Eleven

At 230 that autumn, I goggled at the door of Cole's office. The shutters on the large glass walls were drawn shut from the inside.

Steph sat at her office and gave me a small smile." Go ahead, Ellen. He is awaiting you."

Oh, I go he is.

I gave her a small smile, not betraying a sign of my inner fermentation. I knocked vocally on the door, and a deep voice called out," Come in."

My hand was nearly shaking as I clasped the door clump, turning it and pushing open the heavy door. I shut it behind me and didn't meet his eyes as I walked towards the office where he sat against the far wall.

This used to be Mr. Watson's office, it was bright and ultramodern and the space sounded too big for Cole alone, or perhaps I was just jelly feeling that I would make better use of everything. Behind him, bottom-to-ceiling windows expose an inconceivable view of town New York, fifteen bottoms in the air.

The contrary end of his office had a couple of lounges and a coffee table. Fuck, this situation is way too awkward for me to be esteeming his cabinetwork.

He did not say anything, not a welcome or a greeting, no assignation to take a seat.

I sluggishly pulled out the president across from him at his broad, solid office, slipping into it. I sat up straight, and I felt my legs pulsing beneath me.

Hand in their Ellen.

The silence between us was heavy and awkward and blaring. Without my authorization, my eyes slid overhead to eventually look at him. Shit. He's so damn handsome. Possibly, incredibly gorgeous.

I watched him watch me, his hands resting casually in front of him in the office. For some reason, just a quick regard at those large, rough triumphs reminded me of the kinds of joyful trouble they committed against my willing body some nights agone. I am sure my face is flushed.

His sharp, bright blue eyes took me in whole. We studied with each other for a long time. I notice his impeccably nominated hair. Brown, with stripes of gold where the light hit. It was a lot messier at the bar. His greasepaint-blue shirt and tie made him look so professional, unlike his casual t-shirt from the other night.

The expression on his face was so undecipherable. He looked at me courteously, unblinking.

I watched him like a jingoist, trying to read his mind. I wondered what the hell he was allowing about as he studied me. However, naked and mewling beneath him, If he remembered the way I looked. Stop it. Stop allowing about that.

Goddamn!

"Ellen," he breathed eventually, and the sound of my name in that rough voice transferred jitters down my treacherous chine." What the hell am I going to do with you? "The trendiness of this entire situation filled his tone with a wry query.

My eyebrows furrowed, wrinkled landing my forepart. I shook my head a little, willing with every part of me for him to understand, for him to show some mercy." Please. I have worked veritably, veritably hard to get then Cole, Please."

Recreation flashed compactly across his eyes as I stumbled on my words." You remembered my name this time, "he observed plainly, a small, rough chortle escaping his lips.

Bastard. I can feel the heat deluge my face, further recollections from Friday snappily coming back to hang me.

For an alternate, I allowed we could pretend that the other night did not be. But I was easily incorrect.

A hopeless breath left my mouth."Mr. Anderson." I pronounced his professional name with inflated tolerance. "I refuse to believe that my career is over because of."

I traced off, hoping he could fill in the blanks. He just raised a curious eyebrow, and commodity about the tired expression on his face was so possibly hot. I did not just say that.

“ Because of?.”

My eyes harden, narrowing at him. He is surely making this delicate for me on purpose. The hint in those witching blue pools teases me as he waits for me to unfold unnecessarily.

But I refuse to be bullied. I force myself to look sunk and confident and controlled, not like I am about to piss myself. I am sure my eyes burn when they meet him." Because of an unfortunate and ill-timed moment of solecism, Friday." Each word is precisely articulated.

Suck me, I am sure it said each over my face.

He chortled, and that low, gruff sound made commodity grip between my legs." How well- stated, Ms. Miller." His lips cock overhead wryly.

"I am an excellent pen, "I riposted icily.

My wit earned me a crooked half-smile. He didn't say anything in response. He turned his attention to a brochure on the office in front of him. Those long, smooth fritters flip it open casually, his aspect skimming over the first runner.

Upside- down, I can tell that he is looking at my CV, my name pooping “ Ellen Miller”.

Oh virtuousness, how much more must I endure with this man?

.Hope bubbled incredibly to the top of my mind. My capsule will be my saving grace. I mean, I had done a lot to get to where I was. That worked hard.

"Graduated top of your class from U of T, also Ryerson." His voice betrayed nothing about his studies. Factual. I suppose he's an intelligencer, despite everything. He raised an eyebrow." A 12-month fellowship at the New York Times."

As I said, it was prestigious.

I mean, I had pushed a lot of lines to get then.

"Several publications during your undergraduate and graduate studies. Editor-in-chief of The Varsity at U of T. And a long list of accolades and awards during your Mama."

My accomplishments sit heavily between us, a verity that can not be denied. Yes! I was a damn good motherfucker, accept it.

He shook his head a little, soughing."Ms. Miller. You're talented and well-good. You'll make an excellent addition to The Press."

The hell, been then longer than you.

“ I don't underrate you, why are you acting as if you have been then longer than me?”

. He was reluctant like he was not sure what response to give to me.

“ It's because I've been then longer than you have Ms. Miller.”

“ Whatever you mean, I do not suppose it's fair you know.'' I was now getting tense, feelings spiring. My gashes were nearly falling.

“ I enjoy the largest shares of this whole thing, so yeah I've been then longer.”

What? Did he possess part of the company shares?

“ So I can enough much do what I want with you.”

“ You enjoy a part of this place?” I stammered

He jounced.

“ Yeah”. He states this like it's egregious. The surprise on my face was apparent, I'm sure.

