By a Thread: Chapter 46

The thing about being over forty is hangovers last about as long as a case of the flu.

Saturday morning, I skipped my usual workout in favor of walking two blocks to a diner to shamefully eat two greasy breakfast sandwiches while guzzling electrolytes and tea behind sunglasses.

Back home, my doorbell rang just as I was heading back upstairs to sleep off my poor life choices.

“Hey, Dominic.” My chipper neighbor Sascha was bundled up in a lime green, puffy parka and grinning at me over a wrapped platter. Her six-year-old son, Jace, stood next to her dressed in Spider-Man pajamas and a winter coat. His grin revealed a gap in his smile that hadn’t been there when I saw him last weekend.

I was familiar with this drill.

“Sascha,” I rasped. Pretending not to be hungover was about as effective as pretending not to be drunk.

“I’m coming to hang out with you, Mr. Dominic,” Jace announced gleefully.

His mother elbowed him in the shoulder. “Not before we ask politely, remember?” she said out of the side of her mouth while still smiling maniacally at me.

“Mr. Dominic, we made you your favorite cookies. Can I come play with Brownie?”

Sascha held up the platter. “Cinnamon butterscotch. And it would only be for forty minutes. An hour tops.”

Cinnamon butterscotch cookies were not my favorite. In fact, I hated butterscotch anything. But the day I’d moved in, Sascha, her husband Elton, and their then newly adopted baby Jace “dropped by” with a plate of cookies and the hopes that their new neighbor wasn’t going to be the grumpy asshole their old one was.

For some reason, I wasn’t eager to disappoint them and had been living a lie ever since, pretending to be a decent human being with a love of cinnamon butterscotch cookies. Sometimes I pulled their recycling bin back from the curb on trash day. Sometimes I shared a backyard scotch with Elton. And sometimes I watched Jace when he didn’t feel like getting out of his pajamas and his parents didn’t feel like fighting him.

“As long as you don’t feel like moving around much or talking above a whisper,” I told Jace.

“One of those nights, eh?” Sascha asked.

I nodded, then winced.

“Don’t worry about it. Believe me, I understand. That’s why we never speak of Christmas Day 2015. I can take Jace to Great-Aunt Alma’s,” Sascha said.

But that was a problem with knowing things about your neighbors. Jace hated Great-Aunt Alma’s house. It smelled like cat pee, and she made him eat steamed carrots. The last time she’d babysat, the woman made Jace sweep the kitchen floor and called it a game. When he “won,” he was “allowed” to sweep the front hallway.

“Do you have a bad decision flu?” he asked, his big eyes sad and solemn.

“It’s fine,” I lied. “I’m fine. Jace can hang out with me.”

“Yay!” He punched his mittened fist in the air.

“Shh. Celebrate quieter, bud,” Sascha warned him, clamping a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry,” he stage-whispered through his mom’s hand.

“An hour tops,” she promised. “I’m just picking up a dress for our surprise anniversary dinner, which I promise we won’t be asking you for your babysitting services for.” Every year, Elton commemorated their wedding anniversary by surprising Sascha with dinner out at a new swank restaurant. This year, in a continuance of my role as a good neighbor, I’d suggested he hire a chef to come to their house and recreate their favorite meal from their honeymoon. Apparently it hadn’t been a totally stupid idea because Elton tracked down a chef that specialized in Caribbean cuisine and had been texting me updates on recipes and wine pairings for two weeks.

I took the cookies and the kid, and after ten minutes of delighted dog and boy greetings, I hooked Jace up with headphones and the Xbox that I’d bought for just such an occasion.

I lounged on the couch next to him, reading Pride and Prejudice and identifying with poor, misunderstood Darcy.

For lunch, I made us fancy grilled cheese sandwiches with roast beef and three kinds of cheese—Jace’s favorite. The kid ate two. I ate one. And Brownie ate six slices of roast beef before I caught him counter surfing. Sascha came back fifty-nine minutes after she’d left and collected her son and her empty cookie plate. Maybe I didn’t hate butterscotch as much as I thought.

I spent the rest of the day on the couch, which delighted Brownie. We watched the entire first season of The Great British Baking Show and then three episodes of Queer Eye. I was inspired to order and to eat an entire sponge cake from the bakery three blocks over and pondered growing a beard.

Then I pondered what Ally thought about beards.

And the shame spiral began again.

Brownie dragged me out of the house for a walk early that evening, and I found my Range Rover keys tucked in the mail slot with a note that said, “Thanks for the ride.”

My SUV was parked down the street, and there was a six-pack of sports drinks on the passenger seat with a leftover Christmas bow stuck to it. There was also a small bag of dog treats in the cupholder.

I was both touched and annoyed.

Ally had yet to respond to any of my texts since Drunk Me made an ass of myself. After a quick scroll through my phone, I could at least understand why. They ran the gamut from intoxicated adoration like “your hair looks like a sexy bird’s nest” to “let’s never speak of this again.”

