Page 21 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Twenty-One

HOLLY

I’ve lost my fucking mind. I’m insane . I’ve just admitted to my boss that his book turned me on, and I can’t even look at him straight without thinking about him doing all of those things to me!

…Yeah. I’ve truly fucking lost it.

Oh god, say something please. Why is he staring at me like that? Why is his body so frozen, and stiff? “Holly…” What?

Did he just say my name?

Cyrus Stone—my incredibly hot boss, just said my name, and now I can’t move a single limb.

It’s like my ass has melted to the blanket and I’ve become one with the floor.

I trail off, thinking about the way it just rolled off his tongue.

Holly . Not Miss Cate. Holly! His voice sounded so desperate… tortured, even.

His eyes stay fixed to mine, sending a lightning bolt of unfamiliar sensations through my body. Everything overrides my moral compass that’s telling me to pull us out of this situation this very instant.

Cyrus’s creative writing holds a world of kinks, lust, and dark dangers. But does that extend outside of what he puts on paper? He doesn’t seem the type that would actually fuck me with my eyes shut… he doesn’t even seem the type that would make the first move. He’s had so many chances to.

“ Holly !” he repeats my name in a desperate breath, it’s almost a beg— to run. Run very fast from him before he does something he’s going to regret. “Please change the subject because I don’t think I have the power to stop myself anymore.”

…Yeah.

Me neither.

Do I change the subject so that he doesn’t kiss me?

Or do I stay silent so that he does? I briefly take my eyes from his and trail down, watching his jaw clench before catching a glimpse of his veins growing thicker by the second on his arm, then following them lower. And lower. Stopping at his pants…

Oh, my god his pants.

They’re pitched.

Wow.

Seeing his suffering makes the flutters stir in my stomach at violent rates and I don’t know what comes over me to stay as quiet as I am.

Excitement has me in a chokehold as I keep the silence hanging on the edge of tension and desire.

How long can he hold out before he kisses me?

How long can I hold out until I kiss him?

My grin turns my lip with the more his chest inhales, followed by the flare of my brow—to tease. To coax. It’s diabolical. Dangerous, even. I’ve never wanted anything more than this moment.

S o not a single word peeps from my mouth.

Then, at a speed I cannot register, he shoves his kiss straight against my mouth. Bolts of hot, sexual electricity ignite like a Sydney New Year’s firework extravaganza. His hand bands around my neck with his thumb by my jaw, holding my head balanced so that I can take a little more of him.

After what feels like a minute… an hour… a day or eternity under the sweet disposition and euphoria of his lips, I break the connection. Not because I want to, but because I have to.

This can’t happen again.

I’m not ready for a situationship . I just had my heart broken, and my whole world flipped upside down. What happens if Quinn finds out that I kissed my?—

My…

My boss .

“We can’t. I— You can’t lose your job, Cyrus,” I say, holding my hand up before shuffling away from him—which feels like torture, by the way.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to spook you.

It’s just that…” he stops to rub the back of his head nervously, then pushes his rather fogged up glasses back up his nose, ending with a sigh, “Holly, I’ve been dying to taste you since I first laid eyes on you.

I know you feel the same way.” He leans in closer but I pull back. “Please, say you feel the same way.”

“I… I can’t .”

This isn’t a fucking Hallmark movie.

I can’t deal with another stupid love story that faces heartbreak. I’m not the main character in a cliché fucking rom-com.

They’re all the same—it’s always two people who fall in love the same way; like an ex-lover visiting the small town they grew up in, or a country girl moving to the big city and meeting some rich hot CEO guy, or meeting the perfect guy on an airplane that just so happens to be going to the same state she is, then bumping into him a few days later in a random town.

They spend the whole movie swearing on their death beds that they don’t, or can’t like each other, but fall head over heels anyway. And then...

Heartbreak .

I can’t do the heartbreak thing.

I can’t.

With my emotions at an all time high I get to my feet. “I’m sorry. I-I need to go,” I sob, then bolt to my room like a complete idiot, thankful he doesn’t stop me. When I crash my head into the pillow of my pitch black room the tears flow heavy and hard like Niagara Falls.

Slowly but surely, I come to the realization that I’m crying not because I know I’ll lose my job if I pull a stunt like that again, but because I’ve realized that Cyrus and I are those exact two people: the opposites attract, small town, dramatic introduction—she flies across the globe and meets the man of her dreams who turns out to be her new sexy boss, then we get snowed in and there’s tension and angst. We fight every stage of denial like we’re at war.

