Beautiful Bastard (Beautiful Bastard, #1)(58)

My skin hummed, warming at the sight of him.

“Hey,” I said.

He looked up, eyes taking in every curve. “Holy f*ck. I hope you didn’t wear that to the meeting.”

“Well, I did,” I said, laughing. “But I wore it beneath a very prim navy suit.”

“Good,” he growled. He pulled me close, wrapping his arms all the way around my waist and pressing his forehead into my stomach. “I missed you.”

My chest twisted tightly. What were we doing? Was this real or were we playing house for a few days and then returning to normal? I didn’t think I could do our normal after this and wasn’t sure I could see several steps into the future to how this all played out.




Ask him, Chloe!

He looked up at me, his stare burning hot on my face as he waited for me to say something. “Are you feeling better?” I asked.

Coward.

His face fell but he hid it quickly. “Much,” he said. “How did the meeting go?”

Although I was still on a high from the meeting with Gugliotti and was dying to tell him every detail, when he asked this, he removed his arms from my waist and sat back, leaving me feeling cold and hollow. I wanted to hit the rewind button and take us back two minutes to when he told me he’d missed me, and I could answer, “I missed you too.” I’d kiss him, and we’d get distracted, and I’d tell him all about Gugliotti a few hours from now.

But instead I gave him every detail of the meeting, how Gugliotti reacted to me, and how I redirected his focus to the project at hand. I recounted every aspect of the discussion in such detail that by the end of my story, Bennett was laughing quietly.

“My, you’re wordy.”

“I think it went well,” I said, stepping closer. Put your arms around me again.

But he didn’t. He leaned back and gave me a stiff smile, the detached Beautiful Bastard kind. “You were great, Chloe. I’m not at all surprised.”

I wasn’t used to this kind of compliment from him. Improved handwriting, great blow job—these were the things he knew how to notice. I was surprised how much his opinion mattered to me. Had it always mattered so much? Would he start to treat me differently if we were lovers instead of f*ck buddies? I wasn’t actually sure I even wanted him to be softer as a boss, or try to blend lover and mentor. I rather liked the Beautiful Bastard at work, as well as in bed.

But as soon as I thought it, I realized the way we used to interact now felt like a strange, foreign object in the distance, or a pair of shoes that I’d long since outgrown. I was torn between wanting him to say something dickish to jerk me back into reality and wanting him to pull me closer and kiss my breast through my slip.

Again, Chloe. Reason number 750,000 you don’t f*ck your boss. You turn a well-defined relationship into a mess of blurry boundaries.

“You look so tired,” I whispered as I began running fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I am,” he mumbled. “I’m glad I didn’t go. I threw up. A lot.”

“Thanks for sharing,” I laughed. Reluctantly, I pulled away and put my hands on his face. “I brought Popsicles, ginger ale, gingersnaps, and saltines. Which do you want first?”

He stared at me, completely confused for a beat before blurting, “You called my mom?”



I went down to the conference for a few hours in the afternoon so he could sleep some more. He put up a strong front, but I could tell even half of a lime Popsicle made him queasy when he turned a matching shade of green. Besides, at this conference in particular he could barely walk ten steps without being stopped, fawned over, pitched to. Even healthy he wouldn’t make it far enough to see anything worth his time anyhow.

When I returned to the room, he was sprawled on the couch in a most un–Beautiful Bastard–like pose, shirtless and with his hand shoved down the front of his boxers. There was something so ordinary about the way he sat, bored, staring at the television. I was grateful for the reminder that this man was, in some ways, just a man. Just another person, moving around the planet, getting his bearings, not spending every second lighting the world’s stage on fire.

And buried within that epiphany that Bennett was just Bennett was a sense of wild longing because there was this chance that he was becoming my Just Bennett, and for a heartbeat, I wanted that more than I think I’d ever wanted anything.

A woman with freakishly shiny hair flipped her head and grinned at us from the television. I collapsed on the couch next to him. “What are we watching?”

“A shampoo commercial,” he answered, pulling his hand out of his shorts to reach for me. I started to tease him about cooties but shut up as soon as he began to massage my fingers. “Clerks is on, though.”

“That’s one of my favorite movies,” I said.

“I know. You were quoting it the first day I met you.”

“Actually, that was Clerks II,” I clarified, and then stopped. “Wait, you remember that?”

“Of course I remember that. You sounded like a frat boy and looked like a f*cking model. What man could ever forget that?”

“I would have given anything to know what you were thinking right then.”

“I was thinking, ‘Highly f*ckable intern, twelve o’clock. Disengage, soldier. I repeat, disengage.’”