shut the noise as best I could behind us when I closed the door.
My Southern manners compelled me to at least try and be a good hostess. “You want something to drink?” I asked. “I’ve got some ginger ale.”
“Sounds great,” he said as he stepped into my tiny studio flat. He took it all in, from the art on the walls to the fabric I used to spruce up my secondhand furniture. He made himself comfortable on the sofa while I poured him a glass.
“No TV?” he asked when I brought it to him.
I gestured to the faint sound of Colonel Klink from the other side of the wall. “No need.”
He laughed as I joined him on the sofa. “I suppose not.” He spotted my print of Nighthawks on the wall. “God, I love Hopper,” he said, gesturing to the piece. “Makes you feel like you are there, doesn’t it?”
I nodded. That was why I loved it.
He pulled out his phone and queued up some music. “No disrespect to Captain Hogan,” he said, “but it doesn’t really set the mood.”
I arched an eyebrow. “I have a headache, remember?”
“I know,” he said as he turned back to face me. “But what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t do something to make you feel better?”
I peered at him suspiciously as he leaned closer. I thought for sure he would try to kiss me again, although it was pointless. No one could see.
Instead he let his hand slide down my shoulder, along my hip and down my calf until he was tugging off my shoe. He took my foot in both hands and brought it into his lap, where he proceeded to massage it. I flinched immediately, as I had always been particularly ticklish on my feet. “Eli,” I tried to warn, but he just secured a tighter hold.
“Trust me,” he said with that damnable smirk.
“I never trust a man who says ‘Trust me.’”
He grinned. “I knew I liked you.” He glanced around my humble digs. “But you should seriously ask Frank for a raise.”
“That’s why I have you, honey dumplin’,” I said sweetly, which made him laugh.
“You think we’re so far apart, but we’re not. Not really. You saw an opportunity and you took it. No crime in that.” For once I had nothing to say, so he kept going. “They say that success is when opportunity meets preparation. If you’ve spent your life preparing for your dream, and the opportunity comes along to make it happen, you should take it. No guilt. No apology.” His eyes met mine. “What’s your dream, Carly?”
“I don’t have one,” I shrugged.
“Bullshit,” he murmured. Our eyes met. “You wouldn’t be slugging around Frank’s office, taking care of my career, if you didn’t have the long game in mind. So what is it?”
I sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” he said softly. I hesitated so long that he added, “Don’t make me tickle it out of you.”
To prove his point, he gently brushed a finger on the underside of my foot, making me jump and squeal.
“Fine!” I conceded at once. With a sigh, I admitted, “I want to change how the world sees things.”
“Things?” he repeated.
“People,” I amended. Off his look, I said, “People like me.”
He cocked his head and waited for me to continue. “I took the job with Frank because the media is where the power is. The power of the message. You get the right message to the people and the people create change. It’s how cultures evolve.”
“And what do you think needs changing?” he asked.
I hesitated again, and he poised his finger along my foot as a threat. “You wouldn’t understand it even if I told you. The system works for you. You’re straight. You’re white. You’re a guy. You have money. Your greatest challenge is standing out. My biggest challenge has always been fitting in.”
He stopped rubbing my foot as he listened. I struggled to find a way to make him understand. Why this was important, I had no idea.
“You ever bought a new car? The minute you drive it off the lot, it depreciates, right? That’s
My Southern manners compelled me to at least try and be a good hostess. “You want something to drink?” I asked. “I’ve got some ginger ale.”
“Sounds great,” he said as he stepped into my tiny studio flat. He took it all in, from the art on the walls to the fabric I used to spruce up my secondhand furniture. He made himself comfortable on the sofa while I poured him a glass.
“No TV?” he asked when I brought it to him.
I gestured to the faint sound of Colonel Klink from the other side of the wall. “No need.”
He laughed as I joined him on the sofa. “I suppose not.” He spotted my print of Nighthawks on the wall. “God, I love Hopper,” he said, gesturing to the piece. “Makes you feel like you are there, doesn’t it?”
I nodded. That was why I loved it.
He pulled out his phone and queued up some music. “No disrespect to Captain Hogan,” he said, “but it doesn’t really set the mood.”
I arched an eyebrow. “I have a headache, remember?”
“I know,” he said as he turned back to face me. “But what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t do something to make you feel better?”
I peered at him suspiciously as he leaned closer. I thought for sure he would try to kiss me again, although it was pointless. No one could see.
Instead he let his hand slide down my shoulder, along my hip and down my calf until he was tugging off my shoe. He took my foot in both hands and brought it into his lap, where he proceeded to massage it. I flinched immediately, as I had always been particularly ticklish on my feet. “Eli,” I tried to warn, but he just secured a tighter hold.
“Trust me,” he said with that damnable smirk.
“I never trust a man who says ‘Trust me.’”
He grinned. “I knew I liked you.” He glanced around my humble digs. “But you should seriously ask Frank for a raise.”
“That’s why I have you, honey dumplin’,” I said sweetly, which made him laugh.
“You think we’re so far apart, but we’re not. Not really. You saw an opportunity and you took it. No crime in that.” For once I had nothing to say, so he kept going. “They say that success is when opportunity meets preparation. If you’ve spent your life preparing for your dream, and the opportunity comes along to make it happen, you should take it. No guilt. No apology.” His eyes met mine. “What’s your dream, Carly?”
“I don’t have one,” I shrugged.
“Bullshit,” he murmured. Our eyes met. “You wouldn’t be slugging around Frank’s office, taking care of my career, if you didn’t have the long game in mind. So what is it?”
I sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” he said softly. I hesitated so long that he added, “Don’t make me tickle it out of you.”
To prove his point, he gently brushed a finger on the underside of my foot, making me jump and squeal.
“Fine!” I conceded at once. With a sigh, I admitted, “I want to change how the world sees things.”
“Things?” he repeated.
“People,” I amended. Off his look, I said, “People like me.”
He cocked his head and waited for me to continue. “I took the job with Frank because the media is where the power is. The power of the message. You get the right message to the people and the people create change. It’s how cultures evolve.”
“And what do you think needs changing?” he asked.
I hesitated again, and he poised his finger along my foot as a threat. “You wouldn’t understand it even if I told you. The system works for you. You’re straight. You’re white. You’re a guy. You have money. Your greatest challenge is standing out. My biggest challenge has always been fitting in.”
He stopped rubbing my foot as he listened. I struggled to find a way to make him understand. Why this was important, I had no idea.
“You ever bought a new car? The minute you drive it off the lot, it depreciates, right? That’s
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