Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ELLIOT
Arthur: I’ll be in the conference room whenever you’re free.
I’m freshening up in the restroom after my morning sessions when my phone buzzes with the text.
One glance at the screen is enough to send my pulse into a sprint.
I know it’s only eleven thirty, but ever since that kiss my prescription-strength antiperspirant has surrendered all hope of keeping me dry.
The conference room? My stomach lurches. I’ve only been in there once, for my performance review. Why would Arthur want to meet there instead of in his office? His office is private. Intimate.
Unless it isn’t going to be just the two of us.
The thought slams into me like a freight train.
I picture Arthur seated at the long, sterile table with a delegation from human resources.
Maybe even someone from legal. My cheeks drain of colour at the mental image of me being ushered in like a criminal while Arthur reads a carefully worded statement about propriety and professionalism.
I shudder and grip the sink. “No,” I whisper to my reflection.
My face is flushed, my braid a little lopsided from being yanked earlier by Arthur’s hands.
I smooth it down with my hands, as if that can erase the evidence.
“We’re not going to get ahead of ourselves again.
We’re not going to make assumptions. We’re going to show up and communicate clearly. ”
My pep talk sounds less convincing aloud than it did in my head, but it will have to do. I straighten my shoulders, dab away the sheen on my forehead, and march out.
As I walk the quiet corridor toward the conference room, I run through the facts like a checklist.
Arthur wants to date me.
“We’re going to be.”
He’d said it like it was a simple fact. Not a question. Not a possibility. A certainty. And then he’d kissed me until my legs turned to gelatin and my brain was scrambled eggs, leaving little room for doubt about his intentions.
It was thrilling and terrifying.
I’ve been resisting my feelings for Arthur for weeks—months, if I’m honest with myself.
I’d always assumed the attraction would stay just that: physical, inconvenient, doomed to remain unacted upon.
Sure, I’ve indulged in daydreams about him, fantasies that were embarrassingly vivid and wildly inappropriate.
But even in those, it was always heat and hands and whispered names in the dark.
Never dinner dates. Never something real.
The possibility of a relationship with him? The thought feels surreal. Like I’m trying on someone else’s life. Because someone like Arthur doesn’t end up with a woman like me. Not in reality.
And then there’s Sam. I have no idea how to date as a single mom.
I don’t even know where to begin. Arthur has to understand that my son will always come first. That he has been the centre of my universe since the moment he was born.
Shawn never understood and Sam was his. He resented him.
He resented me. Would Arthur resent me too? Would he resent Sam?
“You’re spiralling,” I mutter under my breath as the conference room comes into view.
The door is cracked open, just wide enough that I can see the inside windows from the hallway. My palms are slick, my pulse steady in my ears. I give my arms a quick shake, like I can jolt the nerves right out of me, then draw a deep breath.
And I push the door open.
To my enormous relief Arthur is alone in the conference room. He sits at the far end of the long boardroom table, a notepad and a fountain pen in front of him.
“Elliot,” he says with a professional nod. “Please have a seat.”
He motions to the opposite side of the table. An identical notepad and pen wait there, precisely aligned. The room feels almost comically formal, like we’re about to sign a treaty.
I point. “All the way over here?”
His mouth quirks and his dark eyes travel over me in a way that leaves heat prickling at my neck. “I thought a bit of physical distance might help keep our heads clear.”
How does he manage to make me feel desirable while I am still in damp work sweats with hair that refuses to do what I say? I lift an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me to keep my hands to myself?”
“I don’t trust myself not to climb over the table and maul you again,” he admits, voice steady and very, very calm.
My cheeks go warm. I would not exactly object to another mauling, I think as I pull the chair out and sit in the place he has set for me.
“Why not your office?” I ask.
He folds his hands on the notepad and leans back slightly. “The boardroom felt like a better environment for this matter.”
“And that matter is?”
“Negotiations,” he says simply.
“Negotiations,” I repeat, tasting the word. It sounds absurd and grown-up and somehow perfectly suited to him.
Arthur studies me with an openness that is almost disarming. “This is new ground for me. I haven’t dated anyone in a long time. I get the sense it might be the same for you.”
I nod. “It is.”
He steeples his fingers in front of him. “It has recently occurred to me that relationships are partnerships. Why not approach them with a logical, balanced discussion aimed at managing expectations so both parties achieve a satisfying outcome?”
The sensible framework is ridiculous and also sweet, and the earnest tilt of his mouth makes something inside me uncoil. I chew my lower lip. “I thought you said you weren’t a romantic.”
He glances down, fighting a smile. When he looks up his dark eyes find mine and my heart stutters. “I don’t know how to do romance. But I’ll try to learn, if you want me to.”
