his presence. The solidness of his chest, that delicious scent that was all his, the tenderness of his hand in her hair. She had lapped up his attention like a greedy child lapping up ice cream, and in the light of morning, that was exceedingly embarrassing.
Had he really kissed her cheek before he left the room? Her hand flew there as if she would be able to feel the evidence of it lingering. She had let down her guard. She had told him her name was not Brook. It was a moment of terrible weakness that had allowed these indiscretions. She vowed there would not be another.
Though maybe that would not be her choice. She had admitted she had lied to him. She had hit him with a lamp! He would be within his rights, in the cold light of day, to ask her to leave. Or at least to demand an explanation.
A half hour later, showered and dressed and ready for her first day of official duties—if she still had a job—she realized her new boss must also have a plan of avoidance. Obviously, she had managed to embarrass him, too.
His office door was shut when she went by it. There was coffee ready in the kitchen, but investigation did not show much else for breakfast. The man did not even have a loaf of bread! There was an empty box on the counter.
She picked it up and read the label. Apparently Jefferson had indulged in a microwavable bean burrito for breakfast. It was quite pathetic, actually.
She remembered her resolve, even before last night’s kindness, to make his life better while she was here. Now, standing there holding the burrito box, she committed more fully to that. She would see that he had proper meals and clean clothes, and that every surface of his house shone, reminding him of what a beautiful place he lived in. Maybe reminding him that it was a beautiful world.
That awareness, that it was a beautiful world, had evaporated from her in the past while, too. Maybe, in helping him discover it, she could recover some of her own faith in the world.
A little frightened, Angie realized she was allowing the most dangerous thing of all into her world.
She was allowing herself to hope.
That hope infused her as she did normal things. She made a grocery list, put dishes in the dishwasher, cleaned crumbs off the counter. It was a testament to how crazy her life had become that doing these small things filled her with such pleasure. She had never really appreciated how wonderful it was to just be normal.
Still, she could not use these simple pleasures as an excuse to delay seeing Jefferson this morning. With her list in hand, she approached his office door. It was true her boss had made it plain he didn’t like interruptions, but she couldn’t very well ignore the events of last night. And she needed to know if he planned to oust her over her deception about her name.
Standing in the hallway, she was aware her heart was beating too hard. She rehearsed what she would say. If he did keep her on, she needed him to know that his tender concern, while appreciated, was not in any way expected by her. The exact opposite, in fact. She would prefer they stay on less familiar terms. The list was a pretext to get into his office and make her speech.
She knocked.
“Yes?”
She opened the door a crack and peeked in. Jefferson looked exhausted. Here, she had vowed to make his life better, and it was apparent it was already worse!
“You haven’t been up all night, have you?” she asked, appalled, her rehearsed speech forgotten.
He glowered at her. “You’re my housekeeper, not my mother.” His tone was unnecessarily curt.
But all she heard was you’re my housekeeper. He wasn’t firing her!
She was relieved that the tenderness she thought she had experienced last night had been largely imagined. At the same time, she was aware that she was ever so faintly annoyed that he had reached the conclusion, all by himself, that his tender concern would not be necessary in the light of day.
“I just wanted to apologize for last night,” Angie said, the opening line of her speech. It would be a shame to let the whole thing go to waste. She opened the door a little more, though he clearly had not invited her to.
“No need.” He waved a dismissive hand at her. The message was clear—Leave me alone.
“I was very tired...” She felt driven to explain, stepping over the threshold into his office. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”
“Great,” he said. He glanced up from his computer, acknowledged the fact she was actually in his office with a slight frown and looked back at the computer. “I only have so many lamps.”
This was very good. He was going to make it about the lamp instead of about her. And him. And embarrassingly tender moments.
“I’ll pay for the lamp,” she insisted, following his lead. Let’s make it about the lamp. Only that was harder than it should have been. Even with that scowl on his face, he was a very attractive man. It was not so easy to dismiss the fact she had been on his lap last night.
“I don’t care about it, actually.” Apparently, it was easy for him to dismiss it.
“Well, I do. I’ll pay for it. I insist.”
“Whatever.” This was a discharge.
In case she didn’t get that, he waved a hand at her, as if she was a bothersome fly. She noticed a lump on his head and stepped in to his office even farther. She didn’t stop until she was standing right in front of him.
He looked up from his computer and folded his arms over his chest, clearly annoyed. “You’ve apologized. We’ve established you are paying for the lamp. Was there anything else?”
“Are you having any symptoms of concussion?” she asked. “Because you have quite a large lump right—”
She reached for him; he reared back. She snatched her hand away and touched her own forehead above her eyebrow. “Here,” she finished weakly.
“I am not having the symptoms of a concussion,” he said.
“How’s your head?” He had a lump rising above one of his slashing eyebrows.
She thought he would at least express some curiosity about her real identity, but he did not.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I gave you a false name?” she said.
He studied her for a moment. “No.”
“Oh.” She realized she was disappointed in his lack of interest—not that she wanted to get into the whole tawdry tale of her failure to discern a bad person from a good one. Still, she felt driven to say something else.
“I just want you to know, I’m not a person you can’t trust.”
He looked at his watch, a hint that she didn’t have to say anything else.
For some reason, she babbled on. “I don’t have a list of aliases. There is no dead person in an attic somewhere that can be attributed to me. I’m not on the run from the law.”
Something like a smile tickled at the edges of his lips. “You think you had to tell me that you’re
