Window Shopping(24)

At this time of night on the avenue, taxis are in abundance and one slows to a stop at the curb immediately. Aiden hands the man a twenty through the passenger side window, tells him to keep the eventual change and opens the rear door for me. I’m tempted to make an issue out of him paying for my ride home—I’m fine with walking or taking the train—but it’s late, I’m ready to drop and getting to my bed faster sounds like an ideal plan. “Thank you.”

“Hey. You took my mind off the board meeting and saved me from a bourbon hangover tomorrow. It’s the least I can do.” I take a seat in the back and look up at him. “Good night, Stella,” he says, a little hoarse, looking me over top to bottom as if memorizing me. “See you bright and early for the unveiling.”

“Yes.” I swallow hard. “I’m definitely not thinking of skipping town or anything.”

“Hey,” he says seriously, making me look up in time to catch his wink. “When in doubt, remember Penguin Chernobyl.”

For the second time tonight, I laugh and he pauses in the act of closing the taxi door, as if waiting for the full sound to play out before finally pushing it shut, leaving us separated by glass. He shoves his hands into his pockets and stands back on the curb, looking so perfectly old-fashioned and debonair in the streetlamp glow, I can barely catch my breath.

And I lose it completely a half mile into the ride when I find the long, slim, black velvet jewelry box in my jacket pocket containing the gold key chain necklace.





6





Aiden





I don’t sleep a damn second all night. Around three am, I give up trying and order two dozen donuts through Postmates. Most of them, I plan on bringing with me this morning to the unveiling of Stella’s window, but I eat three before I’ve even set the box down on the counter.

And I wonder why my tailor always has to make space accommodations in the seats of my pants. This butt is courtesy of baked goods and there’s no getting around it—that fact or my ass. Hell, though, it’s good and sturdy and I carry my own padding with me.

Can’t beat it with a stick.

I pick out a fourth donut—a green and white striped masterpiece with chocolate reindeer bits and pieces—and pace past my eight-foot Douglas fir to my living room window. The reflection of white lights blinking on my tree blur together with those of the city as I look out over the skyline toward Chelsea. Where Stella lives. I didn’t anticipate being this nervous. I should have taken a peek at the window in advance and given her time to make changes, if any were necessary. I’m confident in her. She’s smart. Insightful. She’s punched in early every day since Tuesday and left Vivant late. If the window isn’t a success, it won’t be for lack of trying.

Maybe this trial period was a bad idea. If I’d just hired her without the moratorium, there wouldn’t be so much riding on this reveal. And it was only going to be low key, a few of my managers, some key staff and our social media rep would be there to witness the moment. But on the way home last night, I got a text from my father saying he and Shirley would be outside Vivant at six am for the unveiling.

Stella doesn’t need that pressure. And the last thing I want is them digging into her background and making an issue out of her record. I’m prepared to stand by my decision. I’m prepared to protect her in any way I can, but if the window isn’t a home run, the board will make both of those things as difficult as possible.

Stella already has her own family problems, she doesn’t need the judgment from mine. I’ve been in that seat many times, faced the disapproval, felt it burn layers off my skin. The thought of that happening to her when she’s already so raw from the last four years, has me pacing back and forth in front of the wide window, the half-eaten carcass of my fourth donut lying forgotten on the ottoman tray.

There’s a huge part of me, a protective part, that toys with the idea of rescheduling the unveiling, but I don’t know that it would stop my family from descending on the proceeding like vultures. Nor do I want Stella thinking I lack confidence in the final product.

With no clear solution in sight, I duck into my second bedroom-turned-gym and start lifting weights. I throw myself into some pull-ups in the doorway and rush through crunches—because I hate them—in the hopes of blowing off this stress that’s plaguing me. But when no amount of exercise seems to loosen the tension in my mid-section, I finally relent, admitting to myself that there’s only one thing that will help.

The very second I give myself permission to beat off, I tent my sweatpants. My dick gets hard so instantaneously, I get dizzy on my march to the bathroom. Undressing quickly, I turn on the shower to hot and step in underneath the spray, reaching for the soap before I’m fully wet. Lathering my palm with suds. As soon as I close my eyes and press my forehead up against the misty tile of the shower wall, there’s Stella. Topless in those tights.

Pouting at me.

She thinks that glare makes her look so ferocious, but it’s the hottest damn thing east of the Mississippi. Makes me want to work to get her five percent crooked and one hundred percent perfect smile back. Makes me want to find out which buttons have to be pushed to erase the wariness in her eyes—and glaze them right over.

Damn, though. I hate that this feels like a violation of the rules. I’m doing something seedy when I’d rather be dating her out in the open. I want to pursue her the right way. Instead, here I am, gripping my cock and feeling my balls tighten with the ungodly mixture of lust and shame. “I’m sorry,” I whisper against the mouth of Imaginary Stella. “For what I’m about to do to you.” She’s sitting on my desk in the office—an ethics violation if I ever heard one—and she’s playing with her tits. Peeking up at me through her bangs, fingers teasing her nipples into little points.