Reluctantly You (Our Exception Book 3)

Gideon

I stay at work far later than I expected, mainly because my strategic financial director isn’t doing his job well. He’s attending his meetings, but has been doing the absolute bare minimum. I knew this about him from the beginning, though. I gave him a chance but knew this wouldn’t work out.

I see who he is. I know men like him. I know his father, and when I said the apple doesn’t fall far from the scheming tree, I meant it. Both are pathetic little shits who prey off of other’s hard work.

But still, the gall of him to continue coming into work every day is astounding. I wish he’d just quit. It would make my life so much easier.

Shiloh made his way into my office earlier and rolled his pretty eyes at me when he saw me glowering at my computer screen.

You shouldn’t have taken away his office. I told you so.

I disagree entirely. I should have. Mitchell Morris is a spoiled brat who needs to be taken down a peg or two. Or ten. I told him this and I wasn’t lying. I never lie. I always tell the truth.

Mitchell refused to come to the meeting I scheduled for us yesterday, and he didn’t show up to this morning’s either. He even came in to work late.

I sat behind my desk waiting for him to appear, an hour past his appointment time, and my eye twitched slightly when Shiloh relayed the message.

He’s not coming.

I knew it.

I knew he wouldn’t. It proves I was right all along. Men like him never change. And honestly, his disregard for me as his boss bothers me more than I expected it to.

Now I’m waiting for everyone to leave the office so I can speak with him. Since he arrived late, I assume he’ll be staying after everyone else to get his shit done. I’m not a boss who makes people work more than they should. I respect a work-life balance and never expect people to put in more time than their contract requires.

But I also expect my employees to get shit done without having to micromanage them.

Seems Mitch needs to be managed.

I walk to my office door and turn my head to look in the glass windows, catching my reflection staring back at me.

Professional. Stern. An image I’ve cultivated. So different from the skinny, scared teenager I was twenty years ago.

I square my shoulders, making my way to the office Mitchell moved into.

I know Shiloh disagrees with my choice, but it was my choice to make. And despite the looks he’s been giving me, I know that it was the right one.

Mitchell Morris has been riding on the coattails of this company for far too long. He needs a reality check. A large one. I’m not even sure he’s good at his job, and from what I’ve seen the past few days, I don’t think he is. His reports are sloppy, his calculations are wrong.

Men like him, who have been given everything in life need to learn a lesson.

And it’s one I intend on teaching him. Better now than never, I think as I round the corner and see that his office door is shut. He’s probably in there, doing fuck knows what.

My hand grips the handle and I push it open, finding Mitch behind his desk, his head leaning back against his chair, his fingers curled in the hair of someone kneeling between his legs.

His eyes snap open and he freezes.

He’s getting a blow job in his office. By another man. Something moves through me. Something intense that I don’t quite understand.

I don’t like Mitchell—despise him, really—and yet, something stirs between my legs, settling heavily in my balls. I lean against the doorframe and shove my hands in my pockets, exuding nonchalance when I’m feeling anything but.

The man between Mitchell’s legs pops off his cock and peers up at me over the desk.

“By all means, don’t stop now. Keep going,” I bite out, sneering as Mitchell’s eyes widen and his cheeks redden. He looks reluctant to do as I suggest, but the man between his legs just turns back around and goes at it, his moans and slurps heard from across the room.

And I watch it all, the way Mitchell’s eyes meet mine, his hands fisted on the arms of his chair as he continues to get off. He cares so little about work that he’s called in a hookup to get him through his last hour.

I’m paying him to get a blow job.

I should be paying the man between Mitchell’s legs instead. He’s working hard, trying his best to make Mitchell come, but of course he’s not. He’s just sitting there, eyeing me in confusion. He can’t even do this right.

I should hate that he’s doing it on company time, but to be honest, I quite like that I’ve found him like this, cock out, chest heaving while I intrude on something private.

I had no idea Mitchell was into men, but then again, the way he looked at me at the gym…

The gagging noises from the man between Mitchell’s legs intensify, and I know he’s deep throating, working that cock so well. My own dick twitches in my pants at the sight before me, but I shove the feelings down.

I don’t like this man and I won’t be fucking him. That’s a privilege he’ll never have.

Mitchell’s eyes move away from me and down to the guy sucking his dick. He’s working it like it’s an Olympic sport and Mitchell is not appreciating the effort put into it.

I bet he can’t appreciate any nice thing given to him. I bet he’s the kind of man who takes everything for granted.

“Don’t mind me,” I say cruelly. “I have all night.”

“Fuck you. This is my office. You shouldn’t be in here.”

“It is my office. I own the building. Now, come so that I can get on with my life.”

His mouth falls open and his body finally starts to tense and twitch, edging toward release.

His legs shake slightly, and I watch as he grabs on to that head of hair and shoves it down, emptying into the throat that’s choking on him. I watch as the man grapples with Mitch’s thighs, trying to pull off to catch a breath, but Mitchell just holds him there, fucking into his throat for a long minute before finally letting go.

Now, that wasn’t very nice. Very rude, actually.

The man falls off his cock, gasping slightly and holding his neck. Mitchell doesn’t seem to care, just quickly zips up his pants and shoves the man away. The same man who is now swiping at his mouth, his body shaking slightly, trying to regain his composure.

“Is that really all you’re going to do, Mr. Morris?” I ask, and Mitchell’s jaw tenses.

“Just…fuck off. This is none of your business.”

I push off the doorjamb and make my way toward his desk as the man struggles to his feet. His cheeks are red and his eyes are wet and puffy. He looks almost abused, and yet his cock is still hard, straining out from his tight jeans.

