Page 60 of Not Safe for Work

What stood out the most was how beautiful I became under the strokes of his pencil. Is that how he sees me?

My breath hitches when I hear the door open and then close. I hear Rafe kicking off his shoes in the living room and entering the second bathroom.

A few minutes later, his shadowy outline fills the doorway. He proceeds across the room and slips into his side of the bed, saying nothing as he settles on the farthest edge of the mattress. Even if he’s angry with me, his presence is comforting.

We lie in silence for a few moments until I whisper into the dark, “Rafe, about before. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken your book. That was a shitty thing for me to do.”

He shifts, rolling towards me and propping a hand under his head. “It really was. You are the worst. I’m going to draw you with a tail and horns next time.” He smirks at my crestfallen expression. “I’m kidding. I forgive you. I shouldn’t have been drawing you without your permission.”

The knot in my chest eases. “Thanks,” I say. “I really am sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. If I’m honest, it’s a little flattering.”

That earns me a grin, and I swear it’s bright enough to illuminate the entire room.

We look at each other in the dark, and I have no idea what to say. I’ve never been at a loss for words with Rafe.

“Are you okay?” he asks a moment later. “It’s raining pretty hard.”

“I’m okay,” I whisper. “Just a little nervous.”

I feel the mattress dip as Rafe shuffles closer.

“You can hang on to me if it helps,” he says softly.

Without thinking about it, I roll towards him, and he wraps his arms around me. It’s then I realize that he didn’t listen to me, and he’s shirtless. My nose presses into the hollow of his throat, where I inhale the clean smell of his skin.

My hands slide up his back, my fingertips exploring a velvety soft layer covering unyielding flesh. His chest heaves out a ragged sigh as his hand smooths over the curve of my hip and slides along my ribs. His thighs tangle with mine, and I (not so) briefly wonder how he’d feel on top of me.

“Better?” he asks, interrupting my wayward thoughts. I nod into his chest. This has to be wrong, but it feels so right.

All I can smell is him. All I can feel is him, and it’s doing stupid, erratic things to my body. I’m sure he must notice the skip of my pulse and how I’ve just grown a hundred degrees warmer.

He almost kissed me earlier, but then he didn’t, and bitter disappointment lingers on my tongue. There’s no use pretending anymore.

“Rafe, why did you draw me?” I whisper.

The silence drags on so long that I don’t think he’ll answer, but then he says, “Because I draw things that are beautiful to me.”

Inhaling a shaky breath, my hand slides to his chest, where I feel his heart beating in a steady, soothing rhythm.

“Thank you,” I reply. For the way he’s holding me. For calling me beautiful. For making me feel safe in this moment.

“Get some sleep,” he whispers, tucking me closer.

And that’s how I fall asleep cradled in Rafe Gallagher’s arms for the second time.

The next morning, we’re sitting through yet another session on leadership styles, only this time they’re being very clear on how it relates specifically to WMC culture.

I shift in my hard plastic seat, crossing and then uncrossing my legs. I can’t get comfortable. I’m bored and antsy, and I can’t stop thinking about how Rafe held me last night. I’m a pent-up comet of kinetic energy hurtling for the earth’s surface.

An older white man who heads up the HR division drones on about WMC’s commitment to diversity and inclusivity, and it’s all I can do to rein in a river of caustic laughter.

I recall what Rafe said about the new board chair calling for changes, but this room is so vanilla that we comprise the most boring ice cream shop in existence. Maybe those efforts are genuine, but they have a very long way to go. It’s galling to listen to this ode to a company culture that has never existed before. What’s even more galling is the grim understanding that this is what I’ve given the last five years of my life to.

The lecture moves on to strategic planning and goals for the future as my attention wanders across the room to Rafe. I’m a cat to a sunbeam. A teenager to a reckless plan.

He’s wearing all black today. Dress pants and boots. A button-up shirt rolled to the elbows. He looks even more like the Rafe who might have a secret lair hidden underneath a mountain.

Finally, the lecture ends, and we move on to the next activity. They want us to get to know each other better. While our offices are scattered across the country, WMC breeds careers, not jobs. Apparently. Meaning we might work alongside one another for the next few decades.