time I shifted my weight, I grazed her.
Her breath had been warm and close to my ear, and in that moment, I'd learned something terrifying about myself that I then deliberately boxed up and set aside.
The next morning, I'd coldly told her she was never stepping out with me again. I'd meant it as protection. For her. For me. I was just no longer sure in which order.
There'd been other compromising moments since.
My casual words weren't always as offhand as they sounded.
When I told her she looked good in something, I meant it in more registers than one.
When Caleb Brown started circling her, I found it far less amusing than I let her believe.
And yes, I wanted to believe she chose her outfits for me to see.
I loved it when we accidentally matched.
I loved it more than was professionally acceptable, so I'd filed the feeling away and left it there.
But it was still there. It was always there.
And now she was sleeping just down the hall, wearing my pajamas.
I didn't sleep well that night.
I was already at the kitchen island at dawn when Marta came in, and she had a fresh pot of coffee brewing by the time I settled.
"Good morning, Mr. Beckett."
"Morning, Marta."
"You're up early today." She glanced at my tired face. "Coffee's ready."
I reached across the marble island for the steaming mug she'd set down. "Thank you."
She went back to her prep at the stove. I sat alone with my coffee in the quiet kitchen. Olivia had been coming down for breakfast most mornings lately, ever since Violet crashed into her orbit and those online books opened something back up in her.
My niece, who'd spent eight miserable months sealed behind a closed bedroom door, now had strong opinions about plot pacing and character arcs, and she'd share them unprompted over scrambled eggs. I hadn't manufactured that. I hadn't paid a therapist for it.
Footsteps padded down the main stairs.
I looked up, and the coffee mug nearly slipped out of my hand.
In the middle of the night, when I'd reached blind into my closet, I'd yanked out the first pair of pajamas I could find, not stopping to think about what made them unwearable for mixed company.
Pale sky blue. Thin. The fabric was a lightweight, worn cotton that went nearly transparent in the right light, which was why I'd long since stopped wearing the top half.
Violet was wearing the top half.
I could see the outline of her breasts through the sheer material, full and heavy, her nipples peaking beneath the thin fabric.
The matching pants hugged her wide hips.
To make it worse, the top button had come undone during the night, baring the swell of her breast through the open V of the collar.
I stared for one second, then yanked my eyes up to the kitchen ceiling.
I crossed my legs under the island counter.
She padded in and stopped right in front of me. "Good morning."
"Did you sleep well?" I asked the far wall.
"It was so good." She sighed, happy. "Thank you again so much."
"You really don't have to keep thanking me." I made myself look at her face and ordered my eyes to stay locked there. Her dark curls were wild and loose this morning, tumbling around her bare shoulders, her cheeks still flushed from sleep.
I glanced down at the undone button for a fraction of a second, then snapped my gaze back up to her eyes.
"When should we leave to see your landlord?" My voice came out rough.
She gave a lazy shrug. "Whenever you're ready. I'm down for whatever."
I wanted to go wherever she was down for.
"You can go upstairs and clean up," I said, tight, "then come back for some breakfast. We'll leave right after we eat."
She nodded and turned back toward the stairs.
I stared at the mug in my hands. That was where a sensible, professional man kept his eyes.
Her footsteps had barely reached the top landing when Olivia appeared in the kitchen doorway. She stopped dead when she spotted Violet, the same moment Violet paused on the top step.
"Violet?" Olivia's eyebrows shot up, her mouth falling open. "What on earth are you doing here?"
Violet looked down at the oversized men's pajamas, then back up at the teenager, and let out a breathless laugh. "It's a very long story, Olivia."
Olivia crossed the kitchen in a few quick strides and pulled her into a fierce hug, the kind of sudden grab that surprised Violet enough she took a half-step back before her own arms came up to return it. Olivia held on a long moment, then stepped back, beaming.
"Are you staying with us?" she asked, hopeful.
"Just for a day or two. I have a bit of a landlord situation."
"Good." Olivia's chin lifted. "You can stay as long as you want."
Violet gave her a warm smile. "I'll be back down in a few minutes." She turned and headed up the stairs.
Olivia turned to face me. My eyes were still glued to the empty space at the top of the staircase.
"Hey," she said sharply.
I blinked and finally looked at her.
"Why is she sleeping here?"
I summarized the night before. The changed lock. The crying in the office. The drive home. I kept it brief and professional. Olivia listened to the whole thing with her arms crossed and her head tilted, suspicious.
When I finished, she stayed quiet a long moment.
"Is this the start of something?"
"No," I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me. "Why not?"
"Olivia." I set my coffee mug down on the marble. "Violet is my executive assistant. She's my friend. A man and a woman can have a platonic friendship that doesn't need to be anything more. People can matter to each other without it meaning what you're suggesting."
Olivia nodded, taking in the lecture. She pulled out the stool across from mine and sat down.
"That's a really great theory, Uncle Simon," she said, dry.
She reached across the island and picked up the extra coffee Marta had left on the counter.
"You should probably explain that exact theory to Violet," she said, taking a slow sip. "And then watch her face when you do."
I frowned and opened my mouth to ask her what the hell she meant by that.
She just picked up her fork, started eating her breakfast, and refused to look at me again.