9. Riley
The next morning,I wake up before my alarm. Immediately, I’m hit with a wave of embarrassment, my stomach churning before I even sit up.
I could hardly sleep last night. The image of Mr. Sullivan standing there, holding his massive cock, staring at me with what I can only describe as lust.
I can’t believe I did that.
It was hot as hell watching him, but I don’t even get the luxury of focusing on that, because mostly, I’m just ashamed. I can’t believe I did that.
What was I thinking?
I spent the entire night lying awake in bed, realizing, over and over again, what Mr. Sullivan probably meant. He was embarrassed, of course, and he was telling me, unequivocally, to leave.
He wanted me to get out. And instead, I stayed.
God, I am so fired.
I pull myself out of bed and get dressed slowly, still kicking myself. I head into the bathroom to wash my face, staring at myself in the mirror for a long moment.
The last thing I want to do is go downstairs, but I have to. It’s Friday. Archie has pre-K today, and I don’t want to be late. I’m convinced that my job is in jeopardy already; the last thing I need is to make that even worse.
“Come on,” I tell my reflection quietly. I run my fingers self-consciously through my loose, dark brown hair. The ends fall past my shoulders. I gather my hair into a messy ponytail for convenience’s sake, then let my hands fall back to the rim of the sink.
“Come on,” I repeat. “Get over yourself. It was a simple mistake. You have to face him again eventually.”
I swallow, then rinse my face with a splash of cold water and head out of the room to face the day.
Down in the kitchen, Mr. Sullivan is sitting at the counter, as he is every morning. He looks up as I enter. His gaze is cool and closed-off.
“Coffee?” he asks dispassionately.
“Sure,” I reply, hesitant.
Mr. Sullivan gets up from his stool, heading over to the espresso machine to get a latte started. While the machine splutters, heating the coffee, we stand in awkward silence.
Part of me wants to just ignore what happened, but I know from experience that it’s a bad idea to let things like this go unspoken. It’ll just make everything worse in the long run.
I clear my throat. “So, about last night…”
“I don’t think we need to talk about it,” he interrupts curtly.
I open my mouth to say more, but before I can get a word out, he cuts me off.
“It’s fine,” he says. “We just need to learn how to navigate around each other. We’re in an adjustment period. Archie and I are still getting used to having someone else in the house, and to sharing space. I’ll be more careful about boundaries and locking doors in the future.”
I wince at his frosty tone. “Mr. Sullivan, I am so, so sorry. I—”
“It’s fine,” he repeats coolly, brushing it off before I can stammer out my apology. “We don’t need to know about each other’s lives. I think we can both agree to leave our personal lives out of this arrangement, since they have no bearing on the job you’ve been hired to do.”
I nod in agreement, my mouth dry. “Of—of course.”
“Consider my bedroom off-limits,” he continues. “If you need something from in there, ask me about it.”
“Got it,” I say, embarrassment flooding me all over again.
The coffee machine stops, and Mr. Sullivan takes the cup out from under it, grabbing the steam wand to foam the milk. As he prepares the latte, he adds, “Oh, and I should probably mention—sometimes, I’ll have women over.”
My heart skips a beat in my chest. I stare at him wordlessly.
“None of them will ever stay the night,” he says nonchalantly, as if it’s no big deal. “So it’s nothing you’ll need to concern yourself with.”
I feel like there’s a ball of lead in my stomach, but I nod silently.
I’m jealous at the thought of other women in Mr. Sullivan’s bed. I don’t want to be—I try not to be—but I am. I can’t help it.
“Good morning, daddy. Good morning, Riley.” Archie’s high-pitched voice at the kitchen entrance cuts the tension between the two of us abruptly.
“Hey, good morning, buddy,” says Mr. Sullivan, passing me the finished latte. I nod at him in silent thanks, but he barely looks at me. “I was just about to head out. You have a great day at pre-K.”
“Let’s get you some breakfast,” I say to Archie, leading him over to the table. As I get Archie’s breakfast together, Mr. Sullivan leaves the room.
I suppress the rest of my frustration and annoyance at our awkward encounter, focusing instead on Archie.
* * *
For the nextfew days after our run-in in the bedroom, Mr. Sullivan and I do our best to avoid each other.
I hate feeling like I’m on eggshells around him—after all, I live and work in his house. It’s impossible to stay away from him completely. Eventually, for this to work out, we’re probably going to have to get past this awkwardness.
In order to distract myself from the tension, I do my best to focus on my job. I spend as much time as possible with Archie, playing games or going down the street to get cupcakes at his favorite cafe.
In that time, there are plenty of opportunities for me to get to know Archie better as an individual.
He’s a chatty kid, but most of the time, he talks about his toys and games. He never mentions his mom—or his dad, who I realize I know nothing about at all.
I find myself wondering how old he was when he came to live with Cole. Does he remember his mother at all?
Mr. Sullivan shut down when I brought up Archie’s mother, so I know better than to ask him more about what happened. But regardless of what I know or don’t know, I feel for the little boy. It can’t have been easy, to have such a huge change happen when he was so young.
I’m already attached to him, invested in his life. This job is much better than my position at the restaurant. Working for the Sullivans, I actually get to do what I’ve always been interested in doing: working with children. Making them feel loved. Helping them grow.
Since I started working for Mr. Sullivan, I haven’t had much chance to do any artwork. It’s my main hobby, the thing that I turn to in my spare time. My happy place.
On a Saturday afternoon about two weeks after I started, I finally work up the courage to talk to Mr. Sullivan.
I want to set up my easel downstairs, near one of the large windows in the mostly-unused sunroom at the back of the house. I think it’ll be relatively out of the way there, where there isn’t much foot traffic.
I find Mr. Sullivan upstairs in his office. The door is cracked open, which I take to be a good sign; Mr. Sullivan has kept to his word when it comes to closing and locking doors. I make sure to knock anyway, though, just in case.
“Come in,” he says, sounding distracted.
I step through the door. He’s focused on his laptop, his brow creased in concentration, but as I enter, he looks up at me.
“What can I do for you, Riley?”
It’s the first time we’ve spoken face-to-face in days. I approach his desk tentatively, unsure whether things are going to be awkward between us.
The look on his face is cool and impassive. It’s easy enough to imagine that the night I saw him jerking off never happened.
Emboldened by his distant demeanor, I decide to go for it. “I was wondering if it would be okay if I set up my painting easel somewhere downstairs,” I venture. “In the sunroom, maybe, where it wouldn’t be in the way of things.”
He seems only mildly interested. “Sure, you can set it up. Just be sure not to get any ink or paint anywhere.”
“I won’t,” I promise, excited. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. “What kind of artwork do you do?”
“Um… painting, mostly,” I say, turning back to him. “Oils, acrylics, some watercolor.”
“What got you into it? How long have you been doing it?”
I’m taken aback at his questions, but I manage to respond, “Well, I started doing it at the community center when I was a kid. I took some art classes in college, just as electives. It’s just a hobby—nothing I would make a career out of. But it’s… important to me. It brings me peace.”
He nods sagely. “That’s good. Everyone needs something like that.”
“Do you have something like that?”
“Work,” he says simply.
“Work?” I cock my head to the side. “That’s not really a hobby, is it?”
His eyes warm a little at that, and he almost chuckles. It’s a brief thing, the amusement on his face; then it’s gone, to be replaced by the same cool, detached expression as before.
“Go ahead and set up your easel,” he says, a clear dismissal in his voice.
I leave the office, my head spinning. The man is a walking enigma. No matter how I look at him or think about him, I just can’t figure him out.