Those eyes captured mine, holding my aspect hostage. They were so incredibly blue, a dark, rich color like sapphires.

He exhaled a tired breath. "What result do you propose for the ethical dilemma that we're presently faced with, Ellen?"

.I could not tell if he is just being cute, or was actually interested in hearing my opinion. As he waited for a response, a distracted hand came to rest against his chin, a slender cutlet smoothly brushing his bottom lip. My attention was drawn suddenly to his mouth, the bone that traced vocally over every inch of my scourged skin.

I snapped my aspect back to him, and I am sure I wasn't imagining the dark sparkle in his eyes.

"We can pretend it noway happened." Oh, how I wish it had noway happed.

Those eyes narrow infinitesimally. There was a long pause. Commodity about the way he looked at me transferred a pool of heat to the bottom of my gut.

"Can we? "The suggestion in his tone was unmistakable.

My lips parted a little. For a moment, I had no clever response. Since I first saw him this morning, my studies have been filled with images of us, bare and indigent and tangled together. Commodity told me he knew this. That he was allowing the exact same effects.

Sparks traveled across the space between us, and my frustration at the maximum unfairness of this entire situation displayed openly on my face.

"Please, Cole, "I said still, and the sincerity in my voice was halting. His eyes softened. "We can try so that I can do my job, and so you can do yours."

“ Mmmm”

“ It was good but it can not continue.”

“ Of course it can't, you have Mark Ellen.”

He formerly knew about Mark? I mean everyone in the company knew but I didn't realize he'd catch on so presto.

There was a long silence as he considered what I suppose is a reasonable and fair suggestion.

"There's nothing to continue between us for as long as you're with someone different, I'll try to admire that. Nothing about this relationship is unprejudiced or rational. "His tone was genuine.

Also so it'll be.

I guess it's his career on the line as well.

The verity stings, and I could feel the rawness in my throat. I really, really did not want to lose this job. Without thinking, I blurt, "Okay but, the coitus was amazing, and also I was a total whine latterly. So it evens itself out, does not it?"

. You idiot. I color, and surprise overtakes his expression at my veritably defective sense. And at the images and recollections, my stupid words brought back into both our minds, charging the air in his office with a warm, heavy stillness.

When he met my eyes, there was a bold challenge in them. "I suppose, in a way, it does."

Ultimately, he blinked, shifting in his seat and also letting out a breath, sitting forward in his president." So . Ms . Miller. Let's bandy your intentions and ideas for your career at The Press."

I let out a nearly distinguishable shriek of relief. I tried to rein in the waterfall of emotion that overwhelms me, transferring a prayer to whichever advanced power is looking out for me. It was a freaking phenomenon.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and began talking. I told him about the gests I had at the academy, at the Times. About the jotting and journalism, I respect, about my pretensions for my donation to the magazine.

He heeded hardly, replying with nods and small grins and ultimately our discussion felt normal, and the heaviness began to lift from my shoulders.

He told me compactly about his own trip. Just particles. Where he went to the academy when he started writing professionally, his biggest stories. He skims over the details about how the hell he came editor-in-chief by the insolvable age of thirty. I try doing the calculation but come up short.

Now that my jitters had settled down, I realized that he intrigued me. Not for his attractiveness or because of what happened Friday night, but for his gift and wit and egregious brilliance. His success astounded me. I was curious about this man.

And when I was curious about commodity, there wasn't anything that stopped me from chancing answers. It was a quality that made me so well-suited to journalism but always sounded to make life so much more delicate than it demanded to be.

When I ultimately got up to leave, he stood with me. His height as he rose from his president with a silent kind of elegant power made my mind stop working shortly. Commodity about his unpretentious elevation and his walk and his poise is incontrovertibly seductive. I forced my studies down from their dangerous line as he led me to the door.

Now he was being nice.

Now that my extremity has been prevented, at least shortly, I suddenly notice the frames that embellish his walls, a single row of matted papers stretching from one window, around the room, to the other.

I studied the one nearest to the door. It's a cutting, strictly delved notice of the fate of ultramodern journalism. Published three times agone, before the massive rise of reporting and enterprise about the media in a post-truth period .A. A. Below the composition, there is a small caption about award-winning journalism.

My mouth dropped open. "You won a Pulitzer when you were twenty-six times old? "My age, for Christ's sake. I'm a good decade or two from anything indeed near as spectacular.

“ My father.” He replied

He gave me a small smile, and there was nothing arrogant or trim or indeed ever superior in his expression.

“ I've done more, however.”

I could feel the warmth from his altitudinous, spare frame as he stood behind me, watching the sheer amazement deluge across my face. "My editor knew a good idea when he saw it. He helped me upgrade the premise and edge my arguments, and the rest just fell into place."

I suck my lip, still gaping at the framed piece of journalistic art." You do not need to be so modest, Gavin." My voice is slightly a tale.

A small, deep hum from low in his throat. The sound sends jitters from my head to the tips of my toes.

I opened the door, and his hand rests smoothly on the small of my reverse as I exit his office, the heat of him right behind me ever dizzying. I feel the imprint of his win through my shirt long after he is stopped touching me.

He stood in his doorway, an arm draped casually against the open door." Ms. Miller, "he conceded, a hint in his ridiculously intoxicating eyes.

"Mr. Anderson ."A simple farewell. There is a retired verity behind our formality, one that only he and I'll ever know.

I didn't turn back to look at him, but I felt his aspect follow me as I walked down, ready as hell to do my job and to do it well in the temporal piston the master had thrown me back by.