Page 54 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

When Gibson comes back to Gramercy, he’s carrying a bag of groceries, which is my first hint that we won’t be going out for dinner. But since I’ve never seen him carrying groceries before, I get caught up thinking about how I would feel if we were strangers, and I ran into him wandering the aisles at Whole Foods. If he happened to give me that smirk. The thought has my cheeks burning.

He texts me as I’m handing over the building to Teddy.

Gibson

Meet me on the roof at seven if that works for you.

Seven works.

He likes my response with a thumbs up. Once I’ve given my comprehensive report, I head down to my apartment to let my anxiety have its way with me. With any luck, by seven, it’ll work its way out, and I’ll be too exhausted to worry anymore. I do some push-ups, squats and a few biceps curls. I take a shower. Ijerk off in the shower. I have two shots of tequila, then brush my teeth.

I go through about six different outfits before I settle on the first thing I tried on—a slim fitting blue button down and charcoal slacks. The roof doesn’t require formal attire, but since this is a business meeting, I figure I should look the part of someone befitting the job I’m planning to accept.

Once my hair is thick with product and pushed off my face, I’m no less anxious than I was to begin with, although, thanks to the tequila, it feels more like excitement than fear.

The only other time I’ve been to the Gramercy rooftop was when I was hired, and Gibson gave me the tour. It’s for general use, so no one has private access to it. The penthouse terraces offer a roof-like experience, so the rest of the residents get to enjoy this smaller area as they like. Since it’s late May and the weather is great, a group of about a dozen people are grilling on one end, taking up some of the tables and chairs. One older woman is face down with her bikini top undone on a flattened lounger. She’s sound asleep.

Gibson is in the other corner at a table set for two. A bottle of champagne is chilling on ice, and there are two heaping plates of Greek salad topped with grilled chicken.

He rises as I approach the table and pulls out my chair for me. “Before you get too impressed,” he says, “I didn’t make any of this, but I did buy it. That counts, right?”

“Do you cook?”

“Minimally,” he says as I take my seat, and he returns to his. “My mother never taught me, and Marianne used to take care of all of it.”

“And now?” I ask.

“Now, we have a chef who comes every evening and makes all our meals. Except on Sundays where we have to fend for ourselves.”

“The chef didn’t make this?”

“Whole Foods made this. Our chef doesn’t arrive until six, and I didn’t want to rush her.”

“So, what you’re saying is you’re a good boss to everyone you employ,” I say while he pours me a flute of champagne.

“I do my best.”

“Hours are flexible?”

“For you?” he says. “Absolutely.”

I fold my hands on the table. “Tell me your expectations.”

“Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Friday evenings. Eight to five, but four to nine on Fridays.”

“Why evenings Fridays?” I ask.

“Weekly wrap up and Monday planning,” he says.

“Wouldn’t that be better accomplished on Sunday afternoon?”

Gibson narrows his gaze. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about working weekends.”

“How do you feel about it?” I ask.

“Sunday afternoon is fine,” he says easily. “One to five?”

“Perfect.”

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