Page 30 of Vicious Temptation
Gabriel sinks back down into his armchair, setting his book aside. “You seem like you’re settling in just fine,” he says, with a small smile on his face. “Has everything been good for you so far?”
I nod, taking a small sip of my wine. I don’t drink often enough to have opinions about wine, but it tastes just sweet enough that I like it, not too dry. “It’s been perfect,” I tell him honestly. “I didn’t really know what it would be like to have a job—” I let out a small, self-conscious laugh. “But it doesn’t really feel like a job, if I’m being honest.”
Gabriel chuckles at that. “In what way?”
“My friend Clara—she complains about hers a lot. Her coworkers, or issues she has with management, being overworked and not feeling like she’s adequately paid, that kind of thing. Stuff that I guess is normal, for jobs like that.”
“So I hear.” Gabriel shrugs, a bemused smile on his face. “I can’t say I’ve ever had to work that sort of job. I’ve been lucky, too, born into a family with wealth and business connections built in.”
“I’m sure you work hard, though,” I venture.
“I do,” he assures me. “But I work for myself, and I’m privileged enough to be able to pick and choose my business associates. If someone proves problematic or difficult, or if I simply don’t like them, I can usually cut them off easily enough and find someone else. People like your friend aren’t that lucky.” He pauses, taking another sip of his wine. “I’m glad you find this job enjoyable, and management to your liking.”
I can hear the teasing note in his voice at the last, and I feel an odd flutter in my chest. From anyone else, I’d think he was flirting. But he made it clear, at our first dinner, that he has no interest in that. That he doesn’t want any part in a romantic relationship, ever again. That’s why he hired me in the first place.
It’s sweet, I think, and a little sad. I’ve never been in love with anyone, so I don’t know how I’d feel about them moving on if I passed away. Maybe his wife would be horribly jealous if she knew, and that’s part of why he’s so sure he doesn’t ever want to try again. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to risk being hurt like that more than once.
I can understand the feeling of fearing pain—emotional or physical—enough that you never want to risk feeling it again. It’s why I’m huddling inside a cardigan right now on the couch, even though it’s warm enough in this room that I would be just fine in just my t-shirt. Why it’s a relief that the only man I’ve felt a spark of desire for since then is so off-limits that there’s no chance of having to actually face how I feel about it past that spark.
“I’m very happy here,” I tell him honestly, taking another sip of my wine. “I’m glad I ran into you that morning. I wouldn’t have thought to try to find something like this on my own.”
“It’s not something a lot of women in your position have the opportunity to do. But I think most of them are less opposed to getting married. Or maybe not.” Gabriel shrugs. “I won’t pretend to think I know their minds. And the whole system of arranged marriage is archaic, in my opinion.”
“My father would disagree with you,” I say wryly, shaking my head. “A lot of other fathers would, too, I think. They all seem to think it’s one of the backbones of our lifestyle. Especially for men like my father, who wants to climb higher. Marrying me to someone with influence is the only way to do that.”
“Well, we’ll put it off as long as we can.” Gabriel smiles, tilting his wine glass towards me, and takes another drink. I do, too, and I can feel the wine starting to warm me up, making my cardigan a little uncomfortable. I take a risk and push it up above my wrists, just a little. Gabriel’s gaze doesn’t immediately land on the sliver of bare skin, and that makes me feel better.
You’re not in some Victorian romance, I remind myself. He’s a normal man. He’s not going to be driven crazy by the sight of your wrists. You could sit here without the cardigan, and be just fine. But the idea of taking it off makes my stomach twist, uncomfortable shivers running up and down my arms. It feels like armor, like I’m too vulnerable with it gone.
“I’ve noticed you reading a lot,” Gabriel continues. It’s a hobby of mine, too. One that I’ve had a little more time for, recently, so thank you for that,” he adds with a laugh. “What do you like to read?”
“A little of everything, really. Thrillers, romance, fantasy—I’ll read just about anything if the story sounds good. I don’t really read nonfiction, though,” I admit. “I like reading about stories, not things that actually happened.”
“I do like a good nonfiction,” Gabriel says, picking up the book I’d seen him reading the other day. “I’ve always had an interest in history. I took a few British history classes for electives in college. But I’m partial to fantasy and thrillers, too. Maybe you can give me some suggestions.”
“Sure.” I realize I’ve been sipping steadily at my wine, and I feel more relaxed. The wine is definitely warming me up, and I tug my sleeves a little higher, up to my elbows. “There’s a thriller I’ve been reading that I’m almost done with—a girl gets a ride home from college and realizes the guy she’s in the car with might be a serial killer that’s been hunting girls on campus. It’s very tense. I’ve liked it so far. You can read it when I’m done, if you want?”
“We can compare notes, afterwards.” Gabriel tilts his head, looking at me curiously. “I always found it interesting—women who enjoyed books like that. About things that could so easily happen. Like listening to true crime podcasts,” he adds with a laugh. “That seems stressful.”
“Well, I don’t think it could happen to me. I didn’t get to go to college. And I always have a driver.” I laugh, too. “So I guess it doesn’t feel as real.”
I can’t help but wonder, briefly, what it would feel like to tell him the truth. Why reading about other people’s fear, other situations that are so different from what happened to me, can be comforting in a strange way. I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to finally talk to someone about it.
But I can’t. Even Clara, who I know, would listen and understand and hold me while I cried my way through it—I’ve never been able to tell her. I don’t know if it’s that I can’t relive it or that it will feel even more real if I say it out loud, but I can’t bring myself to talk about it.
I don’t know if I ever will.
Gabriel stands up. “Do you want another glass?” he asks, motioning to mine, and I nod without thinking. I’m enjoying our conversation, and this makes me feel more normal than I have in a while. It’s also something I could never do at my own home—sit and just drink a few glasses of wine—and it feels like it adds to the sense of freedom, of independence that’s been building since I left home.
“Coming right up,” Gabriel says with a grin, taking my glass and his and disappearing out into the hall. I sink a little further into the couch, relaxing into that warm, sleepy feeling that the wine has sent through me. I half wonder if I’ll even need my sleeping pill tonight, but I know I shouldn’t skip it. I can’t risk disturbing anyone in the house with my nightmares.
Gabriel comes back a moment later, handing me my glass, and sitting back down. “What else do you like to do for hobbies?” he asks curiously. “I know you like to run. Is there anything else you particularly enjoy?”
I hesitate. This feels more personal, closer to things that I only talk about with Clara. With someone I consider a close friend—or something else. But he looks genuinely interested, and I remember what my therapist told me, that I should try to find more people that I can open up to. That only having one close friend isn’t good for me.
“Photography,” I say finally. “I’ve always loved taking pictures.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. That’s something I’ve never been all that good at. I get photos of the children with my phone as often as I can—trying to keep memories and all of that—but I don’t think they’re particularly good.”