Dominic
Elena Vale is hiding something from me.
She’s also wearing the ivory blouse I’ve spent six months trying not to think about, which makes focusing on the first problem significantly harder than it should be.
She’s sitting behind her desk with one hand resting over the closed binder, protective enough that I’m almost impressed she hasn’t shoved the damn thing into a drawer yet.
Her call starts in less than two minutes.
I should leave. I came in to wish her a happy birthday, confirmed dinner, made her laugh, and successfully avoided doing anything about the way that blouse falls against her breasts.
A productive visit by any reasonable standard.
Then I make the mistake of looking at the binder again.
“What’s in there?”
Her fingers tighten over the cover. “Nothing.”
“That was convincing.”
“I wasn’t trying to convince you. I was telling you to mind your own business.”
“Elena.”
“Dominic.”
The phone on her desk lights up with the reminder for her call. She glances at it, then back at me, clearly expecting the interruption to save her.
It should.
Instead, I reach for the binder.
She moves faster than I’ve ever seen her move outside a negotiation.
“Don’t.”
She comes halfway around the desk and grabs the opposite side before I can pick it up.
For one ridiculous second we’re standing there holding the same binder between us like two children fighting over the last toy, except I’m her boss and she’s staring at me with genuine panic behind the irritation.
I release it immediately.
“Okay.”
Her arms close around it. “Okay?”
“Yes. That means I’m not taking it from you.”
“I know what okay means.”
“Good. You looked confused.”
“I looked confused because you backed off without arguing.”
“I can respect a boundary.”
She lets out a short laugh. “Since when?”
“Since always.”
“You rearranged my birthday without asking me.”
“I made a dinner reservation. I didn’t sell your condo.”
“You also involved my brother.”
“Cliff required minimal involvement. Mostly because Rachel keeps him alive and aware of dates.”
That earns the beginning of a smile, but it disappears when she realizes I’m still looking at what she’s holding.
A blue tab sticks out near the top. There are red ones down the side, yellow ones across the bottom, and enough of them that the pages don’t lie flat. Whatever it is, she hasn’t thrown it together over lunch. She’s spent time on this.
Months, if I know Elena.
Which I do.
Her calendar reminder flashes again.
“I need to take this,” she says.
“I know.”
“And you need to leave.”
“I know that too.”
Neither one of us moves.
“El.”
Something changes in her face when I call her that. It always does. Her mouth softens before she catches it, and for half a second she looks at me like we’re somewhere other than her office.
Then she exhales, sets the binder on the desk, and keeps her hand planted over it.
“It’s personal.”
“I gathered that when you nearly dislocated your shoulder trying to keep it away from me.”
“I did not nearly dislocate anything.”
“You hit your knee hard enough that I heard it from across the room.”
“My knee is fine.”
Her knee isn’t fine. She’s favoring her left leg, but if I point that out, she’ll either accuse me of hovering or stand on it out of spite. Possibly both.
I look at the binder. “I won’t ask again.”
She studies me, suspicious because we both know that isn’t the same as saying I’m no longer curious.
“Thank you.”
I turn toward the door.
Behind me, papers shift. There’s a sharp little inhale followed by the snap of the binder closing again.
I should keep walking.
I almost do.
Then I hear her mutter, “Shit,” and glance back.
The binder is angled toward me now. Most of the title is covered by her hand, but the two visible words are enough.
Donor profiles.
My brain supplies the rest before I can stop it.
“Sperm donors?”
Her eyes close.
Well, fuck.
She opens them again and looks annoyed, but the color rising into her cheeks gives her away. “You said you wouldn’t ask again.”
“I didn’t ask. I read.”
“You read something I was very clearly trying to keep private.”
“You turned it toward me.”
“While attempting to hide it from you.”
“Not your best work.”
“Get out.”
I don’t.
The binder makes sense of her reaction. It makes sense of the phone call she ignored when I came in, too. She hit the side button so fast I barely registered the clinic name on the screen.
I registered it now.
Chicago Cryo Clinic.
My amusement disappears so completely she must see it happen because some of the fight goes out of her posture.
“This is real,” I say.
Her chin comes up. “Of course it’s real.”
