19. DIANA
DIANA
Iwake early, after a restless night of sleep, and the first thing that pops into my head is Rafe. It’s this way every day; he’s a plague I can’t get rid of.
He hasn’t offered to make any more content with me since the midnight kitchen episode a few days ago.
In fact, he hasn’t mentioned the episode at all.
If I didn’t have the evidence of it on my phone, I’d think I dreamt it.
I felt so guilty about the fact he’d hurt himself that I forgot about how turned on I was when he lifted me onto the counter.
Recalling it now, I can still feel the heat of his hand and the firmness of his grip on my thigh.
The torment in his voice when he asked for permission to let go, and how I’d clung to his shirt like a desperate, love-sick fool.
If he hadn’t cut his hand, I don’t know what might have happened.
No wonder he hasn’t mentioned it again.
I posted the video after I’d edited it. It got millions of views, and my follower count exploded overnight.
I didn’t tell him, and he didn’t ask. It feels like another dirty little secret, but this time it’s one we’re both in on.
Since then, he’s kept a bit more of a distance between us, and our interactions have been strictly professional.
He’s been more focused on helping me find ways of increasing my income quickly, pushing me to reach out to people who can help: authors, publishers, PR companies.
He’s even convinced me to create an online course for content creators, sharing what I’ve learnt over the past few years, and I’ve started drafting it.
My mind is constantly full—of work, of him, of the future. Sleep eludes me.
I sit up in bed, arousal building low in my hips as I think about Rafe. I drag my hands down my face, wishing I could control the way I feel about him, at least a little bit.
But I can’t.
As I see it, I have two choices. Masturbate while thinking of my friend’s dad or go for a swim.
A swim it is.
Getting up quietly, I put on my bikini (yes, Rafe’s PA thought of everything), grab a towel and make my way to the basement.
The pool room is dimly lit, and the ceiling is painted in gold leaf.
It’s a bit like a mermaid lagoon down here, and apparently the water is fresh, not chlorinated.
I swim uninterrupted for half an hour, free-styling fast, my blood whooshing in my ears as I spin a turn at each end and push off to return.
I begin to relax, releasing my early morning Rafe-induced tension, when I come up for air only to see a figure enter the room.
I pause, hooking my elbows over the tiled edge to rest, my breaths coming fast. I’ve pushed myself harder than I’m used to.
But that’s not why my heart is racing. It’s Rafe, wearing a pair of pale blue swimming trunks and a white t-shirt, standing in the doorway, watching me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“You swim well,” he says as he approaches, tossing his towel onto a nearby lounger.
I swipe the water droplets from my face. “I used to be on the team at school, but now I’m just average.”
“Not average,” he says, toeing off his loafers, which strike me as a curious choice of footwear for the poolroom. But then they’re more formal than flip-flops, and he’s not a flip-flop kind of man.
He sits on the edge of the pool, his legs, all tanned and covered in dark hair, sliding into the water. His thighs are thick with muscle, and the exposed part above his knee, but below the hem of his trunks, is so close I could reach out and touch it without even having to stretch.
I should leave; I know I should. But I don’t want to.
I want to stay and endure the delicious awkwardness of his company, feeling how his presence makes my heart beat faster and my body tingle.
I want to be alone with him, without my laptop or my spreadsheets, and now that he’s here, sitting on the edge of the pool, and we’re alone at some crazy early hour in the morning, I can’t move away.
Heat brushes my skin as his gaze lifts from the water’s surface, rising over my bikini-covered breasts.
I feel almost naked, butterflies soaring in my stomach as his dark eyes lift to meet mine.
There’s no sign of want or desire in his gaze; his face is fixed in neutral—a careful mask that offers me nothing.
“I took another look at your financials.”
“You did?” I ask, determined to sound calm.
He nods. “They’re looking strong. Much better. You’ve done really well.”
I can’t help smiling. “Oh, thank you.”
“If you make good headway on the online course, you can launch it in time for Christmas.”