The bits and pieces that I remembered from last night gelled into one unflattering, inappropriate picture of a boss stepping over the line with his employee.

Once again, I’d proven that it was my father’s blood running through my veins.

I let Brownie pick the course around the neighborhood, and when he paused at his favorite tree, I pulled out my phone.

To me, “something new” meant stripping every article of clothing off her and licking, kissing, and biting my way over every inch of her body. I had a feeling this wasn’t what she had in mind.

“Friends? How the hell is that supposed to work?” I asked Brownie.

He dug his face out of the snow he’d been sniffing and looked at me. Apparently my dog didn’t have the answer either.

I did us both a favor and didn’t text or email her for the rest of the weekend. Sure. I picked up my phone seven hundred times to do exactly that. But I managed to stop myself every time. I’d crossed so many fucking lines with her. She deserved a break.

By Monday morning, mostly recovered from the scotch poisoning, I’d convinced myself that I could do this. I could be her boss, her friend. I could keep my fucking hands to my fucking self.

I’d find that self-control I’d once been so proud of and actually utilize it. And in another hundred years or so, I’d even be able to survive the idea of her meeting someone else. Dating. Fucking. Falling in love.

My still mildly unsettled gut rolled at the idea when I stepped onto the elevator and hurtled toward the forty-third floor.

Yeah. That day was not today.

I decided to focus instead on figuring out the strange scent that lingered in my car. Tacos and… what the hell was that? Concrete? Drywall?

“Morning,” Ally’s greeting was gratingly cheerful. She was wearing a—thank the fucking gods of winter—turtleneck. It hugged all of the right places, but at least I couldn’t see a damn thing. Her hair was partially pulled back into a tiny knot on top of her head. She wore brushed gold hoop earrings with crystals that kept catching my eye.

She’d painted her lips a classic, fuck-me red, and I wanted to kiss her until the lipstick smeared all over both of us.

When she cocked her head, I wondered how long I’d been standing there assessing how much I liked the way she looked.

“Morning,” I said, belatedly handing over the coffee and breakfast wrap I’d brought her.

Her eyes lit up in that way that always made my cold, dead insides spark to life.

“Thanks! You don’t have to do that, you know.” She beamed up at me, the picture of platonic affection. She was entirely too enthusiastic about this “friend” thing.

I grunted a response. Maybe I wasn’t allowed to bring the woman to orgasm, but I sure as hell could bring her food until I was convinced she was out of whatever stupid financial situation she’d gotten herself into.

She had a new bandage on her left ring finger but looked well-rested.

“How was the rest of your weekend?” she asked.

In no hurry to leave her, I put my tea on her desk and shrugged out of my coat. I noticed that her eyes lingered on it and had a vague recollection of suggesting “swapsies.”

Goddammit, I was a fucking idiot.

“Did you know scotch hangovers can last three days?” I asked conversationally.

She shuddered, closing those dark-lashed eyes. “Try tequila sometime. Last time Faith and I had a ‘men suck, let’s explore lesbianism’ drink fest, it involved tequila. I was sick for five days straight.”

I blinked and, of course, pictured it. Whatever. Cut me some slack. I’m a man whose last two-party action had been a lapdance at…

Abort! Abort! Abort! Do not get a fucking hard-on on day one of Let’s Be Friends.

I gritted my teeth in what I hoped looked like a smile and pretended I wasn’t picturing Ally making out with another woman. And then I knew I had it bad when some girl-on-girl fantasy only made me feel jealous. Yes, Ms. Morales, here’s a breakfast wrap with a side of my balls. You can keep them forever.

Ally winced. “Sorry. I’m kind of nervous about this friend thing and trying to play it cool.”

“By bringing up lesbianism?” I asked in exasperation. “Maybe we should take this a little slower and not speak.”

She buried her face in her hands, and I admired her ringless fingers like the fucking sex-starved moron I was.

“Let’s start over,” she suggested, dropping her hands. “How was your weekend?”

“Fine,” I lied. “How was yours?”

“Fine,” she parroted back.

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Okay then.” I was still standing there nodding at her and screaming at myself to walk the fuck away when a delivery guy hustled up, cracking his gum and giving Ally a once-over that was a little too thorough for my liking.

“Can I help you?” I asked him coldly. This guy was trespassing on my territory, and I had no problems letting him know it.

Ally shot me a “WTF is your problem, Crazy Pants?” look.

“Got a package here for Ally Morales,” he said.

The old “got a package” come-on. Jackass.

“That’s me,” she said perkily.

“Here you go.” With a stupid wink, the guy handed over a large box with a bold red bow on it. “Later,” he said, walking away backward like a cocky motherfucker. I wished I was behind him so I could shove him into a trashcan… or down a flight of stairs.

“What’s with the glare, Grumpy Grump Face?” Ally wanted to know.

“That guy was flirting with you,” I snapped.

The smartass coughed the word “friends” into her hand.

I glared at her.

