He Dropped His Secret Wife for His First Love, Then Couldn't Run His Own Life novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Twelve Missed Things

Day two without her, his office is falling apart. She hands over a binder and pushes him against the supply room shelves, touches him and leaves him unfinished. Blythe has invited her to the flagship dinner.

By nine o'clock the next morning I had sent my resignation, three pages of handover notes and a binder to the front desk.

The binder was the problem.

It was three inches thick and color-coded.

It held every contact, allergy, vendor, birthday and grudge that Weston Aldrich's life ran on.

I had meant to leave it with the concierge.

Instead I stood in the Aldrich Harbor Hotels executive suite on the fortieth floor with the binder in my arms, because the receptionist had told me, in a whisper, that I should see it.

I saw it.

Phones rang unanswered on every desk.

A junior in a gray suit was crying quietly into a printout.

Through the glass wall of Weston's office I could see him pacing, tie crooked, a phone against each ear.

"Twelve things," the receptionist whispered. "Twelve things have gone wrong since eight."

"What things?"

"The chef doesn't know the menu for Friday."

"His mother's cardiologist called twice."

"Nobody knows where the Hollis contract is."

"And the board thinks the meeting is at nine."

I knew where the Hollis contract was.

It was in the green folder, behind tab four, in the binder I was holding.

I crossed the floor and pushed open his door.

Weston turned, and the two phones lowered, and the dark circles under his eyes were violet.

"You came back."

"I came to drop this off."

I set the binder on his desk.

It landed with a thud.

"Hollis is tab four. Your mother's cardiologist wants her pills counted on Sunday, not Monday."

"The chef needs the menu by ten, and he likes it when you ask about his daughter."

"Lily."

"The board meeting is at ten. Not nine. Do you want me to write that down for you?"

He crossed the office.

I had expected anger, or an apology, or the cool voice he used for firing people.

I had not expected him to take the binder off the desk, drop it on the floor, and walk me backward through the connecting door into the supply room.

The door slammed.

It was a narrow room lined with shelves of paper and toner and envelopes, and a single bulb swung overhead.

My shoulders hit a rack, and he caged me there with a hand on either side of my head.

"Don't," I said. "I'm not here for this."

"I haven't slept."

"That's not my problem."

"I know." His voice was low and ragged. "I know it isn't."

He didn't touch me.

His hands stayed on the shelf, white at the knuckles, and his breathing was loud in the small space.

I looked at his mouth, at the cut I'd given him, scabbed dark.

I thought about the night before, about his wrists red from the tie and the sound he'd made when I stopped.

I thought, I could stop this.

Instead I reversed us.

I put both palms on his chest and shoved.

He went back against the opposite shelf.

A box of staples spilled to the floor.

"Hands on the shelf," I said. "Don't move them."

His eyes went black.

He lifted his arms and wrapped his fingers around the metal edge above his head.

I stepped in.

I slid one hand down his stomach, over the fine wool of his waistcoat, and flicked open his belt.

"Lily," he breathed. "Anyone could walk in."

"Then be quiet."

I worked his zipper down and slipped my hand into his boxers and closed my fingers around him.

He was already thick and hot, and he jerked in my grip.

His head dropped back against the shelf.

"Oh, God."

I stroked him slowly, base to head, my thumb sweeping the wet from the tip and dragging it down him in a long slick line.

He bit his own lip and the scab broke.

I watched the red well up, and I kissed it, once, and licked the copper from my mouth.

He groaned deep in his chest, a sound that went straight between my legs.

"Say my name," I said.

"Lily."

"Again."

"Lily, Lily, please..."

I quickened my hand, tight and sure, and he thrust into my fist with his arms shaking over his head.

I had learned him over three years.

I knew the spot under the crown that made his knees give.

I knew the twist at the top of the stroke that made him curse in a whisper.

I used every bit of it, and his whole body strained toward the edge.

"I'm close," he said. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

Outside the door, a woman's heels clicked across the carpet, passing, and a voice said, "Where is he?"

Weston froze.

I didn't.

I kept my hand moving, gentle now, torturous, and his eyes found mine, wide and wild.

The heels stopped at the door.

A shadow fell across the crack.

My heart beat in my throat, and I leaned up to his ear.

"If you make a sound," I whispered, "I'll let go."

He clenched his teeth so hard I heard them.

The shadow moved, and the heels clicked away.

I waited until the footsteps faded.

Then I let go.

I took my hand out of his boxers, wiped it on a stack of clean envelopes, and stepped back.

He made a noise, and his hips pushed at empty air.

"Lily," he said. "You can't."

"I can."

"I'm begging."

"I know."

I picked up the box of staples and set it on the shelf.

He was shaking, hard and flushed and wrecked, with his belt hanging open.

I could have finished him in a few strokes.

I wanted to, badly.

But I'd spent three years being the one who took care of everything.

I wanted him to carry this one out of the room with him.

I opened the door a crack and looked out.

The hall was empty.

"Zip up," I said. "The board is at ten."

"You're a cruel woman."

"I learned from the best."

I left him there and went down the hall, and the receptionist lifted her head.

"Miss Tennant," she said. "Ms. Carrington's assistant called the front desk. There's an invitation."

She held out a cream envelope.

I slid a thumbnail under the flap.

The card was thick, engraved and perfumed.

It said that Ms. Blythe Carrington cordially requested the pleasure of Miss Lily Tennant, former assistant, at the Aldrich Harbor Friday dinner.

Under the printed lines, in a looping hand, someone had written: Do come. We'd love to thank you in person.

I read it twice.

Behind me the supply room door opened, and Weston came out.

He read the card over my shoulder.

His face went hard.

"I'll tell her you're not coming."

"No," I said. "I'll be there."

I folded the card into my pocket.

"Wear green," he said, very low.

I didn't look at him.

"I always do."

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