“That’s a great idea. I’ll aim for that.” I kick my legs under the water a little. “Thank you. I really appreciate everything you’ve done. I hate to think I’m taking up your time or—”
“I want to help you. I’m happy to.” He sounds sincere, but he’s still staring at the water.
“If you no longer have time, that’s fine,” I say, wanting to give him an out in case that’s what he wants and he’s too polite to ask for it.
His head snaps up. “I have plenty of time for you.”
An electric thrill shoots though me at the force behind his words. They expand in the air above us, like a balloon swelling beyond its limits, hidden contents ready to explode. Or perhaps I’m attributing more meaning to them than really exists; maybe to Rafe they meant nothing.
“It’s not entirely selfless,” he explains, and his accompanying smile warms my insides. “I’d forgotten how exciting it is to start something new. Seeing you succeed is inspiring. I was… jaded, before. Maybe I should be thanking you.”
I press my lips together to stop my smile getting crazy wide. “You’re enjoying helping me?”
“Absolutely. Working with you is often the highlight of my day.”
Without meaning to, I suck in a tiny gasp, and he blinks, tucking his chin in, seeming to register that our conversation has taken a turn it shouldn’t have, and that he’s been a little too honest. Too open. But I don’t want him to feel bad, so I whisper, “It’s the highlight of mine too.”
His mouth fixes into a tight line as he stares at the water again. “Ideally, I’d like to get out of it unscarred though.” Opening his palm, he flashes the wound at me. It’s healing nicely.
“I don’t know if that’s possible,” I say, and it sounds far too serious; it sounds like I’m talking about something other than the possibility of a permanent scar across his hand. I’m not even sure what I mean by it, only that I mean something, and he seems to understand because he looks away.
“Maybe not,” he says, and the phrase sounds heavy and considered.
Are we talking about the same thing? Skirting about the same possibility? A possibility of us? An us that might leave scars in places other than the palm of his hand?
I don’t know, and there’s no way to ask. Silence creeps in and envelops us, swallowing us into some isolated pocket of the universe where we exist together, cushioned by awkwardness and unspoken confessions. Mine, not his. I can’t afford to make assumptions.
Occasionally, weighted silences like this one occur when we’re working together, and it’s impossible not to wonder what he’s thinking when it happens.
I wait a few minutes in case he does want to speak, but he stays silent. Reaching behind his head, he tugs his t-shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.
My breath catches at the sight of him topless.
I can’t believe I’ve already slept with this man, because I long for him like someone I’ve never had.
Never will have. The breadth of his chest, the curve of his pecs, the ripples of his abs.
Physically, he’s everything I’d ever want, but the pull to him is more than that.
Yes, it’s lust. Lust on an almost all-consuming level.
I felt it from the moment I first saw him.
But there’s something else there. I want him to crack me open, not just physically, but spiritually and emotionally too; it feels like he’s the only man in the world who could.
Please, take every little bit of me. I want you to have it.
It’s crazy. I’m insane to even think it, but I feel it with a certainty I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s the sex; maybe it’s all the hours we’ve spent together on my business, and the tiny, intimate moments that I could brush off as nothing, but don’t want to.
Maybe I’m making it all up, imagining he wants me too, when he doesn’t think of me that way at all.
He’s my best friend’s father. Strictly off-limits.
None of it makes sense. He shouldn’t consume my thoughts the way he does, and he shouldn’t send me into turmoil just by sitting next to me.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep it all inside.
He looks up, his eyes alert, a genuine openness on his face that tears through the bubble of tension I thought we were trapped in. He nods at the water. “Race me?”
A giggle bursts from my lips. “Is this another thing you do with Lizzie? Like Dance Kitchen?”
“No.” He dips his fingers into the water and flicks some at me. I squeal as the droplets hit my face. “This is just for you.” He slips into the pool and nods towards the far end. “Show me what you’ve got. Freestyle?”
“Okay.” I grin. “But you’re going to lose. I’m really fast.”
A wide, beautiful smile opens across his face. “You just said you were average. I was banking on that.”
“I lied.” I flick water back at him and yell, “Go!” before I push off and head for the other end.