I think back to early in my relationship with Shawn. The grand gestures. The empty promises. The pretty words that never seemed to match his actions.
“I don’t know how to do romance either,” I confess. “So let’s try your way.”
“Our way,” he corrects, the smallest smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
I mirror it. “Our way.”
He watches me for a long moment as if waiting for me to change my mind. When I don’t, he inclines his head and picks up his pen. The click of the cap sounds enormous in the quiet room.
“All right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s start by defining our goals.”
“Great. You go first,” I say, folding my hands on my own notepad so I look like I mean it.
He smirks. “Very well. My goal is to be in a mutually beneficial romantic relationship with you.”
“So you want to be my boyfriend?” I ask, the question garbled with hope and trepidation.
He blinks at the word “boyfriend” as if it is foreign to him. “I haven’t been a boy in over two decades.”
“You want to be my man-friend?” I offer, half teasing, half sincere.
He makes a face at that and then nods once, decisive. “Boyfriend it is.”
I beam until my cheeks ache. Arthur Stetson wants to be my boyfriend. The words feel ridiculous. Too good to be true. Even so, a prickle of apprehension creeps in. Once bitten, twice shy, my inner voice warns.
He must see the shift because his brow creases with quiet concern and he asks, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” My answer comes too quickly. I pick up the pen he left for me and start doodling aimless loops along the margin of the notepad so I do not have to meet his eyes.
“Elliot.” His tone is soft, patient.
I take a breath. Be brave. “It’s just…I want this to be mutually beneficial and exclusive.” The words tumble out before I can tidy them. My voice thins at the end, smaller than I intended.
My cheeks burn as my gaze remains glued to the paper. The conference room hums around us. Seconds stretch. I feel the look of careful attention on me and finally lift my head.
He is watching me with an expression I haven’t seen on him before. His jaw is relaxed, the usual coach-hard set softened into something gentle. There is real warmth around his eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says.
Relief rushes through me. He’s not Shawn.
“Okay.” I let the word out and it feels steadier than I expected. “Now that we have defined our goals, what comes next?”
He taps the pen cap against his notepad. “Ground rules,” he answers.
God. That has no business sounding as sexy as it does.
He studies me for a beat before continuing. “What is your number one priority?”
“Sam,” I answer instantly. The corner of his mouth lifts like he finds that both expected and endearing. “You already knew that.”
“I did.”
“And yours?” I ask.
“The team.” His gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second. “You already knew that too.”
“I did.” I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “I don’t have a lot of free time.”
“I know. Neither do I.” His voice lowers, steadier now. “Elliot, I think the only way this works is if we’re practical about it.”
“It’s a good thing I’m sitting,” I say lightly. “I feel a swoon coming on.”
That earns me a breath of a laugh. “We’re adults. We have responsibilities. People who count on us. I’m not suggesting a reckless, all consuming affair.” He pauses, watching my reaction. “We see each other when we can.”
I nod slowly. “So…casual?”
“Yes.” He tilts his head. “Casual and exclusive.”
“I think,” I say, heart thudding, “I can handle that.”
“Good.” He hesitates. “I will notify HR.”
I wince.
He stops mid sentence. “You don’t want to disclose this to HR?”
“I don’t think I’m ready to disclose this to anyone,” I say quickly. “At least not yet. Can we wait?”
“Wait?”
“Not forever. Just…for now. For all we know, we go on one date and you decide this is not worth the hassle.”
His expression softens, something warm settling behind his eyes. “I sincerely doubt that’s going to happen,” he says quietly. “But yes. We’ll wait. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re the boss.”
“That reminds me,” I say, suddenly serious. “You’re going to need a new physiotherapist.”
His brow furrows. The man is attractive even when he’s confused. “Why?”
“I can’t date you and treat you. You could ask Cal.”
“I’ll just keep doing the exercises you gave me.”
“You really should have someone monitoring you and making adjustments to your program. You’re making such excellent progress, I’d hate for you to lose that.”
“I’ll ask Luke.”
“Luke is terrified of you.”
“That sounds efficient.”
I glare and he sighs in surrender. “Fine. Cal. Anything else we need to address?”
Please do not break my heart, my brain pleads.
“No,” I say aloud. “I think that covers it.”
“In that case,” he says, pushing back his chair and standing, “when can I take you on a date?”
I stand too, nerves flaring back to life. “Um. Sam has a birthday party next Friday. It’s a sleepover.”
He nods, stepping closer. Too close? Not close enough? “We play Montreal on Thursday. Friday works.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice betraying me by squeaking.
“Have dinner with me on Friday?”
“I’d love to.”