New York Billionaires Series

My mother’s engagement ring had looked good on Cecilia’s finger.

“Do you know,” she says, “that we’ve been married almost two months now?”

“I did know that.”

“Which means we only have ten months left.”

“Looking forward to divorce?”

She laughs, running a hand through her messy dark hair. Gone are the low ponytails and tight buns. I approve of that. Long live the free, tumbling waves. I wonder what they’d feel like wrapped around my hand. “I’m just surprised at how smoothly it’s gone,” she says.

“Did you expect us to fight?”

She snorts. “No. But I expected more hiccups. We have less friction than we did when I worked for you.”

“We had friction?”

“Yes. Maybe you didn’t notice it.”

I pull up to the garage in my apartment building, watching the steel door rise inch by inch. “We got a lot done.”

“Yes, that’s true. We certainly did. I don’t think anyone who works for you can do anything else.”

I park the car and walk around to open her door. But she’s already stepped out, bare-footed, onto the concrete.

“Cecilia.”

She laughs and bends to slide her heels back on, stretching out a hand to support herself. It lands on my arm, and I hold still. “You’re a handful when you’re drunk.”

Her eyes fly to mine. “I’m not drunk, and I’m not a handful!”

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking in a straight line. I can recite the alphabet backwards and forwards-no! I’ll do you one better!” She straightens, and to my amazement, she recites my social security number and my birthday. “Oh, and you’re a Taurus,” she says, “but you don’t believe in astrology.”

I stare at her. A million responses flit through my mind. I choose the safest one. “That does not prove you’re sober.”

“Come on, even you have to admit that was a little impressive.”

She walks past me to the elevator, arms loose at her sides. “I shouldn’t have asked. I know better than anyone that you have a no-praise policy.”

“I don’t have a no-praise policy.”

“Ouch,” she says. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

I can’t think of anything to say to her teasing, but then I don’t have to, because the elevator doors open and she bounces out to open my front door. Her front door.

Our front door.

I should head straight upstairs, but nothing about this night has gone according to plan. So I follow her into the kitchen. She turns on lights as she goes and opens the fridge, surveying the contents.

I watch her. “What did you mean by that?”

She gives a low hum and takes out a packet. “Do you like this?”

“I can’t see what it is.”

“Hummus.”

“I figured,” she says, and digs through a box to find baby carrots. “I want to make sure I don’t accidentally ruin Bonnie’s planning by snacking on something she’s set aside for you.”

I lean against the kitchen counter. “Don’t deflect. What did you mean?”

“Mean about what?” She bobs her head as she rips off the plastic lid, like she’s still listening to music. The white lace edge of her bra peeks out of her neckline and it’s suddenly all I can see.

Cecilia in her underwear. Cecilia in nothing at all.

Sleeping in the bedroom opposite mine every night.

She looks up at me, catching my eyes. A slow smile spreads across her lips.

I clear my throat. “My no-praise policy. That I don’t have. You said ouch , afterwards.”Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

She laughs, and the sound expands in the kitchen, fills it in ways it’s never been full before. “If you say you don’t have a no-praise policy, that means I’ve just never done anything praiseworthy. But as a stellar assistant-don’t object-I know I did. I was great at my job.”

I frown, watching her flow through my kitchen, opening drawers and finding utensils. She looks like she was the one who designed it. Like she cooks in here every day.

Maybe she does. I don’t have any insight into how she spends her days when I’m away.

It suddenly strikes me as a crime.

“I praised you.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “When?”

I stare back at her and rack my brain. A workplace isn’t helped by excessive praise. It doesn’t increase morale or motivation, and too much devalues the entire operation. “We worked together every day. I don’t know when.”

Cecilia hums, a smile in the corner of her lips. “I can tell you how often. Never.”

I frown, watching her as she dips a carrot into the hummus. Swirls it around. “So I don’t believe in participation trophies,” I say. “Every office I’ve headed has been successful.”

She smiles, and it’s a private smile, like I’ve made a joke only she understands the punchline to. “Of course they have.”

“Of course? It took hard work and dedication.”

“I know, I know. I’m not disputing that. You’re the hardest-working person I’ve ever met.” She tosses the compliment out like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. Obvious. Self-evident.

I watch as she opens the fridge again. I didn’t know the day would come when I missed Miss Myers’ prim hairstyles, but I miss them now, watching the dark hair curl down her back. It’s far too distracting.