Page 3 of Hired Help

Oh, ho. And wouldn’t he be delighted to know the sonnets my brain had written on how tastebuds should be disabled during sex?

“Besides, as long as there’s a hint of Brooke flavouring on my cum, I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

I screw my eyes shut, wishing I had the same control over my ears. “I need a shower.”

“No, you don’t,” he declares, clutching my waist as I try to escape. He traps me in place but, as a concession, leans over to grab some tissues so the wet spot doesn’t grow any wetter.

“You just had a shower,” he mumbles, tossing the sopping tissues into the bin.

Any irritation from discomfort is lost to the thrill of him taking charge. If there was a button for that during sex, my thumb would jab it enough to grow a callus.

He gathers me in his arms, tucking my head under his chin so it’s engulfed by his broad chest. The heavy thrum of his heartbeat reverberates across my cheek, sinking into my bones.

In my head, I’ve already lived a thousand lifetimes with him, growing up together, growing old together, raising children, cradling grandkids in our arms. Now, I indulge in the vision again. Each thump of his heart teleports me forward another year; another year of worshipping this boy I adore until my eyelids flutter open to drink in the sight of him.

His face after sex is relaxed and beautiful. Sleepy lids, full mouth, colour splashing high up his flat, wide cheekbones. Gorgeous. He could have any girl he wanted.

That pinch of anxiety nips at me again, growing into fear as it feeds. One day, hewillchoose another girl. One day he’ll come to his senses and realise he doesn’t need a lifelong sentence of blah-ness in bed.

If I can’t fix my problem, one day, despite his promises, he’ll leave.

“You want a snack or something?”

Another Harrison trait. Sex makes him ravenous. It also makes me smile that he’s the one acting as host. When Alicia told him on the first day to treat this place as his home, he took her at her word.

“A drink would be good,” I say. “There should be a bottle of lemonade in the fridge.”

“Coming right up.”

I prop myself on my elbow to treat myself to a front seat view as he stalks over to his clothes, his naked body always tantalising. He dances on one leg, then the other, to pull on his jeans, then drags on a shirt, dropping a kiss on my forehead before he heads out the door.

It’ll take him at least twenty minutes to come back. He’ll mosey down to the kitchen, having a conversation with my stepmother if she’s around, plus any staff he bumps into on the way. He’s so personable, any stranger is immediately seized upon as a potential friend.

Then there’ll be the deciding what to have, the preparation, the additional snacks in case his main snack doesn’t have staying power, pouring a glass for me and him, followed the trek back upstairs, once again involving conversations with anyone who crosses his path.

I smile at the thought, then slide off the edge of the bed.

He mightn’t think I need a shower, but he’s not the one with weird smelling fluids leaking from his orifices. I jump in before the water even heats, scrubbing and lathering every remnant of sex away, letting my mind drift to my boyfriend.

I never expected the joking prankster who first crossed my path to have the many dimensions Harrison does. One day, I’d attempted to tell Floss how I knew it wasn’t just some teenage fling, ready to burst apart the first time a new hookup drifted into view, but I don’t know that I convinced her.

A lot of it is unexplainable. All the thousand and one things that carve out his particular puzzle piece, and the joy at finding how my equal or opposite tastes fit snugly, each tab finding a matching blank.

I’m pulling on a sweatshirt to pair with my jeans, ready to go on a boyfriend hunt downstairs, when I hear Harrison on the landing.

Expecting his hands to be full, I open the door for him, and he storms into the room. His face is red, breathing heavy. His hands clench into fists.

“What’s wrong?” A jolt of adrenaline makes my nerves scream with useless energy. “What is it?”

He stares at me. No, heglaresat me, then moves to the wardrobe, grabs out his duffel bag, and begins shoving clothes into it.

“Harrison?” My voice sounds brittle even to my ears. “What is it?”

The two-week break hasn’t been long enough for him to need much, so his packing’s soon done. I sit on the bed, knees curled to my chest, heart thundering.

Something’s wrong, but what? He was only out of the room for fifteen minutes.

“Can I help?” I sweep his EarPods off the bedside cabinet and hold them out for him. He stares at my outstretched hand for so long I think he’s going to refuse, then he grabs them from me.

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