Page 27 of Let It Be Me
I snort into the phone at her optimism. “Never gonna happen. Love you.”
“Love you,” she says and then hangs up.
Walking over to my computer, I pull up my calendar where I have all of my clients schedules laid out. None of them have anything pressing that I can’t handle from home. Just a few emails and a phone conference. Decision made, I pack up my things and stop by Jeff’s office before leaving.
Knocking on his office door, I pop in. “Hey, I’m gonna do some admin work from home.”
He looks up from his laptop. “Okay. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I have to work through something that I can't do here,” my tone is even as I explain it to him.
“Why don’t you just work from home the rest of the week?”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he tells me and surveys me carefully. I hope he comes up empty. “Are you sure everything is okay?” Jeff asks me again.
No.“It will be.” I say and leave him with a parting smile.
My to-dolist is down to this final task. I look over the contract one last time and fire off the email to Riley. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of a contract before I opened my big mouth. I’m meticulous in my job. Contracts make me horny. But making this sporadic deal with him scrambled all rational parts of my brain. My email pings with a check-in from Jeff and soon I’m back in the trenches of brand negotiations and mapping out my travel schedule for the next year.
I’m walking out of my home office an hour later when I hear the rumble of a motorcycle echoing down my street. I don’t think much of it as my neighbors drive all sorts of cars. But it’s my doorbell ringing that halts me in my trek to the kitchen and I freeze like a deer in headlights. I could be a sensible adult and hide. Because I’m not expecting anyone or a delivery from one of my many late night shopping excursions. And I’m a millennial who doesn’t answer the door for anyone she’s not expecting. The doorbell rings again followed by a knock on the door and I cautiously make my way to the door. Checking the peephole, I see Riley on my front stoop with a helmet in his hand.
“Hey.” I say after whipping the door open.
The late September air chills me, but my body burns as his eyes track over my body from my scrunchy sock-covered feet to my shorts that barely cover anything to my exposed midriff to the messy bun and finally meeting my eyes. In myhide-from-the-doorbell panic, I forgot I was dressed in clothes not appropriate to answer the door in.
“Hi,” Riley finally says after a hard swallow.
“Is there a reason you’re at my house?” He only dropped me off at home once, and that was at night, so his memory is impressive.
“Yes. No. Fuck. I got your email while I was at a pitstop and figured it would just be faster if I read and signed it in person,” he explains. “I went to your office, but they said you went home for the day. So I came here.”
“Huh. Okay, then. Come in.” I hold the door open wider and he steps inside. He’s the first man in my house since Paul and it’s doing trippy things to me.
“Nice house.” Riley says after I shut the door.
“Thanks. The contract is in my office. Follow me.” I hurry up the stairs and listen as Riley sets his helmet on the floor and toes off his boots, with the unexpected soft stomping as he trails up after me.
My office is as feminine and moody as you can get while still looking professional. A huge light oak desk sits in the middle of the room with an area rug underneath to hide the cords. I have two matching oak bookshelves flanking me with the window to the right of my desk that overlooks the backyard. The walls are covered in a dark floral print wallpaper that makes the space dramatic and romantic. I completed the space with a rust colored loveseat with deep set cushions on the opposite wall with a couple of throw pillows and a blanket.
Riley whistles when he completes his perusal of my space. “Why would you ever work in an office?”
“I need to get out of the house sometime,” I tell him with a smile and pull up the contract. “Here. You can read through and then use the trackpad to sign.”
Riley takes the seat I vacated and looks over the contract. I curl up on the love seat couch that’s on the opposite wall and scroll on my phone. I catch up on social media posts and respond to texts while he reads the contract I’ve drafted up.
The contract is straight forward.
1. PDA in public, but we keep it to a minimum
2. We don’t launch our relationship on social media since this is all a facade
3. No falling in love
The last one is for both our benefits. But six months should be enough time to fake it til we make it. And hopefully by the end, the public is no longer focusing on who he’s dating.
“Done,” Riley says.
