"It really takes a lot -especially in our line of work- for me to feel alive, but you do that for me, Vivienne."
When psychically gifted Vivienne Salvatore is forced to flee to London from her home up north, she stumbles upon a "prestigious" agency...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN ~ blushes and broom closets ~ anthony lockwood
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
~~~
Sleep didn't come no matter how long I lay there, staring aimlessly at the ceiling, thinking back to the painfully awkward scene that had occurred just an hour or two ago:
Vivienne in a towel (just a towel), me fumbling over my own words, George sending me a knowing smirk and giving me an earful about it downstairs while I tidied up the papers and he cleaned the dishes, right up until I finally finished and went off to bed.
George was a lot of things —unhygienic, unfiltered, and overly sarcastic, to name a few— but he certainly wasn't clueless.
He'd tried talking to me about my relationship with Vivienne several times now: after her possession by Annabel Ward, after Sheen Road when he found us sharing a bed, after I mentioned her on the news, tonight (of course), but also her first night with the company while she was talking with Lucy up in her room and George told me to pull me head in.
But there's nothing to talk about.
Vivienne and I are colleagues. I am her boss, she is my employee. It isn't anything more. It can't be anything more.
When was the last time you heard of an agency head dating an employee? That's right, never.
After what felt like hours, I finally decide I've had enough. If I wasn't going to sleep, I could at least use my time for something useful.
My detour to Combe Carey Hall earlier that day had meant I'd helped less with the case preparations the others, and it was only fair for me to do my share of the work.
I swing my legs over the edge of my bed, stand up, and head downstairs to the kitchen, trying my best to remain silent to avoid waking anyone —stepping over each of the creaky floorboards. As I step into the kitchen, I see that I'm not alone.
Vivienne is stood there, leaning back against the kitchen counter by the sink, a glass of water in-hand, staring out into the backyard. She turns her head to face me just as I come into view, as if she'd somehow heard me coming.
She smiles at me softly.
"Hey," she says.
"Hello," I say, walking closer.
She's wearing her pyjamas too now; a dark-grey henley top, green plaid bottoms, and black socks. Her hair is tied in a single messy plait, as if she'd also been restless.
