I grab my cell phone from the inside pocket of my suit jacket, then remove my jacket and hang it on the hook of my office door. I glance at the screen and see the missed text from Rachel. Disappointed, but I understand. Drive safe. Want me to save dinner for you? I reread the earlier text asking if I fancied a date tonight and the response I’d sent just before my meeting. Was going to call, babe. Carson wants to take a run out to the Hewitt project. He’s worried about the deadline. You know the drive. I could be pretty late. Rain check?
It’s not exactly a lie. Carson wants me to check on the project today because we’re a week behind schedule. However, my partner has a dinner event with some local muckety-mucks, so he will not be joining me.
I sit at my desk and wake my computer. The machine whirs to life, and the familiar screen saver materializes on the monitor. A Davenport family selfie Rachel took during a trip to the mall over the holidays. Our faces are smashed together, and we’re laughing.
Through my office window, I see Greta sashaying to her desk. She cocks her head to the side and peers at me, catching my stare. She winks, then shakes her mane flirtatiously and sits down. A moment later, Henry Beecham, our bookkeeper, approaches her with a file folder and sets it down on her desk. I watch them interact for a few seconds. Greta is completely professional, no winks or grins or coquettish mannerisms of any kind, and I am relieved that she reserves that behavior for me alone. Relieved and ashamed. Ashamed that I am relieved.
I manage to force her and Rachel—because thoughts of Rachel are always intertwined with thoughts of Greta—from my mind in order to focus on my work. I open a current file, which wipes the family selfie away and replaces it with digital schematics. I’m working on a 3-D rendering for a restaurant just off I-5. My father would have hated this software program, which allows me to move walls and windows and alter the structural elements with a few taps on the keyboard. Dad was old-school all the way, and his favorite part of the business was making models. But I have fully embraced the digital world and welcome any tool that will streamline my workload. Within minutes, I’m happily immersed in my design.
As usual, I lose track of time. I’m just saving my changes when I hear a knock. Greta stands at the open office door and holds up a large paper sack. I glance at the clock on my computer, then through my window to see that the rest of the office is empty. Everyone is already at lunch.
“Should I come back? I can stick these in the fridge.”
“No,” I tell her. “Your timing’s perfect.”
She grins at me. “Always has been.”
She walks to my desk and sets the sack down, then takes a minute to shuffle some of my papers out of the way. Her fingers are long, the nails medium length and painted coral red, and for a brief moment, I imagine them raking across my skin. I stifle the thought quickly, before it can betray me. I close the restaurant file, and Rachel’s and the kids’ faces reappear. Rachel’s smile looks accusing. I put the computer to sleep as Greta sets out the food. She grabs the chair across from me and scoots it next to the desk, then sits.
“Italian combo, the works,” she announces as I unwrap the sub from its parchment paper encasement. “And don’t worry.” She grins. “I’ve got Altoids in my desk.”
“You think of everything,” I tell her as I take a bite.
“Yes. I have.”
I look at her. She is watching me closely, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“You were great this morning,” she says. “Your enthusiasm is really contagious. I could tell by their faces. Jacobs and Talbot could actually see your vision.”
“The blueprints and 3-D rendering help.”
She shakes her head and looks down at her own sandwich, tuna on whole wheat. She picks at the crust. “No. Anyone can show a rendering. It’s still just a blank image. The way you bring the image to life, as if it already exists in reality—I mean, how you have them close their eyes and imagine walking through the lobby and taking in all the details, the floors and walls and windows, how the sun will light the space at various times of the day. You’re so good, Samuel.”
I feel a tightening in my chest. “Thanks, Greta. I appreciate that.”
“I’m so glad you took a chance on me. I’m learning so much. And I . . . Well, you know how I feel.”
My eyes meet hers. “You have become completely invaluable to me, too, Greta.”
She grins. “Good.” She glances out the office window to the empty room beyond, then slowly places her hand over mine. Her fingertips softly stroke my flesh. “I wouldn’t want to be replaceable.”
“That could never happen.”
“I’m glad.”
My skin has grown hot where her hand lies, and my dick is twitching. A vision slams into my mind, of me rushing to her, lifting her out of the chair, turning her and bending her over the desk, pushing up her skirt and yanking down her panties—red lace, I’m guessing—and shoving my stiff erection deep inside her.
I use the pretense of taking another bite of my sandwich to pull my hand away. She smiles and lifts her sandwich, nibbles daintily at the edge of it, then sets it back down. Rachel eats with gusto, practically inhaling her food. Her zest for eating was something that attracted me when we first started dating. Now, I find it humorous and endearing.
“Still planning on going out to the Hewitt site this afternoon?” Greta asks, pulling my thoughts away from Rachel. I nod and try to chew my mouthful politely. “Still want me to come with you?”
She remembers the invitation I’d thrown out yesterday. I said it would be a good learning experience for her, but now I realize it was a bad idea. I should not be alone with this woman outside the office. Here, it’s safe. We must adhere to the rules of decorum. We can flirt and wink and place our hands over each other’s hands and not worry that it will lead anywhere. But in the outside world, alone, with miles of land between us and anyone who might notice or care . . . anything might happen.
Oh, who am I kidding? Certainly not myself. That situation is exactly why I invited her. To find out, once and for all, what this is between us.
It’s a bad idea. And still, my heart beats rapidly in my chest with the knowledge that she will be joining me.
“Absolutely,” I say, but my inner voice is screaming at me. I listen to it. “But look, Greta,” I say. “It’s Friday night. You shouldn’t be working. You should be out on a date or drinking with friends. You shouldn’t be with your middle-aged boss checking on a project. Really.”
Her eyelashes flutter, and her lips turn down. “I thought you wanted me to come.”
“I do. It’s a long drive, and the company would be appreciated.” I try to sound professional. It’s bullshit. “And I think it would be good for you to see the project at this stage. But you’re young, Greta. You should be out having fun on a Friday night. With people your age.”
She looks at me straight on. “I don’t like people my age,” she says. “I never have.”
“Well, then . . .” I don’t know what to say. Thankfully, I see Carson push through the front door. A moment later, he appears at my office.
Carson turns fifty in two months. His hair is thinning on top, and his jowls have started to succumb to gravity, but his youthful energy is a counterbalance to his looks.