Page 32 of Doughn't Let Me Go

I could breathe again.

The woman didn’t give me much information on the man, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth and go prying when he clearly wanted to keep his private life just that—private. If it was meant to be, it was meant to be. I’d see that for myself during the interview.

I thought it was an odd request when she emailed earlier this week asking me to select the location where I’d like the interview conducted, but I figured her wealthy employer was just eccentric.

Again, gift horse.

I picked Slice because I feel comfortable there, and because if the interview went south, I could drown myself in cheap pizza and wouldn’t even have to leave the booth to do it.

I even saved a few extra bucks this week just in case.

“Dory…Doris…”

He tests my full name on his lips, and for the first time in my life, I don’t hate the moniker my mother cursed me with.

The warmth that spreads through me fuels my anger.

“What can we possibly talk about, Porter?” I shout. “The fact that I felt you inside me last night and this morning you’re supposed to be interviewing me for a job that could have changed my pathetic excuse of a life? Is that what you want to discuss? That the break I’ve been needing was finally within reach and now it’s further away than ever?” I yank my wrist from his grip, unable to stand him touching me right now. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s a whole lot to talk about here, Dory.”

I hate the way his tongue slides over my name with familiarity. With heat. With knowing.

It especially pisses me off given our circumstance.

“His name is James,” says the woman on the other end of the line. I’ve already forgotten her name, too excited about this opportunity. “James Jones.”

“James Jones. That’s easy to remember.”

“Is your name even Porter?” I ask him.

His head whips back, surprised. “Of course it is. Why would I lie about that?”

“That’s not what your assistant said. I was supposed to be meeting a James.”

His hand comes up and he pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. I’ve come to recognize it as something he does when he’s frustrated, like pinching himself draws him back into the moment he’d rather run away from. “James is my first name. It was my father’s name too. I hate it and never go by it.”

“You might want to tell your assistant to not give it out, then.”

“She does it to protect me.”

“Because you’re a multimillionaire.”

It’s not a statement, more of an accusation. Even I can hear the difference.

He grimaces, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, Dory. I’m so fucking sorry.”

His voice is raw. Hurt. Sad.

He’s apologizing for last night, and we both know it.

He’s regretting it as much as I am.

There’s no way I could work for him now. We’ve seen each other naked. Adults or not, there’s a line you don’t cross. You don’t sleep with the help.

“Listen—”

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