Page 11 of His for Christmas
I spent a lot of time in the supply room struggling with the copy machine. It spit out page after page of nonsense characters in rapid fire, the case hot to the touch. I pressed the buttons to make it stop, almost frantic, but it wasn’t listening to me. I wasn’t great with technology. I was good with people—but the only person here was avoiding me.
Sighing, I pulled the stack of printed pages out. The question marks and strange diamond boxes mocked me. Totally ruined.
I tossed them into the recycle bin.
The copy machine blinked red. Out of paper. Of course it was. And I needed to try over again with this print job, so I went to the metal shelves to get a new ream of paper. Up high, almost out of reach, but I barely got ahold of it and dragged the box closer, tipping it over the edge, almost there, balancing the heavy weight of it on my fingertips…
A throat cleared behind me.
My heart jumped, and the box slid from the shelf, off balance, falling down onto me. I flinched, expecting to be hit. Arms reached around me and lifted the box. A wisp of air was all I felt. I whirled to face a grim Mr. Thompson.
His face was set in stern lines, mouth a brutal slash. His eyes glinted like a threat. “You could have hurt yourself,” he said. “You should have called me.”
Call the CEO of a major corporation to help me get a box down? Not likely. “I had it.”
He set the box on the floor as if it weighed almost nothing. His eyes took in everything—my disheveled appearance, blouse tight around my breasts, skirt a little higher than usual because I’d been reaching up. They took in the pile of ruined pages in the recycle bin too, and I rushed to explain.
“I sent the file, and it worked once. Then when I hit the Repeat button it just started—”
“The thing’s a menace,” he said almost absently, dismissing the problem. Instead he focused on me, like I was the problem. Like I was a menace. I took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. The coolness of the metal shelves seeped through my clothes, sending a shiver down my spine.
“I’ll fix it,” I said, too quiet.
His eyes were dark, expression severe. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know.” But I looked away, and I knew he didn’t believe me. I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me. I was just plain afraid. I’d lived my life like that—afraid—and I didn’t know any other way to be.
“Angel.” He looked surprised at himself, rearing back, snapping himself back to the formality where he was clearly more comfortable. “Ms. Cole.”
He seemed massively uncomfortable, holding himself stiffly, not quite making eye contact anymore, and it made me want to go to him. To reach out to him. But the years had taught me not to. They’d taught me to be wary. “Mr. Thompson?”
“I want you to know… what happened that night. I don’t do that often.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. He didn’t feel up his secretaries? Or he didn’t hire a woman to visit him in his office, late at night, when everyone else was home. “Okay.”
“I only do it when I can’t—when I need— It’s not that often.”
I wondered if he knew how much he’d revealed, that it was a struggle for him. That he put his needs last.
“Why does it matter what I think?” I asked softly.
His voice was gruff. “I don’t know. But it does.” He turned away to look at the copy machine. And those awful ruined pages, proof of just how incompetent I was, how little I deserved even this temp job. “Maybe because I disrespected you, and I’d like your forgiveness.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” My throat tightened. I had no right to his past, his privacy, when I kept my own secrets. But I wanted to know. “I just… Why do you think you need to do that? To hire someone?”
I didn’t bother mentioning that he was handsome or rich. Or that he could do amazing things with his hands. He was too self-aware not to know those things. But he’d picked an almost painfully impersonal way to fulfill his needs instead, and curiosity had eaten at me all week.
There was a long pause, and I almost thought he wouldn’t answer. “I don’t talk about this much.” A self-deprecating smile. “Don’t talk about it ever, really. I suppose if anyone deserves the full story, it’s you. And maybe then you’ll be convinced you need to report me.”
He crossed the room and leaned against the shelf, giving me a clear path to the door. All his grace fled, and he seemed so weary, as if the walls and floor and metal rebar in the building were holding him up—instead of the other way around.
