Chapter 24
24
A dimple appears on his left cheek for a fraction of a second as he fixes me an amused stare.
“I thought the idea of one thousand thread count sheets made you nauseous?”
“Nauseous and sleepy,” I say, laughing nervously and pulling my robe as tight as possible. “What are you doing here?”
He sighs, flapping his arm out in exasperation. “The thunderstorm cut out the internet for my entire building. I need a place with decent Wi-Fi to work on my Ditto presentation for a few hours.”
“Maybe a cafe?” I drawl half-heartedly, fingers gripping firmly on to the door as a blockade.
He looks at his Moncler wristwatch and then back up to me. “Closed.”
“Bar?” I offer.
“This work is confidential.” He shoots me an accusatory look, as if I’ve been hosting a nightly stage show about Catch Group’s plans for dating-app world domination.
I sigh, accepting my fate and flinging the door wide open. “OK, Bancroft! Come on in!” I throw my arm out to welcome him inside.
He studies the room. “You made yourself at home quickly.”
My stomach cringes as he moves his gaze over the contents of my bag strewn across the living room, clothes thrown over the bedroom armchair and laptop open on the bed. Pieces of the champagne bottle top are littered across the kitchen counter; with one arm I wipe them all into the sink.
Bancroft tries to stop the corner of his mouth from tipping up as he crosses his arms. “What did you do—hide in the bushes until I left the building then sneak back up here?”
Picking up my stuff and throwing it onto the bed, re-establishing my territory for the night, I say innocently, “I was on my way home and then I recalled some advice about taking opportunities when they present themselves.”
“Hmmm, good advice. What stunningly intelligent person told you that?” he deadpans, pivoting on his heel as he watches me frantically move from room to room.
“Some guy at work.” I shrug. “A colleague.”
He cocks his head to the side, pouting slightly. “Sounds like more than just a colleague.”
I fling my sports bra, Ditto notebook and trainers into the bedroom and stride back to him, slightly out of breath. “You’re right, but former friend slash worst nemesis slash current friend doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”
He thinks about this for a second, mouth opening and then closing again as though he’s rethinking what he was about to say. After a moment of silence he speaks.
“So, where can a ‘former friend slash worst nemesis slash current friend’ work on their master takedown plan?” Eyebrows raised, he looks around the room, strategically avoiding a glance at the bed.
Maybe I should go home—cower at this surprise appearance and slink off back to my flat—but my pride stops me. We are friends now and I was here first. Also, if I leave now he’ll win, and that is so much worse than having to deal with his presence for a couple of hours.
I study the room too; then I point to the sofa. “There.”
He nods silently and paces over.
“Don’t let me disturb the rest of your evening,” he says sarcastically, looking me up and down.
“You are always disturbing,” I mutter as I tighten my robe again.
He lets out a chuckle. I wonder if he remembers the last time I said that to him: when he was trying to put me off taking this project, telling me I’d be too uncomfortable. It’s crazy how far we’ve come since then. I would never have believed you just a few weeks ago if you told me I would be alone, half-naked, in a penthouse suite with Eric Bancroft.
Alone. Half-naked. With Eric Bancroft. I swallow an audible gulp.
He kicks off his shoes and peels off his damp jacket, gently hanging it over a chair, then pads over to the sofa and begins to work as I try to edge my way subtly into the bathroom. Once inside, I shut the door and droop over the marble double sink.
“Get it together. We are over this. This is not a big deal,” I insist to my reflection. “It’s no different than when we were alone in the Fate office together.”
Except, it is different. Now, I’m not with William or struggling through heartbreak, and unlike working in the office, there is no chance of a colleague or boss walking in on us alone together. Bancroft and I are alone together. Oh my god, I need to stop overthinking this.
He’s just studiously working on his presentation, not thinking about anything but securing the new job, and I’ve trapped myself in a bathroom freaking about how the touch of his fingers during the yoga class feels practically imprinted on my hips. I shake my head and splash my face with cold water.
