Page 15 of A is for Aftercare

He scurries back to his desk. I pick up the mug and cradle it as I listen to the soft whir of his computer turning on.

“The password is Dougie2010,” I tell him.

He chuckles.

“Is something funny?”

“That’s the yearDougie Clarke and the Masked Banditwas released. You might want a more secure password.”

“Change it to whatever you want. It’s your computer.” For as long as he lasts anyway.

“I like the password. I love the book too.”

“You talk too much.”

“Sorry, sir.”

The trouble is, I like the sound of his voice too much. His accent is definitely southern English, with each letter enunciated clearly. I could listen to him speak all day.

I sip my coffee, wondering if it’s too risky to pull up Jack and Kaleb’s book. They’re still in the middle of having sex against that goddamn tree in the jungle. Or I could open Archer and the Bear and sneak some words in on my naughty project.

What the fuck am I thinking? While Archie is in the room, theonlybook I can work on is Orion fucking King. One way or another, I have to finish this damn novel. Sexy words will have to wait until after hours when Archie has gone home.

* * *

“Lunch is ready,” Archie says softly, almost timidly.

I pat my desk, but food doesn’t miraculously appear.

“Wouldn’t you rather eat in the kitchen?”

“No. I’ve got to write.”

Archie chuckles.

“What?” I snap.

“I didn’t hear much writing happening this morning.”

I’m amazed he had the balls to call me on my procrastination.

“A break away from the screen would do you some good,” he says.

I sigh. “Aye, maybe you’re right.”

I stand and follow him through to the kitchen. I’m expecting sandwiches—two slices of bread with cheese or a slab of meat slapped in the middle—but he’s actually gone to the trouble of making something that looks healthy.

“What is it?” I ask as I sit.

“Food?”

I glare at him. It’s the first time I’ve looked at him since I let him in this morning. Briefly our gazes collide. His cheeks become pink, and he lowers his gaze. His teeth rake over his lower lip ever so slightly. I tell my writer’s brain to switch the fuck off as it tells me what it would mean if I was writing that description. It would mean Archie was interested in me, which of course he isn’t.

“Avocado toast with spinach, eggs, and tomato,” he says.

It’s an open sandwich, so I opt to use the knife and fork he’s put out for me. I don’t want to look like a slob in front of my PA.

“You’re struggling to write?” he asks.