Fake Empire(32)

Crew hums. It’s an infuriating sound that gives no indication of whether or not he believes me. I consider opening my eyes and decide I’d rather not know what he’s thinking. A warm palm presses against my forehead. I flinch. The physical contact is unexpected. So is the gentle way his hand brushes my hair off my face. My skin prickles, reacting to his touch even after it disappears.

“How long have you been like this?”

“I don’t know. I’m hungover or tired or jetlagged or all three. The couch was closer than my bed. I haven’t left the office before five…ever.”

The last sentence isn’t necessary. I feel some strange compulsion to justify the fact I’m splayed out on the cushions like a starfish while it’s still light out. To prove I don’t sit back and collect a paycheck. Once again, I shouldn’t care. But I do. I care that my mascara must be smudged and my hair matted, and my work ethic appears questionable.

Crew doesn’t reply. Then, suddenly, I’m not lying horizontal on the couch. I’m weightless—at least that’s how it feels at first. A few seconds later, I’m rocking. I focus on the solid press of his chest and arms. My head isn’t appreciative of the movement. The rest of my body embraces the sensation of Crew carrying me. But I protest anyway. “What the hell are you doing?”

“How out of it are you? I thought it was obvious.”

I’m not out of it at all anymore. I wish I were. Every sensation I’m experiencing right now are ones I’m fully present for. Worse, I’ll be able to remember this later. The way he smells good and feels even better. The press of a metal band against the skin of my thigh that symbolizes he belongs to me in a way many people would consider permanent.

I clear my throat. “This is sort of sweet of you, but I’m fine.” I pack as much conviction into the last word as I can muster.

“I think that couch would disagree.”

Crew starts up the stairs. I stop arguing. If he’s going to be stubborn about it, I’m best off pretending this is no big deal. Like I let men carry me bridal style all the time.

He turns to the right as soon as we reach the top of the steps and heads straight into my bedroom. “You explored?” The question comes out dry. There are seven guest bedrooms, minus the one he’s claimed as his own. This wasn’t just a lucky guess.

“What’s yours is mine, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” I mumble. The heat of his body is seeping into mine, and it’s making me sleepy. Sleepier. I haven’t slept well in weeks. Before I left for Paris, I was riddled with nerves about the wedding. In Paris, I worked late and was woken up early by the market underneath my balcony. I’m the sort of tired that blurs reality. I wouldn’t be shocked if I wake up on the couch in an hour to learn this was a dream.

Rather than dump me on the bed, Crew carries me into the attached bathroom and sets me down on the marble that surrounds the tub. “What are you doing?” I question.

He doesn’t answer. Either with an explanation or by telling me I’m asking the obvious again. It is obvious when he starts the tap running and dumps in an assortment of the salts and soaps from the glass containers set along the windowsill. Steam starts to rise from the water, swirling with the fragrant scents of rose and eucalyptus and steadily building bubbles.

Once the tub is filled, Crew shuts the water off and pulls me standing. I’m worried I might fall asleep mid-bath. I’m far more concerned this sweet gesture might make me say or do something very stupid.

Crew’s eyes hold mine hostage as he reaches behind me and tugs at the zipper of my dress. I feel the back gape open and slide down. He pulls the fabric over my shoulders. With a quiet whoosh, the silk hits the floor, leaving me standing in my bra and underwear. He doesn’t drop his gaze. Blue burns me, roots me in place.

His touch is clinical and detached. Neither hand lingers as he unsnaps my bra and lowers my thong. In seconds, I’m naked before him.

“Do you need me to get you anything?” He holds eye contact, not looking lower.

“I…” I clear my throat and shake my head. “I’m good.”

Arousal is a better stimulant than caffeine. I’m no longer worried about falling asleep and accidentally drowning. I’m standing in front of him, totally naked, while he’s completely dressed. After he ran me a bath. And Crew is acting like all of this is a normal occurrence.

“I’ll be having a drink in the library if you need me.” There’s no missing the teasing in his tone. I hope it’s because I called him predictable and not because he suspects I spent nights in Paris spying on him.

“Okay.” The word flies out fast.

He needs to get out of here. Before I find out how serious he was about the begging. Before I beg.

Crew disappears, closing the bathroom door behind him. I climb into the tub, letting the hot water envelop my body inch by inch until I’m accustomed to the temperature. It feels like heaven. The steam clears my head and the warmth chases away the long day of travel followed by work.

I sit in the tub until the water starts to cool. Once it’s tepid, I climb out and pull on a silk robe, not bothering to dry my hair or brush it. When I walk back into my bedroom, there’s a glass of water on the table next to the bed. Along with a bottle of Tylenol. I stall in place for a few seconds, unexpected emotions threatening to overwhelm me.