Trying to find something to take my mind off the man on the other side of the door, I peruse the free soaps, gels and creams neatly littering the sink counter. I freeze as its contents come into focus on the marble countertop. In front of me is a basket of amenities so extensive I can imagine Alice screaming with excitement. Hair masks, face creams, body oils, something called snail serum and a HEIMACH-branded black velvet pouch, which I can’t help opening and tipping out onto the counter. It’s a sex bag. A sex bag packed with everything you might need for a steamy night in a penthouse suite. There is a vial of organic massage oil, a travel-size bottle of vanilla-flavored lube and an assortment of vegan condoms. Christoph wasn’t exaggerating when he said the team thinks of everything here . I try to put each item back in the pouch, but it’s all so tightly packed it quickly dawns on me I can’t put it back the way I found it. The moment Bancroft sees the strewn-out basket it will become painfully obvious I’ve been hiding in the bathroom playing with sex paraphernalia. I shove the condoms, lube and oil into the deep pockets of my robe and rearrange the marginally less stuffed basket until it looks untouched. Bancroft already thinks I’m a prude; the last thing I need is a lube elephant-in-the-room screaming “this is a sex penthouse” from the bathroom to give him ammunition. I take a breath, safe in the knowledge that he’ll be gone in a few hours and my body will be free of this weird butterfly tension.
I turn the bath taps back on and blast hot water into the tub. Hardly the relaxing experience I was hoping for, knowing he’s on the other side of the suite. I lie in the bath, hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. I should just get out. After a few minutes I stand, pulling the fluffy white towel from the rack. It unravels and my stomach sinks as I realize the fabric wrapped around me barely reaches my midthighs, and soaking wet re-curling hair is dripping around my shoulders and back. In my urgency to escape a potentially awkward moment, I didn’t even think to bring my clothes in here either.
“Close your eyes!” I shout through the cracked door.
I wait a few seconds with no reply.
“Are they closed?” I ask.
“Yes,” he calls back, voice slightly strained.
I take a few tentative steps out to make sure his eyes are actually closed; his hands are also over his face as an extra precaution. Satisfied, I fling my body out of the bathroom past the doorless opening between the bedroom and living room, cursing this room’s chic open-plan design. Hiding in the furthest corner of the bedroom I dry off and throw on my underwear and the now dry T-shirt, layering my robe on top so only my bare legs are visible. My wet hair sits in a fresh fluffy towel on my head.
“Are you done?” he asks, hands still over his eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, trying my best to sound nonchalant.
“Your food arrived—I took the liberty of checking it for poison,” he states, nodding to the plates of Wagyu burger with truffle fries and Caesar salad with grilled chicken on the coffee table. The burger has a huge bite taken out of it. I lift my eyebrows in outraged question. “In my defence, you ordered two main courses for yourself and used all the room service credit, so it was that or starve.”
“No worries, buddy! Have as much as you want—perhaps some fries with that?” I say sarcastically.
He either does not note my tone or ignores it and grabs a handful of truffle fries as I slowly slide the warm plate toward me, letting out an involuntary moan as I take a bite of the burger. I cover it by lounging on the chaise longue across from him and watching him as he stares intently at his laptop screen.
Popping a fry in my mouth I ask, “How’s your presentation going?”
“Good,” he says blankly. “Yours?”
I suck in my teeth, disappointed by his lack of information. “Finished.”
His brow crinkles. “Then what are you working on now?” He gestures to the laptop on the bed.
I shift awkwardly, readjusting my robe. “Ummm, you know that side project I told you about ages ago? You probably don’t remember...” I trail off.
“Ever After.” He says it matter-of-factly, as if we’d discussed my idea a day ago instead of nine months ago.
“Yeah.” I try to subdue a smile but fail. “I’m reworking it from a Fate feature to a fully fledged app. Yemi created a beta for me.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks, something in his expression softening. “I thought Susie said no to it?”
“She did...” I agree, looking down at the rug.
“But you can’t help yourself,” he finishes for me.
I scoff a laugh and tilt my head, unable to think of a witty reply.
He leans forward. “You should keep going—it’s a great idea.”
My chest warms more than I want it to. “You think?”
“I did back then, didn’t I?” His eyebrows raise.
“I’ve added some more features since then, like the monthly check-in date prompts.” I shrug in an attempt at nonchalance. “It was kind of inspired by the reporting we’ve been doing.” It feels strange talking about this with him, crowbarring open a door we’d both boarded up months ago. “But Susie will probably just reject it again anyway.”