“How long have you been looking into it?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“How long?”
She crosses her arms. “You’re still my boss, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m going to save us both the HR seminar this conversation is sprinting toward and remind you that my reproductive plans aren’t an appropriate workplace topic.”
That stops me.
She’s right, and I know she’s right. The fact that we’re alone and I’ve known her family for most of my adult life doesn’t change where we are or the power I hold here.
“I’m not asking as your boss.”
“Well, you can’t take him off and hang him outside with your coat.”
“Apparently you’ve never met our board.”
Her lips twitch.
I put both hands in my pockets because reaching for the binder again would be a spectacularly bad decision. “Have you chosen someone?”
The twitch disappears. “Dominic.”
“I’m asking one question.”
“You’ve asked four.”
“Have you?”
She watches me for several seconds, probably trying to decide whether ignoring me is worth the follow-up questions. “No.”
The relief is immediate. It’s also fucking insane.
There is no reason for me to care which anonymous profile she chooses. No reason for the idea of her reading through these men’s medical histories to irritate me. They’re files. Donors. People she will probably never meet.
“Does Cliff know?”
“No.”
“Your parents?”
“No.”
“Who have you talked to about this?”
“I’ve talked to the clinic.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I know.” Her voice sharpens. “I don’t need a committee to approve my decision.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You’re doing a pretty good impression of someone who thinks I do.”
She shifts the binder under her arm, and the movement presses the blouse tighter across her breasts. My eyes drop before I stop them. Hers narrow.
Fantastic, now I’m being a fucking creep too.
I drag my attention back to her face. “You’re planning to have a baby by yourself, and no one in your life knows.”
“That’s generally how privacy works.”
“This is bigger than privacy.”
“It’s also my life.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” She walks around the desk and lowers her voice when the call reminder starts chiming again. “Because right now I’m getting a secondary big-brother speech I didn’t ask for, and I already have a fully functioning primary big brother.”
The words hit me with enough force that I go completely still.
Big brother.
She thinks I’m standing here imagining myself in the same category as Cliff. Concerned about her. Protective in a clean, familial way.
Meanwhile, I’m staring at a sperm-donor binder and thinking about Elena pregnant.
Her body changing. Her stomach rounding beneath one of the fitted dresses she wears to work. Her carrying some other man’s child while I stand across a conference table pretending I don’t want to know what she looks like naked.
The image turns something ugly and possessive inside me. Jealousy. There it is. An honest answer I don’t fucking like.
“This isn’t a big-brother speech.”
Her eyebrows pull together. “Then what is it?”
I don’t have a response I can say in her office. I don’t have one I should be thinking.
“I’m concerned you’re doing this alone.”
“Being single is part of the point.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then tell me what you mean.”
I stare at her, furious at myself because I can’t. Any honest answer crosses a line I drew the day I hired her, and every safe answer makes me sound like Cliff with a better suit.
The phone rings.
She snatches it up on the first ring. “Elena Vale.”
Her eyes stay on mine as she listens to whoever is speaking, and I know a dismissal when I hear one even if she isn’t saying it to me.
I move toward the door.
“Dinner at seven,” I tell her quietly.
She covers the receiver. “This conversation is over.”
“The binder conversation is over. Dinner is still happening.”
“I may develop plans.”
“You won’t.”
“I could.”
“I know you, El, you aren’t developing spontaneous plans in the next six hours.” I leave her with a wink. The glare she gives me would frighten anyone in this building with a functioning survival instinct.
Four years ago, Elena walked into my office and destroyed every sensible thought in my head with two words and a charcoal-gray suit.
“Mr. Rowe.”
I’m standing beside the windows with the résumé Cliff emailed me open on my desk. My assistant, Evan, showed her in less than a minute ago and is lingering near the door because Cliff called him twice this morning to make sure Elena got through security.
She looks from Evan to me.
“Am I early?”
“No.” I glance at the clock. “You’re exactly on time.”
“Good.”
She doesn’t thank Evan excessively or apologize for taking up space. She gives him a warm smile when he offers her coffee, declines, then waits until he leaves before turning back to me.
I haven’t seen her in I don’t know how many years.