Phoebe lay there for a while, feeling the heat of someone behind her baking her in the midsummer night, sweat beading on her skin. She shifted the arm away, but within a second, it was back, draping over her and the weight of the body now pressing down on her. “I need to use the bathroom,” she stated.
The arm remained still until she nudged again, and Theodore finally let go as he lay back, his voice heavy with alcohol, “Hurry back.”
In the bathroom, Phoebe sat on the closed toilet lid, hugging her knees and staring blankly into space.
Nothing had changed.
Theodore, drunk as before, still preferred to sleep close to her.
And yet, everything felt different.
Because she could no longer rest easy in his arms.
She didn’t know how long she had been sitting there until she felt completely chilled and returned to bed.
She climbed back in to find Theodore hugging her pillow, deeply asleep.
The corner of her mouth quirked.
It seemed he didn’t particularly need her to sleep with; he just needed something to hold. Whether it was her, a pillow, or someone else, it didn’t matter. Theodore woke up early and noticed something soft in his arms; it felt wrong, prompting him to open his eyes and discover he was cuddling a pillow. Tossing it aside, he sat up, ruffling his hair and feeling groggy.
The bedroom was empty except for him. He grabbed his phone and made a call; Phoebe answered promptly with a formal tone, “Good morning, Mr. Reynolds!” “Why didn’t you wake me up?” Theodore grumbled, licking his molars.
“Sorry, Mr. Reynolds, but I’m no longer your executive assistant and waking services are no longer provided. Unless there’s something else, I’m going to hang up,” Phoebe replied, strictly business. The line went dead, suddenly and deliberately. Fire surged through Theodore’s veins. With an abrupt twist, he lashed out at the pillow beside him. This woman’s got some nerve! Phoebe set her cell phone aside and eyed the bewildered John. “Where were we? Keep talking.”
John just stared, dumbfounded. Good Lord, what had he just overheard? No wonder the rumors swirled about Phoebe and Mr. Reynolds-her words hinted at a complexity he hadn’t expected. Ordering room service?
Phoebe tapped the pen cap against the desk, trying to focus.
John cleared his throat disrupt the silence. “Last night the second episode aired. Noah Myers’s live ratings soared, and we gained tens of thousands of Facebook fans. I think we’ve got a rising star on our hands.” “Mm,” Phoebe hummed thoughtfully, “head to HR and post some job listings. I want to handle the interviews personally.”
“Sure thing.”
John hadn’t been gone long when an uninvited guest marched into the office. Dressed in a suit as dark and somber as his mood, he was a presence that filled and darkened the space.
“Was this your doing?” Theodore loomed beside the desk, his nearly six-foot-three frame making the office feel cramped.
Phoebe remained seated. She tilted her head to meet his gaze. “I made some hangover soup. It’s warming on the stove. Did you have any?”
Theodore, who had expected her to snap at him and give him an excuse to wreak havoc in her new office, found his anger caught in limbo by her unexpected warmth.