“My advice, not that you asked for it, is don’t waste a good idea on someone who doesn’t want to hear it.” He leans back, placing one leg over the other. “When I’m Marketing Lead at Ditto you can pitch it to me instead.” He smirks as I roll my eyes.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, punctuated by the sounds of my chomps and the clicking of his keyboard.
“Do you have to do that?” he asks.
“What?” I ask back.
His lip curls in disgust. “Chew so loudly. You sound like a velociraptor.”
I put my hand over my mouth, finishing my bite.
“Sorry, you’re probably not used to being around women who actually eat food, right?” I tease.
“Yeah, we usually just split a vitamin IV bag,” he says, running a hand through his sandy hair.
It has more of a curl than usual owing to the rain, which, combined with his undone shirt collar and rolled-up sleeves, gives him a casual, laid-back look I don’t think I’ve seen before. He looks up from his laptop screen, catching me staring.
I clear my throat and look down at my fries. “Is that what you’re going to do on your Fate date then?” I swirl a fry around in sauce.
“No... I was thinking dinner and a movie then heading over to the nearest town hall to sign the marriage license. That’s a usual Fate date, right?”
“Har-har,” I say bitterly, mouth full and trying to figure out how it’s even possible to not chew loudly. I throw a fry at his face; it bounces off his forehead and lands in his lap.
He snatches it up and tears it in half with his teeth. “What about your Ignite date?”
My shoulders roll as I adjust my posture. “I’m actually going on a date tomorrow morning—a breakfast date.”
Bancroft shifts, left hand pressing wide against the sofa. “Oh?” He finally looks up from his laptop and the sofa creaks as he shifts again. Vein-like creases appear in the leather as he tries to relax. The setting sun coats his side of the room in a warm pink glow.
“Yeah, he’s taking me to this historic pancake coffee house place before work.” My Bancroft emotional index scans his face for a reaction.
Why do you even care what he thinks?
“Breakfast. Veeery seeexy.” His monotone voice draws out the words, eyes flaring wide for emphasis.
My smile drops. “I’m really looking forward to it. He says I’m going to love it,” I say, eyes squinting, scanner zooming in closer to record every minute movement of his face. His eyes are laser-focused on a point on the table.
“I’m sure you are,” he echoes shortly, interrupting my train of thought like a paper plane to the skull before returning his gaze to his laptop screen. “Going to love it, I mean.”
“I am!” I repeat, placing my empty plate back on the coffee table, on top of one of his stupid leather notebooks, and stomping back to the bedroom.
There is no door between the living room and bedroom, just a sliding double partition that sits in between two mirrored wardrobes. It feels weird to make the specific effort to block off the two rooms, so, lounging on the end of the king-size bed, I place my laptop on my bare legs and begin typing.
We both work in silence for two hours, the faint beeps and shouts of the city outside giving it less of a “alone in a hotel room together” and more of a “coworking space” vibe. I finish an “urgent” event-data report for Susie in thirty minutes and swiftly move back to my Ditto presentation. I don’t know how we used to get any work done together: I can barely concentrate with him sitting in what is technically a separate room. We’re facing each other from opposite ends of the suite, our laptops acting as shields. I’ve felt his eyes on me multiple times over the past couple of hours, but whenever I spare a glance over to him his eyes are superglued to his computer, face stern and deep in concentration.
Finally, I give in and cut through the silence. “You never told me what you’re really doing for your Fate date.” I copy his intense stare in an attempt to seem nonchalant.
His laptop closes with a soft click. “Why do you want to know?” He tenses his jaw, then gets up and paces to the kitchen as I consider my reason. He lifts the champagne bottle from the half-melted ice bucket and pours two glasses. Both flutes dangle leisurely between his long fingers in a way that’s oddly sexy. Like drawstrings on sweatpants.
Something in my body twists, making me hold my breath as he stalks toward me and hands me a glass.
“Morbid curiosity?” I finally answer, closing my own laptop.
Our fingers briefly brush as he looks down at me, warm against the chilled flute.
“I haven’t booked one yet,” he admits, polishing off half his champagne in one gulp and pacing back to the living-room sofa.
“Well, well, well...” The self-righteous thrill travels up my spine and into the pleasure center of my brain as I shoot him a devious smile from the end of the giant master bed.
