Page 60 of Vicious Temptation

It’s absolutely ridiculous. But for some reason, I feel faintly disappointed when he doesn’t.

The house is dark and quiet when we walk inside, and we go upstairs as silently as we can manage, not wanting to wake anyone. It feels odd, as if we’re sneaking back in, even though it’s Gabriel’s home, and my pulse quickens in my throat, a strange and not unpleasant feeling of anticipation and nervousness tingling over my skin.

For—what? I ask myself, pushing the feeling away. Nothing is going to happen. His impulse to take me out to dinner was odd and unexpected, but it changes nothing between us. He’s my boss. I work for him. He has no interest in being with anyone. And I can’t stand anyone touching me.

There’s not just a single obstacle between us; there’s a whole course of them. And none of them are surmountable.

I break off to go to my room, to change into something to sleep in. I haven’t put clothes in his room, even though I’ve slept there the last few nights, because that feels far too permanent. It’s started to feel more and more important that I remember that my appointment for my pills is coming up—tomorrow, in fact—and that once I have them and the nightmares are no longer a threat, I’ll go back to my own bed.

Regardless of whether or not that makes me feel a pang of disappointment that has no place in my chest.

I strip off my jeans and sweater, ignoring the small throb of embarrassment, remembering that that’s what I wore out to dinner. It shouldn’t matter, I remind myself. There’s no reason to dress up for Gabriel, no reason to worry over my appearance. I work for him, and if I go out to dinner with him in jeans, it doesn’t matter if he likes it or not.

And therein lies the biggest problem, because he didn’t care, and that did matter to me. For more reasons than just whether or not he thought I looked pretty.

I pull on a pair of sleep pants and a long-sleeved shirt, needing the feeling of being covered up more than ever. The thought of my skin accidentally brushing Gabriel’s in bed still makes me feel panicky—but for different reasons than before, as well as some of the same. Not just because I’m afraid of being touched and the memories it brings back, but because I’m afraid of what else he could make me feel.

I’m just as afraid of it being good, I realize, as I am of it being bad.

I swallow hard, tugging my hair free of the ponytail, and walk to his room. He’s sitting up in bed with the light on, reading, and the intimacy of the moment feels like something twists in my chest. I have no right to see him like this, casual and handsome in bed, waiting for me to join him. This is all a diorama of something that I can’t have, and probably never will—especially with him. A picture of everything I’m missing out on. I don’t belong here, in his bed, next to him. I shouldn’t be a part of any of this. And yet, he’s invited me in, because he wants me to feel safe.

And I do. That realization hits me as I crawl into bed. I don’t fear him taking advantage. I fall asleep without worrying if I might wake up in the middle of the night to his hands on me, his body demanding things I can’t give, his insistence that he deserves all I have, whether I want to hand it over or not. I sleep without fear, next to him, and even if the nightmares crowd back in, it’s not because of him.

I never worry that Gabriel will hurt me.

I bite my lip as I slide down under the covers, rolling to one side so that I’m not looking at him. Tonight felt too much like a date, and this feels too much like going to bed with a long-time boyfriend, like we skipped past all of the feverish groping and passionate beginnings and the wild nights out and went straight to the domesticity of a long-term relationship.

Except for the fact that the way my heart is beating in my chest at his nearness, at the smell of him on the sheets, and the thought of what his skin might feel like under his clothes, is the exact opposite of that.

And it’s something I don’t dare try to test the waters of. Not only because I don’t want to disappoint him when I inevitably fail at trying to be intimate, but because I don’t want to be rejected if I try. That would hurt most of all, I think. To finally reach out, and have him say no, that he doesn’t want that. That he did tell me, after all, from the very start.

We’re never going to be that. So I close my eyes, and try to think only about what I do have, and not that this is the last night I’m going to spend in his bed.

I have nightmares, but they don’t wake me. And when I do wake up in the morning, Gabriel is gone. All except for a note, next to the bed.

I had to leave early this morning. Jason knows to take you to your appointment, and Agnes will watch the children all day today. Consider yourself off. You don’t need to feel obliged to do anything when you get back. Take care of yourself today, Bella. We’ll work out after dinner, if you feel up to it.

—Gabriel

My heart stutters in my chest as I read the note, and I feel my eyes burning, threatening tears. How is he so good? So kind? It feels so utterly unfair to have met a man like this now, when he can’t be anything more to me than just an employer. A friend.

But maybe that’s what I need. A friend.

I swallow hard, fold up the note, and walk to my room. It feels strange to have the day off—technically, I have weekends off, but I still end up doing things with Cecelia and Danny, unless Gabriel takes them somewhere on his own. Living here, I never feel entirely like I’m not helping out with something, because it feels weird to sit at the dinner table and not help clear it, and things like that.

But the day is mine, other than the appointment, and between the confusing emotions of last night and how difficult this afternoon will be, I’m grateful for it.

I take my time in the shower, pointedly not thinking about Gabriel. I’m going to be back in my own bed tonight, back to my own routines, and it’s important that there’s that line between us, that distinction of what we are to each other. It felt like it was being blurred a little, over this past week, but that makes sense, considering the fact that we were sleeping next to each other. But now, everything is going to go back to normal.

I get dressed, braiding my hair back on either side, pulling the remainder back into a ponytail, and pulling on a pair of loose black jeans and my favorite soft, forest-green sweatshirt. When I go downstairs, Agnes is in the dining room with Cecelia and Danny, a pile of waffles in the middle of the table, with sliced fruit and syrup, and a decanter of orange juice sitting next to them. She glances up at me, smiling, and I feel a little odd. I’ve gotten used to my routine here, and being out of it makes me feel uncertain of how to act.

“You should get some breakfast before your appointment,” Agnes says, sliding a waffle onto a plate and pushing it towards me, and I look at her, startled. I’m unsure of how much Gabriel told her, but I can’t imagine that he would have said that much. I don’t think he’s the type to betray a confidence, and even though I didn’t tell him to keep what he knows about me to himself, I very much doubt he would share anything so personal without asking me first.

Agnes’ face gives nothing away, and I decide that he must have just told her that I had a doctor’s appointment, when he asked her to watch the children for the day. Everyone has those. Relax, I tell myself, adding a spoonful of strawberries and pouring syrup over my waffle.

I half-listen as Cecelia chatters away to Agnes about their plans for the day, trying to eat. The breakfast is delicious, but I have a hard time taking more than a few bites. A lot has changed since the last time I saw Dr. Langan, and I don’t know how much I want to talk about. Enough to get my pills, at least, but beyond that?—

I wish I felt about my psychiatrist like I think I’m supposed to—like they’re a trusted, professional, open ear to spill my troubles into and get advice from. Like I can feel comfortable with them. But I never had. Not because there’s anything wrong with Dr. Langan on the surface—she seems nice enough, a kind, calm woman in her late thirties who listens and tries to dispense solutions to what I tell her.