“You don’t have to stay,” James says. He joins me at the window, standing next to me, and I stare at his reflection in the glass.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t care,” he says, shrugging, but I don’t believe him. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the unusual crack in his voice. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t ordered me out yet. Maybe it’s the way he’s standing, shoulders slumped, head down. Or maybe…maybe it’s because I don’t want to leave yet.
“You got anything to drink?” I ask, clarifying straight after. “Pop, I mean.”
“There’re some cans of Coke in the fridge.”
In the large U-shaped kitchen, I pluck two cans from the American style fridge-freezer. I also notice a selection of Sainsbury’s branded food and I exhale a short, quiet laugh. Of course Mr Moneybags shops at Sainsbury’s. When I turn around, I notice James is missing. My brow furrows, and suddenly I feel very strange standing, alone, in my boss’ flashy penthouse. Feeling awkward, I walk over to the pristine white sofa and take a seat, setting the cans down on the glass table in front of me. I look around and find everything is so clinical. There are no clues to who James Holden is. Nothing personal. No photos, books, DVD’s. It disappoints me.
Is he coming back? He’s not on the balcony, and all the doors down the hall are closed. Briefly, I contemplate looking for him but I have a nervous feeling in my gut. It seems stupid to wait here indefinitely, so I decide to give him ten minutes to reappear and then I’ll leave.
Just as I’m about to stand and walk out, I hear footsteps approaching. I turn my head and see James walking towards me. He looks freshly showered, his hair damp, and is dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him before in track-pants and a white vest. The thin material clings to his muscles and it’s the first time I’ve noticed just how fit he is. I try not to get hard, but my damn dick won’t listen to me.
He sits right next to me and my gaze won’t leave his sculpted arms. That Japanese art does extend right up to his shoulder, the swirling cherry blossoms winding around his defined biceps. The top of his other arm is inked, too, with some kind of mountain landscape, branches and floating leaves. He’s stunning.
In an effort to get my errant dick to calm down, I look away and sip on my Coke. I can’t see him, and we don’t speak, but I can feel his presence throughout my whole body.
“How’s your wrist?” I know it isn’t broken because he’s not wearing a cast, but I can’t think of anything else to say.
He holds it up and flexes it around in a circle. “Just a little swollen.”
I nod, but he doesn’t see because he’s staring at the coffee table. “And your head?”
He shrugs. “Couple of stitches.”
I sigh with an emotion I don’t even recognise. “What happened, James?”
He turns and looks at me through narrowed eyes, his gaze heavy with burden. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.”
Is it? The intensity of his stare makes my breath hitch and I can’t look away.
After what seems like forever but not nearly long enough, he turns his head away again. “I was drunk,” he says.
“Where were your friends?”
He scoffs like I’ve said something amusing, but I’m certain I remember his brother saying he was celebrating his birthday with friends. “I don’t do friends.”
“Isn’t that…” I trail off, searching for the right word. Sad, boring… “Lonely?”
“I prefer being alone. It’s better that way.”
He’s always so cryptic, so confusing. I wonder if he does it on purpose, whether he wants me to probe further, or if it’s his way of telling me to mind my own business.
“I think I’d go crazy being alone all the time. I’d be lost without Tess.”
“She’s the girl I saw you with in the village?”
“Yeah. She’s my best friend.”
“How stereotypical of you,” he says, his tone the lightest I’ve heard all night.
“Not really. It’s not like we sit up all night discussing fashion and guy’s arses…not when she’s more interested in football and girls.”
“You don’t like football?”
“I like the shorts. My interest stops there.”
James smiles, only a little, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes me think it’s genuine. “So, what do you like to do when you are alone?”
I say the first things that come into my head. “I listen to music, write, read, binge on Netflix.”
“What kind of books do you enjoy?”
Wow. We appear to be having an actual, two sided conversation. Not just an exchange of innuendos and insults.
“Anything. Everything. I have my favourites – Andrea Moore, JD Simmons, Paul L McLean, but I like to try unknowns, too.”
“You like JD Simmons?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve read every one of his. I have to say, when I handed you his contract I had a bit of a moment. Maybe I’ll bump into him one day when he comes into the building.” Not that I’d know who he was. I stalk all of my favourite authors online but if JD Simmons owns any social media accounts, I haven’t been able to find them yet. Guess he doesn’t need them. Self-promotion isn’t necessary when your name alone is enough to propel you onto the bestseller lists.
“He never comes into the office,” James says, making me sag in disappointment.
“But you’ve met him I assume?”
“Yes.” A smug grin twists his lips and I suspect he’s trying to make me jealous.
It works. “Well if you ever need an assistant next time you have a meeting, maybe give me a shout.” Damn, just the idea makes me giddy. My favourite writers are like royalty to me. Rock stars. Although I know it’s not likely to happen, the thought of getting to meet one of my idols was one of the many driving forces behind my application to Holden House.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” he replies, but something in his expression makes me think he’s placating me. “So why marketing? With your passion for reading, I think you’d be better suited to submissions.”