Count to three. Do not kill your boss.
And do not fall in love with him.
That's a good start, especially when you work for New York's most eligible bachelor with millions in one pocket and half of Manhattan's panties in the other. Not to mention tho...
"Newton's third law. You gotta leave something behind."
Cooper, Interstellar (2014)
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I stab a gnocchi from the plate in my lap on the fork and swipe to the next Instagram reel. Snuggling up on the couch in the evening and turning my brain off always feels like heaven, especially after another day at work. I'm in the middle of watching a cute corgi in pajamas when the reel suddenly disappears, and my phone displays a name I could have hardly expected.
I answer the call and hesitantly put the phone to my ear. "Hello?"
"Hi." The voice sounds surprised. "It's Thomas Markham. We met this Monday at the open house of the penthouse."
His need to poke at my memory is quite funny. "Yeah, I know. You're hardly a forgettable person, Mr. Markham."
He chuckles softly but there's something off about the sound. It's shallow, sad. Nothing like the man I met. Just as his voice when mumbles, "You'd be surprised."
With the phone at my ear, I frown at my coffee table. "Is everything alright?"
"Uh... not really. Kind of. I guess. Where are you now?"
I become wary. "At home. Why?"
"Would you mind if I came over?"
Um...
"I'll be on my best behavior, I swear. I just want some company for me and the good ol' Jack. I heard drinking alone is no fun." He tries another laugh, but it comes out sounding just as dejected. Still, I'm a little too old not to know that this isn't the best idea. On his best behavior or not.
"Um... You know, I don't think that's a- "
"I signed my divorce papers today."
I stop midword. Well, that explains a lot.
I lean my head back against the couch and cringe at the ceiling, that could really use a touch of new paint. I'm so going to regret this. "I'll text you the address."
He exhales in relief, his voice thick with gratitude. "Thanks."
I send him the street with the number of my building and apartment and look at the dinner in my lap. I sit like that for a moment in my cross-legged position on the couch, thinking, before I get to my feet. I just manage to clean up the plate and all the mess on the kitchen counter when a knock comes from the door.
When I open it, I'm met with a familiar face. One of his hands rests on the door frame, the other clutching a bottle of amber liquid with a black label. His hair disheveled, eyes hooded with sadness, purple circles below them.
He looks like shit. Still a handsome shit, but shit.
My lips tighten into a line of sympathetic smile. I silently step aside to let him in. He appreciates it with an equally muted look and heads straight for the couch. Placing the bottle on the small coffee table, he collapses into the fluffy cushions and runs his hands through his face and hair, which explains its sorry state. Then he lets his hands hang limply in his lap, just staring into a thin air.