But then guess what? It’ll all be over when I take my things and go back home.

Like I said, I’m not the main character in a cliché romance.

I’m me. A mess. Besides, even if I was into him, I know that he’s fooling around with other women.

Multiple women. He’s probably on a roster!

I bet with the girls on his social media accounts that I’ve seen thirsting over him.

Cyrus has an entire set up for female guests with a whole range of feminine products, accommodating every type of flow and brand.

I’ve cleaned this house from head to toe, and I’ve seen pink and purple labeled shampoo bottles, fresh shavers, wax strips, unopened toothbrush packets, a hairdryer and straightener, as well as every type of nourishing face mask that you could poke a stick at. In not just one but three bedrooms.

Who does he think he is, Christian Grey?

Oh, and that’s not to mention the girly pop music collection in the music rack downstairs such as The Jonas Brothers, One Direction and Justin Bieber. And what about the tidy, almost feminine decor? Come on, you can’t tell me that doesn’t look like the creativity and expertise of a woman.

“Wait…” I jolt upright when curiosity spikes.

Is Cyrus… married?

A knock on my door stirs me. My room is light. It’s morning. I don’t even remember falling asleep, but here I am, roasting like I’m some kind of marsupial in its mother’s pouch entwined in at least four blankets, wearing my…

Nothing?

Crap, where are my clothes?

Where are my knickers?!

Another soft knock sounds. “I uhh, brought you some tea,” Cyrus’s godsend of a voice hums from behind the door. He cracks it ajar and the air leaves my chest in a gasp.

Do not dare come in here!

I’m as naked as a newborn child. Panicking like a madwoman I scuffle under the sheets, feeling for any signs of the fabric of my underwear, or my blouse at least. But, nothing.

Nothing on the floor, nothing on or in the bed.

I’m out of breath, certain that I look like one of those cats that go crazy, skitzing out when they chase a laser light.

Where are my bloody clothes? And where the freaking hell are my kni ? —

Oh… that’s right. At home, waiting in my bag to take to the laundromat. I give up, throwing the blankets up over my face and pretend I’m asleep. Maybe that’ll deter him?

“I’ll just… leave it by the door, then.”

I lay here silently for a sign of his footsteps retreating, suffocating in my own hot oxygen, feeling the bead of sweat dripping over my upper lip. Then, the dreaded thought of my last memory before I must have fallen asleep hits me— I think I kissed a married man.

The music taste, the decor, the feminine hygiene products… it all makes sense. But if he’s married then why would he have girly things in all of the bathrooms except his? I gasp, maybe he’s hiding all of her stuff, and has a mistress?

Maybe he’s got… mistresses .

Ooh, the lying, cheating bastard!

My mind trails off in an enraged, panicked frenzy. What if Quinn isn’t even real? What if Cyrus made him up to hire all of these women while his wife is out of town or something to sleep with them, get his fill then fire them and go on to the next?

Am I part of the pattern?

Am I… a mistress?

Unease makes a home inside my gut. I can’t believe I kissed a married manwhore. I mean, I don’t know that he is married per se. But nonetheless I’m going to find out, because if I’m the person at the other end of the stick, and his wife feels how I did when I found out about Adam, then I’ll scream!

Dizzyness finally catches up with me. I’ve been under the blanket for too long so I peek for some air. Thankfully, without sight of Mr. Cheater in my vision. Prying myself away from the bed, I cloak my naked body with the blanket to investigate what he’s left.

I suppose a nice, hot cup of tea might make me feel a little better.

Maybe slightly less… emotional . I’d like to say that it’s because I’m due for my period, but “Aunty Flow” isn’t to blame for my attitude—I haven’t had one of those dreadful things in years, thanks to the little plastic rod in my arm.

A serving tray with a teapot of English Breakfast and an array of breakfast foods await me.

Saliva pools under my tongue, how had I not smelt this before?

I don’t hesitate, digging straight into the meal before me: eggs sunny side up, crunchy rashers of bacon, buttered toast, grilled tomato from his indoor garden with fresh chives garnishing the top, two breakfast sausages and sauteed mushrooms.

“Mmm,” I groan, swallowing my first big bite. I haven’t had a good old Aussie breakfast since?—

A sigh depletes past my greasy lips.

I miss home so incredibly much.