don’t know, but I’d love to make something and see what people think.”
“You know, I think that’s a really interesting idea. Let me talk to Jackson and see what he thinks, but I like it. I see how it could work.” Jordana drains the rest of her glass as Michael watches in surprise, then grabs another couple of glasses from a passing waiter. “Oh don’t be so stuffy,” she says. “We’re here, so we may as well enjoy ourselves.”
Michael watches her, catches her eye for just a few seconds too long, and quickly looks away. He isn’t planning on doing anything. Jordana is his boss. And she’s married. Even if he were into married women, which he isn’t, she wouldn’t be his type. So why is there suddenly a frisson between them? These glances that go on a split second too long. Secret smiles into her glass. Her giggling and leaning into him.
Michael likes her. Has always liked her. Just not in that way, and how could he possibly entertain these thoughts, how could he possibly even think about . . . that . . . with his boss? Michael shifts guiltily and tries to focus on something else, moves away when she leans in the next time and places a hand on his arm. He tries to act as if their relationship is the same as it has always been: friendly, professional, cool.
But she’s lonely, and he’s lonely, and there are just the two of them, or at least that’s how it feels, and there’s so much champagne, and they’re laughing at the silliest things, and he walks her back to her apartment a few hours later and she asks him to see her upstairs in the elevator, and he becomes acutely aware, standing in the elevator, of every breath, every muscle, every fiber in her being, and when the doors open they turn to one another and, truly without knowing how it happens, Michael finds himself kissing her.
Michael wakes up, disoriented. The sheets feel too soft to be his, the room is too dark, and turning his head, feeling the dull ache of a hangover, he sees a mass of dark blond hair on the other side of the king-sized bed.
It takes him a few seconds, and then he sits up with a start. Fuck. Jordana. She is still asleep, and he reaches over quietly and picks up his watch. Almost six a.m. He could sneak out of here, get out before she wakes up, go home and have a shower, wash the guilt and unease away.
What was he thinking? He pads out of bed and into a bathroom, closing the door softly so he can pee in private. Oh shit. Jordana. His boss. A married woman. Married to his other boss. Not good news. Not good at all.
So what was he thinking? He wasn’t. He had had too much to drink and although he’d always thought Jordana was attractive and pleasant, and hell, okay, a little sexy, he’d never thought of anything else.
But Michael had always been an expert at rescuing women. If there was a call for a knight in shining armor, Michael would be the one knocking at the door. If there was a woman in distress, Michael would leap in to make it all better. His heart was too big, his mother always said, but he liked that he was able to help, to make a difference. Which was probably how he’d ended up in this mess. Jordana had seemed so tough when he had started working for them all those years ago, but recently he’d seen another side to her, he’d seen her as lonely, as sad, and it had resonated with him.
He tiptoes back into the bedroom and goes flying over a high-heeled shoe, kicked off in abandon last night as they collapsed onto the bed, frantically pulling off one another’s clothes. “Shit.”
As he lands with a thump on the floor, Jordana sits straight up in bed.
“Ja—Oh.” She was about to say her husband’s name, catching herself just in time as she sees Michael. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Michael stands awkwardly, not sure what to do, wishing he hadn’t fallen into such a deep drunken sleep, wishing he had had the foresight to get out of here long before Jordana woke up.
“How are you?” she says. “Did you sleep?”
“I slept like a log. You?”
“Me too. The champagne, I imagine. Are you . . . okay?”
“Let me get dressed,” Michael says, vulnerable suddenly in his nakedness.