My eyes remain trained on my screen. My hand is holding my stylus tight. I don’t make a move because I don’t want to mess up the logo I’m working on, and honestly, I’m trembling too hard to even try. He’s not going to notice how much he’s affecting me.

“Thank you?”

“Let me know if you want to talk about the Gyles account before Thursday.”

I haven’t spoken to my boss about it, I want to say. Well, they aren’t exactly my bosses, but we discuss everything, and during today’s meeting, I just told them about the trip—23 wasn’t part of the discussion.

“Have a nice day, Archer,” I say.

Forty-One

Claire

Thomas is an alcohol aficionado. Not to confuse him with an alcoholic. He started a brewery. Now, our conversations go from, ‘I think this new beer is going to be amazing’ to, ‘I think I want to start a vineyard.’

On rare occasions, he’ll tell me about the sports bar or the girl he met. When I told him about my impending visit to the Gyles Estate, he begged me to bring him with me.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Thomas,” I said. “I’ll be working.”

I regret my rejection because now that I'm stuck in what Mr. Gyles calls the guesthouse: a small two-bedroom house in the middle of nowhere. We have to use a golf cart to get to the main house. I’m not a snob by any means. I wasn’t expecting the Ritz Carlton. When you grow up in a state where everything happens outdoors, you learn to sleep almost anywhere.

What I can’t do is have him as my roommate.

Miller Archer somehow made this happen, I just know it. If I could, I would leave, but I can’t tell the client goodbye and thank you for your hospitality. Would they notice if I buy camping equipment and I sleep outside?

I look at Miller and say, “Somehow, I think this is your fault.”

“Interesting,” he replies. “What’s bugging you this time, Princess?”

“Let’s start with you putting on a shirt,” I say.

“It’s hot and they don’t have air-conditioning,” he says

I check my weather app and show him that it’s not hot enough to be parading around the house shirtless. “Sixty-five degrees isn’t hot.”

“You seem stressed. Have you thought about taking some time off? If you need something fast, I can always help.” He throws that arrogant smile I love and makes me hot.

I won’t let him see how much he affects me. “Do I look like I’m losing my shit? I’m calm and cool.”

“You’ve been on edge all week,” he says. “Every time I see you, you’re flushed, fidgety, and anxious.”

“You’re a passive-aggressive bastard,” I say.

He points at himself and asks, “Who me?”