Page 38 of Even Robots Die
Florentine
Idon’t know what to think about what just happened.
The man has been nothing but insufferable since he decided I would be the one helping him and now he’s bringing me coffee and cake?
Am I really awake or did I just dream that?
Not that it would be considered a good dream, but it’s not a nightmare either.
And since I’m still standing with the tray in my hands, I can definitely say that it’s not a dream.
And now I’m lost.
First, it was him stroking my hand earlier, and now this?
What am I supposed to think now?
It’s not helping. It’s not helping at all.
I much prefer when he’s an asshole. At least when he’s an asshole, I can keep believing I’m a prisoner here—even if I’m being paid for my work—and I can forget how handsome the bastard is.
This—him being nice—is throwing me off.
I walk back to my desk with the coffee and cake and get back to work. But my mind keeps spinning and I hate that the only thing on repeat is ‘why on earth did he bring me a midnight snack?’
In the end, I work for another hour and then give up.
I was already tired before Brice came knocking on the lab door, but the fatigue coupled with the sweet gesture—that I still can’t explain—completely screwed with my focus and all I can see now are letters and numbers that don’t make any sense whatsoever.
I might as well get some sleep.
I wrap my blanket tighter around me and turn off the holo-puter before walking back to my room.
I’m glad I took my shower before changing into my pajamas, because I don’t have any strength left. I still manage to find a modicum of willpower to brush my teeth and then I crash on my bed without even getting under the sheet. I’m still wrapped in my blanket, so it’s not like I need the sheet, anyway.
Then I completely black out.
Except I don’t.
Not really.
There’s a knock at my door and I think the sound was more to warn me that he was coming in than for me to go open the door, because Brice comes in before even waiting for my answer.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he tells me.
I sit on my bed, with the blanket pooling around my hips as he approaches me.
He’s eating me with his eyes like he can’t get enough of me.
“What? What are you doing in my room?” I ask, my mind still halfway to dreamland.
“Shh,” he answers and kneels at the side of my bed, right between my open legs.
How did I end up like this?
“No. No ‘shh’,” I bite back. “You’re mean to me all the time. It’s like a game to you. I don’t like you.”
“Is this the kind of lie that helps you sleep at night?” he asks. “I see you looking at me when you think I’m not watching. I know you felt the spark between us earlier today too …”
