Chapter 4: Time To Pretend

there is really nothing / nothing we can do

love must be forgotten / life can always start up anew

we were fated to pretend

***

At 2:30 that afternoon, I stare at the door of Gavin's office. The shutters on the large glass walls are drawn shut from the inside.

Tiffany sits at her desk and gives me a small smile. "Go ahead, Melanie. He's expecting you."

Oh, I bet he is.

I give her a small smile, not betraying a sign of my inner turmoil. I knock softly on the door, and a low voice calls out, "Come in."

My hand is almost shaking as I clasp the knob, turning it and pushing open the heavy door. I shut it behind me and don't meet his eyes as I walk towards the desk he sits at against the far wall.

His office is bright and modern and much bigger than I thought it would be. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows expose an incredible view of downtown Toronto, fifteen floors in the air.

The opposite end of his office has a couple couches, a coffee table. Fuck, this situation is way too awkward for me to be admiring his furniture.

He doesn't say anything, not a welcome or a greeting, no invitation to take a seat.

I slowly pull out the chair across from him at his broad, solid desk, slipping into it. I sit up straight, and I can feel my legs trembling beneath me.

The silence between us is heavy and awkward and deafening. Without my permission, my eyes slide upwards to finally look at him. Shit. He is so damn handsome. Unbelievably, impossibly gorgeous.

I watch him watch me, his hands resting casually in front of him on the desk. For some reason, just a quick glance at those large, rough palms reminds me of the kinds of blissful trouble they committed against my willing body two nights ago. I'm sure my face is flushed.

His sharp, bright blue eyes take me in whole. We study each other for a long time. I notice his perfectly styled hair. Brown, with streaks of gold where the light hits. It was a lot messier at the bar. His powder-blue shirt and tie makes him look so professional, unlike his casual t-shirt from the other night.

The expression on his face is unreadable. He looks at me thoughtfully, unblinking.

I watch him like a hawk, trying to read his mind. I wonder what the hell he's thinking about as he studies me. If he remembers the way I looked, naked and whimpering beneath him. Stop it. Stop thinking about that.

"Melanie," he breathes finally, and the sound of my name in that rough voice sends shivers down my traitorous spine. "What the hell am I going to do with you?" The bizarreness of this entire situation fills his tone with a wry uncertainty.

My eyebrows furrow, wrinkles capturing my forehead. I shake my head a little, willing with every part of me for him to understand, for him to show some mercy. "Please. I've worked very, very hard to get here, Gav—Mr. Stone."

Amusement flashes briefly across his eyes as I stumble over my words. "You remembered my name this time," he observes plainly, a small, rough chuckle escaping his lips.

Bastard. I can feel the heat flood my face, more memories from Friday quickly coming back to haunt me.

For a second, I thought we could pretend that the other night didn't happen. But I was clearly mistaken.

A desperate breath leaves my mouth. "Mr. Stone." I pronounce his professional name with an exaggerated patience. "I refuse to believe that my career is over because of..."

I trail off, hoping he can fill in the blanks. He just raises a curious eyebrow, and something about the tired expression on his face is so unbelievably hot. (I didn't just say that.)

"Because of...?"

My eyes harden, narrowing at him. He's definitely making this difficult for me on purpose. The glimmer in those captivating blue pools teases me as he waits for me to elaborate unnecessarily.

But I refuse to be intimidated. I force myself to look poised and confident and controlled, not like I'm about to piss myself. I'm sure my eyes burn when they meet his. "Because of an unfortunate and ill-timed moment of indiscretion." Each word is carefully articulated.

Bite me, I'm sure it says all over my face.

He chuckles, and that low, gruff sound makes something clench between my legs. "How well-phrased, Ms. Collins." His lips tilt upwards wryly.

"I'm an excellent writer," I retort icily.

My wit earns me a crooked half-smile. He doesn't say anything in response. He turns his attention to a folder on the desk in front of him. Those long, smooth fingers flip it open casually, his gaze skimming over the first page.

Upside-down, I can tell that he's looking at my CV.

Hope bubbles impossibly to the top of my mind. My resume will be my saving grace.

"Graduated top of your class from U of T, then Ryerson." His voice betrays nothing about his thoughts. Factual. I suppose he is a journalist, despite everything. He raises an eyebrow. "A 12-month fellowship at the New York Times."

Like I said, it was prestigious.

"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 MA."

My accomplishments sit heavily between us, a truth that can't be denied.

He shakes his head a little, sighing. "Ms. Collins. You are talented and well-qualified. You will make an excellent addition to The Press."

He states this like it is obvious. The surprise on my face must be evident. But, at the edge of his voice, I can tell there's a big but.

Those eyes capture mine, holding my gaze hostage. They are so impossibly blue, a dark, rich colour like sapphires.