He looks up at me from the sofa and slants his neck to the side. “Well, well, what?” His voice lowers an octave.
“Mr. ‘Bachelor of the Year’ can’t get a date?” I tease, lips pouted.
“More like Mr. Bachelor of the Year is too busy going on fake dates with his annoying ‘colleague’ to have the time.” His tongue draws out the word like a curse.
“OK, buddy, you keep telling yourself that.” I match his huge sip and I fling myself off the bed toward the bathroom; my robe flicks outward briefly to expose my upper thigh.
He calls out to me as I pace: “Oh, sorry. I forgot we’re not colleagues, we’re archnemeses slash work friends.” Even from the other side of the room I can see his eye roll—astronauts in the International Space Station can see his eye roll.
“Former friends, and I’m seriously considering if we need to go back to being worst enemies!” I correct in a loud singsong shout, my voice bouncing off the marble tiles as I try to maintain our quickly unraveling truce.
I smile smugly to myself in the bathroom mirror at his lack of retort and pick a hair oil worth more than a week’s rent out of the basket, running it through my nearly dry curls. The scent of coconut and vanilla wafts under my nose as I close my eyes and drag my fingers over my scalp.
I jump as an oddly clear voice cuts through the air.
“When are you just going to admit it?” Bancroft leans his bicep against the door, a freshly topped-off glass of champagne in hand. My blood heats at the image of him silhouetted like that, how the crown of his head nearly hits the top of the doorframe.
“Admit what?” My voice trembles lightly as my oil-slicked hands glide out of my hair and land on the cool stone counter.
“That when we were friends, we were never just friends .” His expression is laced with something I can’t place.
Why does this feel dangerous?
“What are you talking about?” My narrowed eyes meet him through the bathroom mirror. The bottom of my stomach tightens into a knot as he takes a step closer, towering behind me in the mirror. I try to school my face into neutrality as the memories of his fingers rage against my bones.
He scans my face, jaw ticking as he mulls over his next words.
“We were allies.” The champagne bubbles flatten in my stomach as he continues, voice hoarse: “And now, you put so much energy into maintaining the fantasy that we don’t work well together. We could be—”
He stops himself at my confused face and clears the end of his glass. “Never mind.” He leans over me, the side of his hand grazing mine as he places his empty champagne glass on the counter with a clink; his other hand is a fist tight by his side. Goose bumps run riot over my limbs while my heart pounds against my chest as if it’s trying to break free.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, shaking his head before he says, “This Ignite date. Is it a real date? Or just for research?”
I swallow. “Real.”
He flicks his eyes to the reflection of mine and then, without warning, walks out of the bathroom. Leaving me alone. His cologne lingers; without thinking I follow it out of the room like a cartoon dog smelling a windowsill pie. I find him packing up his laptop, curling the white charging cable around his taut hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask, knowing exactly what he is doing.
“I should go.” He stuffs the wound cable into his leather bag. “You’re right: you charmed the pants off Christoph, you deserve to enjoy the room on your own.”
The words come out of my mouth before my brain comes to its senses. “It’s nearly midnight and chucking it down outside. Just sleep in the living room.” I scratch the back of my head, eyebrows knitted. The rain pounds against the window as hard as my heartbeat.
He stops with one arm in his bag and looks up at me, eyes bright. “You want me to stay?” He raises an eyebrow, just as shocked as I am at the words coming from my lips.
“No!” I blurt defensively, arms crossing tightly across my chest. “I just don’t want you to go.”
He doesn’t respond, but a slow smile spreads across his face.
I throw my arms in the air. “The room was a joint gift. Mi casa es su casa! ” I say, mouth dry.
“I really don’t have to—”
“You can sleep there,” I interrupt, pointing to the sofa. He stifles a smile as I throw a pillow of confirmation at him. “But I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
He turns away and my eyes clamp shut. Why. Why. Why . Why did my stupid brain do that? I know I should send him home but I just... don’t want to. I could already feel the empty hole his absence would carve out. A yawning chasm of disappointment. And all I would fill it with would be overthinking and what-ifs.
“OK, I’ll stay. Goodnight, Grace.” He holds the pillow to his chest, eyes glinting.
I call back, “Sleep tight!”