Chapter Twelve

Stephanie

It was after two in the morning when I finally crawled into my side of the bed. I thought the awkward bed-share would keep me awake, but between the late hour and the fatigue of travel, I fell asleep almost immediately.

That didn’t keep me from waking up a few hours later with the stirrings of panic. As soon as I got my bearings and remembered where I was, I turned on my side to look at Alfie.

I’m inspecting his face. That first day I met him, despite all the time I’d spent poring over pictures of him on the Internet, he’d looked so foreign. My livelihood depended on that job, so I forced my breath into a rhythmic cadence, calmed myself, and stayed focused until Ashley sashayed through the room.

Somewhere between then and now, looking at him has become as comfortable as breathing. No. That’s not true. Looking at him is no longer comfortable, it’s fascinating. Compelling in the same way as looking at my favorite movie stars. Stirring.

Lying here, observing his dark, bovine lips, his ivory horns, his multi-earringed ear that twitches—adorably—in his sleep, just makes me want to slide closer and claim him in a kiss.

I’ve only been awake a few minutes, but my body has ramped from sleep to arousal in that scant amount of time. I want him.

Always attracted to the bad boys, though only from afar, I’m not even sure if he fits the category. I mean, yeah, there’s his penchant for nudity, but he claims that’s a factor of his DNA rather than a desire to flout authority. Although, there’s the whole naked Ashley thing.

I’ve debated about that with myself dozens of times. On one hand, he was clearly having sex with a woman whose name he didn’t know. On the other hand, his lifestyle doesn’t really lend itself to conventional dinner-and-a-movie dates.

Otherwise, he’s the opposite of a bad boy. He attentively keeps his kitchen stocked with the coffees I like and includes my favorite pastries with every home delivery order of food. He has never raised his voice to me. Quite the opposite. He solicits my opinion, and whether he agrees or disagrees, he’s always respectful of my point of view.

I’ve tried to tamp down my feelings, but there was something about the way his thumb innocently circled the back of my hand on the plane that made every nerve and synapse in my body go haywire.

I’ve known I was crushing on Alfie for a while now, but I think it’s bigger than that. The fact that I’m fighting the urge to span the distance between us and kiss him—and so much more—is revealing. I think my crush has spiraled into something more. Affection.

I force myself to review the facts. One: He’s my boss. Two: Let me repeat, he’s my boss. Three: This is the best job I’ve ever had, bar none. My duties are vast, meaning I’m never bored. My opinions are respected, and I’m highly valued. Not to mention my salary is enough that I’ve been researching a car manufactured in this millennium, although I’m not ready to pull the trigger and buy it yet.

Four: Other than some handholding when he was terrified out of his mind in the airplane, he’s never given me the slightest inkling that he’s interested in me. Five: The longest relationship I’ve ever sustained was fifteen months with David, a guy my parents and friends called the troglodyte—for good reason.

The only reason it lasted that long was because I was like that joke about the three monkeys: hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. If I hadn’t put up with an inordinate amount of his shit, the relationship would have ended in less than two months.

So, do I want to let my libido lead me into a liaison with my boss, a relationship fated for an early death, presuming he’s even interested? If we have an affair, which most certainly is doomed, it could mean the end of the best job of my life.

It’s better to turn over, pretend I don’t smell that amazing cologne he wears, and force myself to stop thinking about twining my fingers in his ruff. That way, I can keep my life in the status quo and perhaps drive a car made in this century.

I ease back into sleep, picturing a cartoon of a fairly anatomically correct heart, albeit one with legs, having a sword fight with an anthropomorphic brain.

The brain needs to win the fight, I tell myself. It’s the smart thing to do.