He exhales a tired breath. "What solution do you propose for the ethical dilemma that we are currently faced with, Melanie?"

I can't tell if he's just being cute, or is actually interested in hearing my opinion. As he waits for a response, a distracted hand comes to rest against his chin, a slender finger lightly brushing his bottom lip. My attention is drawn suddenly to his mouth, the one that trailed softly over every inch of my tanned skin.

I snap my gaze back to his, and I'm sure I'm not imagining the dark sparkle in his eyes.

"We can pretend it never happened." Oh, how I wish it had never happened.

Those eyes narrow infinitesimally. There's a long pause. Something about the way he looks at me sends a pool of heat to the bottom of my gut.

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

My lips part a little. For a moment, I have no clever response. Since I first saw him this morning, my thoughts have been filled with images of us, bare and needy and tangled together. Something tells me he knows this. That he's been thinking of the exact same things.

Sparks travel across the space between us, and my frustration at the utter unfairness of this entire situation displays openly on my face.

"Please, Gavin," I say quietly, and the sincerity in my voice is halting. His eyes soften. "We can try, so that I can do my job, and so you can do yours."

There's a long silence as he considers what I think is a reasonable and fair suggestion.

"I need to do my job fairly, Melanie. Impartially and rationally. Nothing about this relationship is impartial or rational." His tone is genuine. He is legitimately concerned about the obvious HR nightmare that this is, about the ethical complications, about his ability to do his job well.

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

The truth stings, and I can feel the rawness in my throat. I really, really don't want to lose this job. Without thinking, I blurt, "Okay but, the sex was amazing and then I was a total bitch afterwards. So it evens itself out, doesn't it?"

You idiot. I blush, and surprise overtakes his expression at my very flawed logic. And at the images and memories my stupid words brought back into both our minds, charging the air in his office with a warm, heavy stillness.

When he meets my eyes, there's a bold challenge in them. "I suppose, in a way, it does."

More silence. It stretches on forever and ever.

Eventually, he blinks, shifting in his seat and then letting out a breath, sitting forward in his chair. "So. Ms. Collins. Let's discuss your ambitions and ideas for your career at The Press."

I let out an almost perceptible sigh of relief. I try to rein in the cascade of emotion that overwhelms me, sending a prayer to whichever higher power is looking out for me. It's a fricking miracle.

I swallow away the lump in throat, and begin talking. I tell him about the experiences I had at school, at the Times. About the writing and journalism I admire, about my goals for my contribution to the magazine.

He listens intently, reacting with nods and small smiles and eventually our conversation feels normal, and the heaviness begins to lift from my shoulders.

He tells me briefly about his own journey. Just snippets. Where he went to school, when he started writing professionally, his biggest stories. He skims over the details about how the hell he became editor-in-chief by the impossible age of thirty. I try doing the math but come up short.

Now that my nerves have settled down, I realize that he intrigues me. Not for his attractiveness or because of what happened Friday night, but for his talent and wit and obvious brilliance. His success astounds me. I'm curious.

And when I'm curious about something, there isn't anything that stops me from finding answers. It's a quality that makes me so well-suited to journalism, but always seems to make life so much more difficult than it needs to be.

When I eventually get up to leave, he stands with me. His height as he rises from his chair with a silent kind of elegant power makes my mind stop working momentarily. Something about his unassuming stature and his walk and his poise is undeniably attractive. I force my thoughts away from their dangerous trajectory as he leads me to the door.

Now that my crisis has been averted, at least momentarily, I suddenly notice the frames that decorate his walls, a single row of matted articles stretching from one window, around the room, to the other.

I study the one nearest to the door. It's a scathing, meticulously researched critique of the fate of modern journalism. Published three years ago, before the massive rise of reporting and speculation about the media in a post-truth era. G. A Stone. Below the article, there's a small caption about award-winning journalism.

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

He gives me a small smile, and there is nothing arrogant or smug or even remotely superior in his expression. I can feel the warmth from his tall, lean frame as he stands behind me, watching the sheer amazement flood across my face. "My editor knew a good idea when he saw it. He helped me refine the premise and sharpen my arguments, and the rest just fell into place."

I bite my lip, still staring at the framed piece of journalistic artistry. "You don't need to be so modest, Gavin." My voice is barely a whisper.

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

I open the door, and his hand rests lightly on the small of my back as I exit his office, the heat of him right behind me somehow dizzying. I feel the imprint of his palm through my shirt long after he's stopped touching me.

He stands in his doorway, an arm draped casually against the open door. "Ms. Collins," he acknowledges, a glimmer in his ridiculously intoxicating eyes.

"Mr. Stone." A simple farewell. There's a hidden truth behind our formality, one that only he and I will ever know.

I don't turn back to look at him, but I feel his gaze follow me as I walk away, ready as hell to do my job, and to do it well.

***

Song credit: MGMT, "Time to Pretend"