Chapter Nine
Cris
My alarm pings, reminding me it’s nearly five o’clock—the end of the workday. Some days it would also signify the beginning of a workout, but Benji lifted weights at lunch while I went for a quick walk around the neighborhood.
I love walking in his neighborhood. The gated community is called Three Palms. There are no palm trees in Ohio, but the name doesn’t take away from the beauty of the immaculate houses and peaceful setting. While I walked I listened to a podcast rather than turning over what we talked about earlier. When I came back to my desk I was hyperaware of the clock ticking the minutes away, eating up what was left of the hours of the day.
And here we are at day’s end. That was fast.
I’m sending one last email when he appears in my doorway. My office is connected to his expansive one by a short hallway and outfitted with a white French door I never bother closing. He leans on the jamb, and I freeze, my fingers prone on the keyboard as I admire the long line of his body.
“Workday is over,” he states.
My heart hits my throat.
“Looks that way,” I say. Half of me is worried he’s going to walk in and take care of me right here at my desk, and the other half of me is worried he’s changed his mind and isn’t interested after all. Neither halves are satisfied when he says something I didn’t anticipate.
“I made dinner reservations for seven o’clock tonight.”
“For…?”
“Are you serious?” When I don’t answer his question he adds, “For us.”
For us.
“You didn’t think I was gonna come in here and take your pants off at your desk, did you?”
I laugh. A little too long and a little too loud. I pull myself together enough to say, “Someone very wise and experienced told me I should never let my date pick the restaurant.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, because you have been dating idiots. I know exactly what I’m doing. And I know how you like to be treated. Isn’t that what you’re counting on?”
There’s something sweet about him knowing me. And how he’s taking his knowledge and funneling it into treating me well. I haven’t been the recipient of many selfless acts in my lifetime.
“I’m not counting on anything,” I say. “I’m winging it. Totally and completely at your mercy.” It was supposed to be a joke, but his brow darkens as he pushes off the doorframe. He stalks to my desk, all potent, masculine energy, and bends down in front of my chair. He sets his palms on my knees and turns my chair to face him. His face is chest-high to me, his golden eyes peering up beneath thick, dark eyelashes. I can’t think of a single reason why we should go to dinner when we could do what I have wanted for as long as I can remember.
“You’re not at anyone’s mercy, Cris,” he reminds me. “Always remember that. What you’re asking for is not out of the ordinary. It’s not ridiculous. It’s nothing to be ashamed about. And it’s definitely not something you should let happen without your express permission.”
“I know. But you’re…you.”
“I am me. And you know you can trust me. I’m glad you know that. What I need you to remember is that with this physical stuff comes great responsibility on the part of the other person. He has to please you. He has to be good to you. He has to put you first. If he doesn’t, move on. Every time.”
I think of the experience Benji has had. He has treated quite a few women to his goodness, his way of pleasing. He’s no doubt put them first. I have seen it time and again when I’m at professional functions and he brings a date. Especially when he was seeing Trish last year. Whenever she was around, it was like there was no one else in the room. His focus was on her. I figure he’s always treated women well. In or out of bed.
“What if he does all of those things and leaves anyway?” I realize how transparent my question is the second I ask it. I’m not talking about a mysterious stranger from the dating app. I’m talking about Benji. He’s the one who’s going to leave. Yes, he’ll still be my friend and we will work together afterward. But we’re not going to be showing up hand in hand at family functions. We’re not going to be holding each other on the dance floor at Archer’s newest nightclub. That’s not what this is about.
“If he leaves, he’s a moron. You’re a keeper.”
I don’t know what comes over me, whether it’s his proximity, the open, kind way he’s watching me, or the compliments he’s laid at my feet, but next I surprise both of us.
Placing my palms on either side of his face, I bend and touch my lips to his.
* * *
Benji
Her lips. Her soft, soft lips.
I thought I exaggerated in my mind how soft those lips were, but as they move gently along mine, I realize I didn’t exaggerate at all.