“Buddies,” she coughed again.

“Do you have bronchitis?” I asked.

“No, but I do have a mystery present,” she said, slipping a white envelope from under the ridiculous bow. “You didn’t do this, did you?”

I shook my head and immediately wished I had.

I shouldn’t care what was in the box or who sent it to her. But shouldn’ts didn’t seem to have a place in my reality. I wasn’t moving from this spot until I found out. Friends cared when other friends got gifts, right?

Fuck it. I was staying.

She opened the card, and I didn’t care for the way her lips curved. It was a female smile of pleasure and satisfaction. One that I knew a human being with a dick and designs on her attention had put there.

Wordlessly, she set the card aside and worked the attention-seeking bow off the box.

“Whatcha got there, Al?”

Ruth popped her red head around the corner. She stutter-stepped for a minute, noticing me, and then pasted a brave smile on her face and approached.

“I’m not sure,” Ally said, slipping her fingers under the lid.

“Hi, Dominic,” Ruth said.

An unprompted first name out of a staffer. It was about damn time. “Hi, Ruth. How was your weekend?”

She beamed at me. “It was great. How was yours?”

An explosion of fabric saved me from having a second go at the scotch hangover and lesbianism conversation.

It was pink and shiny, and to my eternal damnation, I noticed that it was the exact shade of Ally’s lips when they weren’t painted fuck-me red.

The women crooned and stroked the fabric as Ally pulled it free.

I snatched the card off her desk while she held the cocktail dress to her chest.

Oh, I fucking hated that guy.

Meanwhile, my friend was doing a delighted twirl. If I’d been a generous guy, I would have had to hand it to the assface. The dress screamed Ally. The full, silky skirt nipped in to a tight waist with a gold, braided belt. The top was snowy white and draped over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. Colorful, soft, sexy. Just like the woman.

“Oh my God. There’s pockets!” Ruth screeched.

They were drawing a crowd. Women—and Linus—were coming out of the woodwork to swoon over the dress.

“Who sent it?”

“Who made it?”

“Good morning, Dominic.”

“You need to put it on!”

“This is better than flowers. Are you going to marry him?”

I headed into my office and slammed the door behind me.

“Just fucking friends,” I muttered to the empty room. But the rationalization didn’t help. I wanted to be more. And I couldn’t have it as long as she worked for this company.

I heard a ripple of laughter coming from Ally’s desk, and my inner asshole caveman came out of hibernation. Plan in place, I sat down at my computer and found the document I was looking for.

I was putting the finishing touches on my masterpiece on the screen when there was a jaunty knock, and my door opened.

“Irvin,” I said, glancing up.

He strolled into the room in that not-a-care-in-the-world way he had when he’d come across a particularly juicy tidbit of gossip. Still trying to mold me into a version of my father.

He shut the door behind him and gave me a smug smile. “Quite the excitement out there,” he mused.

“It would appear so,” I said dryly, skimming over the changes I’d made to the document. Unlike the managing editor, I didn’t have time for idle chitchat. I had a budding relationship to ruin and a lengthy actual work-related to-do list for the day.

“It’s always smart to reward a girl for her good deeds,” Irvin said, taking an uninvited seat across from me.

Disinterested, I lifted an eyebrow.

“Your assistant,” he clarified. “I heard she ‘drove the boss home’ Friday night.” The man made air quotes as he said the words.

My stomach plummeted and was replaced with the raging fires of hell. “Is that what they’re saying?” I asked, keeping my voice mild.

“Oh, nothing to worry about. A few of the gossip blogs picked it up this weekend and ran it as a blind item. Good for you, son. It’s about time you had a little fun on the job.”

I wanted to grab the man by his fucking Gucci tie, haul him out of the chair, and make him apologize to Ally. Then I wanted to toss him off the roof and burn down every blog that dared hint that I was anything like my father or that Ally was sleeping her way to the top.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” Irvin crowed his approval. He slapped his knee. “Well, I’d better get back to it.”

“I’d appreciate it if you were a little more careful with the reputation of our employees here, Irv,” I told him. My tone should have frozen the man’s balls.

But he waved dismissively. “Russo secrets are always safe with me.” He gave a cheery wink and heaved himself out of the chair.

I watched him go, drumming my fingers on the desk. Irvin Harvey was rubbing me the wrong way and needed to be dealt with. He was shrewd and slimy, and I was certain he’d known exactly what my father had been up to behind locked doors here.

I’d speak to my mother about him soon.

But first, I took a red pen and underlined the new text I’d added under the Fraternization Policy.

Employees will not pursue relationships with designers or other vendors.

I was already standing when Ally stuck her head in the door. “Dom? Ten-minute warning for your meeting across town. Dalessandra is heading down to the car now.”

I nodded briskly, sliding my arms into my coat.

“Here,” I said, slapping the paper into her hands.

“You’re such an ass, Charming,” she called after me as I headed in the direction of the elevators.

I was. And the sooner she accepted that, the better.