Page 31 of Every Silent Lie

“You. Here. In my . . . space.” I toss my hair dryer onto my bed, and it bounces a few times, before it gets lost in the strewn covers.

“Actually,” he whispers, his big body turning slowly into me. “I don’t think it’s enough.” His exhales roll over my exposed skin like delicate licks of a cool breeze on an unbearably hot day. Relief. Our gazes collide, and a swirl of fire stares back at me. And then his lips are creeping closer. My chest swells as I suck air deep into my lungs. “Goodnight, Camryn,” he breathes across my mouth, diverting his lips to my cheek and kissing it softly.

Such a small thing.

And yet the impact sends my entire world spinning so fast, everything’s suddenly a blur, and all I can hear is my mind yelling at me to embrace this unexpected gift. He saturates my senses. With just a kiss on my cheek. His heady, musky but clean scent bombards my nose, his rough stubble scraping my freshly washed face. Every nerve seems to spark all at once, reminding me I’m alive. And in this moment, alive feels good.

“Goodnight,” I murmur as he breaks away, so slowly, I’m sure I could lose my mind if he doesn’t free me of every beautiful, intoxicating piece of him. Leaving me an inert, breathless statue in my bedroom, he walks out, and a few moments later I hear the door close quietly behind him. My hand lifts to my face where he kissed me. To the small cut.

It doesn’t sting anymore.

Gazing around the bedroom, I take in the jumble sale before me. It does matter. I matter. This isn’t how I want this room to be.

So I slowly start to collect up all the strewn clothes and hang them on the rail.

December 8th

A string of bunting attacks me as I step off the elevator the next morning, my sight robbed from me by a mass of swinging elves in my face, the cord they’re dangling from all caught around my head. My knee-jerk reaction to rip them all off nearly gets the better of me, my hands flexing and fisting as a collection of gasps ring out and then . . . silence. My mind’s eye gives me a clear vision of Crystal staring in horror, wondering why of all the people in this office who could have exited the elevator at this very moment, it was me.

Reaching up to my face, I calmly pull the elves away, finding her. She’s still on the stepladder, one end of the bunting hanging limply from her grasp. “Let me help you,” she blurts out, scrambling down and rushing to me as I try unsuccessfully to unravel the string.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, now tied up around the waist. “There’s not enough decorations splattered all over the place already?” The coiled string falls to my knees. If I try to walk, I’ll fall flat on my bloody face. “You’ll have to cut it.”

“Cut it?”

“Yes, cut it.”

“But then it’ll be ruined,” she says, crouching in front of me, frantically trying to unravel the knots. “Just give me a minute.”

“I don’t have a minute, Crystal, I have to dial in on a call.”

“This moment?”

I look around, spotting Debbie coming this way, her face a picture of surprise and horror at the sight of me mummified by bunting. “Scissors,” I bark, making her jump before she dashes into the nearest office and appears a moment later brandishing a pair.

“No, it’s okay, I’ve nearly got it,” Crystal says from the floor, her face up close to my knees as she picks at the string.

Debbie passes the scissors, and I dip, snipping my way through the bunting. It falls to the floor in various pieces. “There.” A few bits dangle from my legs, and I reach down as I stride on, pulling them all off and dropping them, leaving a trail of broken elves in my wake. “Can I get an espresso?” I call back, pushing into my office. As I turn to close the door, Thomas appears, all smiles. I’ve worked for this guy long enough to know what I’m looking at. He’s nervous. His smile twitches when he’s nervous. “What is it?” I ask.

“Tonight. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“No, Thomas, because you had Debbie remind me numerous times.” Fuck, why did I agree to go, especially on a Friday? And, fuck, fuck, fuck, I have nothing to wear.

“Okay, was just checking.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

“Remind me where.”

“The Dorchester.”

“Got it.” I go to shut the door, but he puts his hand out, stepping forward, albeit apprehensively. “What now?”

“The dress code?—”

“Is glam for glamorous, I know.”