Nine
791 Words
Lisa
I stand outside Omarion's study for a full minute before knocking. I need to discuss Zara, but with his not-so-subtle ways of letting me know he wants me, I worry he’ll misread my purpose.
Anyway. Here goes nothing.
I knock.
It’s after dark.
Mrs. Chen’s warning loops in my head: Avoid Mr. Montgomery after dark.
"Come in."
His voice. I push the door open. A laptop glows in front of him, two monitors flanking it, phone face down on folders.
He holds up a finger. Wait. Keep typing.
I hover.
His eyes are concentrated, his fingers moving over the keyboard. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms that have no business being this distracting.
Why does someone sitting there make me feel like a pathetic Jane Eyre pining in Mr. Rochester’s study?
He finishes and finally looks up.
His eyes drink me up and mind you, it is not a polite employer acknowledging an employee.
It is an unfiltered come f**k me look.
His gaze drags over me, starting at my face, down my neck, lingering at my chest in a way that makes me acutely aware that I am not wearing a bra under this thin sleep shirt because I thought I would be quick, and then lower to my hips, my legs, before dragging back up to meet my eyes.
He does not pretend he was not just visually undressing me. Pure s*x is in his eyes, pure need and desire.
Then he smiles.
"You came," he says.
"I'm here about Zara," I manage, stepping fully in but keeping a safe distance.
His mouth curves, amused. Not quite a smile.
"That's why you're in my study. Alone. Dressed like that?"
The implication is thick.
I cross my arms, aware that my body betrays me, and try to stay professional.
"Zara told me she hates Christmas," I rush. "I can’t help her if I don’t understand what happened with her mother."
Amusement drains from his face.
"Not your concern. You help her adjust. That’s it."
"I'm not psychoanalyzing," I say calmly. "Just trying to understand—"
"Children grieve. Naturally."
"I know grief," I press, "but she shuts down. That’s more—"
"Enough."
His eyes tell me to stop, and I do.
He stands. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. My pulse spikes for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
"Your job is simple. Play with her. Read to her. Keep her safe. Nothing else."
"But—"
"Not a therapist. Not your role. Remember the coat check?"
I’ve hit a nerve.
"I’m just trying to help her."
"Well it's your job to fix her. That’s mine."
"But are you?" The words slip out.
He steps closer. Less than a foot between us. Every nerve screams to move. I can’t.
"You want to help Zara," he says, low. "Admirable. But maybe your services are needed elsewhere."
"What?"
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back. "You’ve been thinking about my text. Curious, aren’t you?"
"I'm not—"
My brain screams: Focus on Zara. Focus on Zara. But his proximity, broad shoulders, eyes almost black, betray me.
"You're my employer," I manage.
"I know."
"It's not right."
"I know that too."
He doesn’t step back.
"I want you in my bed, Lisa. Since the gala. And I think—" Hand hovers near my hip, heat radiates through clothes. "I think you want it too."
My mouth is dry. "You're wrong."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still here?"
I have no answer.
"I need this job, Mr. Montgomery. Having intimate relations blurs the lines. You cannot just proposition me because you think I'm desperate."
He chuckles. "I’m propositioning you because we’re attracted. Adults. Our choice."
"My paycheck is for Zara. Nothing else."
"Money aside," he says, eyes drilling into mine, "we can do it now. Tomorrow morning, you’re still employed. Zara still needs you. Nothing changes."
One spark, and everything burns.
And God help me, part of me wants that fire.
But smarter instincts hold.
"I can’t," I say.
He steps back.
"Fine."
The whiplash is dizzying. His face says the conversation is over.
I turn for the door.
"Lisa."
I stop.
"The offer stands," he says. "When you change your mind."
I walk out and close the door behind me.
---
Back in my room, adrenaline hits. I sit, phone in hand.
If he won’t tell me about his wife, maybe the internet will.
Eliana Grace Montgomery. Obituary. Society mentions. A few photos. She looks like an older Zara.
Nothing else.
Maybe he’s right. I don’t need to know.
My job: Simple childcare.
I can do that. I will do that.
I'll keep my boundaries intact. Stay focused. That’s all that matters.
- Writer