“You’re not going to reciprocate?” I ask.

“I never fucking do. They know this. I’m not gay.”

Of course he thinks that. I’m not surprised.

“Hm.” I nod toward the man, who looks like he’s in his mid-twenties. He’s pretty, with dark curly hair and a cherub-like face. He deserves better. He deserves to come for all that hard work he put in.

“Come here…do you have a name?”

I wait and the man swallows, rubbing at his throat.

“Kyle.”

“Kyle. Do you want to get off?”

He glances at Mitchell and then nods. “Um…sure?”

I move toward him, kicking Mitchell’s feet apart, guiding Kyle to stand between his legs. My body squeezes behind Kyle, pulling his back against my chest, and reaching around to palm his hard cock.

“It’s so rude of you, Mr. Morris, to not do your best.”

He glowers up at me, still perched in his chair in front of us. He could leave, could get up and walk away, and yet he doesn’t fucking move. He just sits there and stares.

“You telling me this as my boss?” he snaps back.

“Yes,” I say as I unzip Kyle’s pants and pull out his dick. It’s long and thick and my fingers wrap around it tightly.

Kyle gasps and pants as I stroke him, his head falling back against my shoulder.

“I’m not going to watch this freak show,” Mitchell mutters.

But he still doesn’t move.

“You’ll stay and you’ll watch or you’re fired.”

His lips purse, his hands tightening on the arms of his chair as I continue to get Kyle off.

And the man in my arms isn’t opposed to any of this. He actually seems to like it, being on display in front of us. He groans and whimpers, his body starting to tremble as I stroke him. A few moments later, his cock erupts almost violently, some splattering onto Mitchell’s pants, soaking into the fabric of his pressed slacks.

Kyle is heaving against me, his body shuddering as I gently tuck him away. I wipe my hand on a tissue and then reach into my pocket and give him a small bit of cash in case he needs a ride home, before escorting him out of the office and to the elevator.

This entire thing was unexpected. When I walked into Mitchell’s office, I didn’t expect to see him with a man between his legs.

But what’s more annoying is that when I make my way back to his office, Mitchell is scrambling to leave.

Fuck no.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I ask, his eyes slamming into mine.

“I’m off work.”

“You aren’t yet.”

“Yes. I fucking am.”

Something inside of me snaps, a crack that I swear even he can hear. He tries to move past me, but I reach out and grab ahold of his throat, shoving him against the wall and making him gasp.

I’m bigger than him, stronger. He may be bulky, but I have moves that he can’t compete with. I can take him down, make him heel.

“I said. We’re not. Done.”

I can feel his pulse quicken and his breath come out in short, restrained pants.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that all you can say? Fuck. Fuck you?” I ask, my fingers flexing against his throat. “Not great vocabulary for someone who went to Stanford.”

His cheeks are red, his eyes drooping slightly.

He’s clearly furious, but another part of him almost looks…blissful.

It makes me more angry, pissed even.

The little shit.

I knew who he was the moment I met him and even before that. When his dad told me all about his son, listed off all his bad qualities.

He never deserved the position.

I admit I fucked up when I promoted him.

And now I see why. He seems to lack motivation, seems to lack the drive it takes to get to the top. He should have never been made director. He should have never been given a job here at all. No one has anything good to say about him. No one even knows him.

But then again, he’s Daddy’s boy. Although, perhaps not so much. Not if his father sold this company out from underneath him, without even informing him.

I did like watching Mitchell’s face when I told him.

It was the disappointment of a boy realizing he’s going to have to actually work for what he gets. That he will no longer be handed everything on a silver fucking platter.

I don’t feel sorry for Mitchell Morris. I loathe him.

My fingers loosen and leave his neck. He’s left sagging against the wall, his chest moving up and down in deep breaths.

“So now that you’re done throwing your tantrum. I’d like to talk to you about your work performance.”

His eyes, never having left mine, widen slightly. He wets his lips and straightens up, the bulge in his trousers unmistakable.

But like fuck I’d ever touch him. Not like that.

And anyway, it seems he has someone for that. A little twink named Kyle. Or perhaps a variety of them. Not that I fucking care. He can meet whoever he wants as long as it’s not on company time. I won’t be paying for him to have his dick sucked. I refuse.

“I have places to be,” he says, and I scoff.

“Like the gym? Where you can stare at other men while they try to work out?”

“I don’t do that.”

But he does. I saw the way he looked at me in my swimsuit. Not that I reciprocated. Mitchell does nothing for me.

Nothing.

“The only place you need to be is here. With me. We have things to discuss if you’re going to continue working here.”

His cheeks go red once more, and I can see the steam billowing off him.

God, I want to fire his worthless ass.

“Let’s take a seat,” I say, gesturing toward his desk.

He scoffs. “I’ll fucking stand.”

I stare at him. Unbelievable. The gall he has to act like this when I’ve been more than lenient with his appalling behavior and work ethic. When I tried to make this work, tried to be reasonable. He’s left me no choice.

“Fine,” I say and then lay into him.

“I’m writing you up for your work performance. Since starting here, I’ve seen that it’s been subpar at best.”

He turns to look away from me, his cheeks still flushed with anger. His fists are balled up at his sides and he stands before me like a petulant child.

“You’ve been late to work, refused to attend my meetings, and have done sloppy work. Not to mention the blow job you were getting on company time.”

He doesn’t answer, but his knuckles crack slightly as he continues to stand there, staring at the wall behind me.

It makes me furious, irrationally so. He can’t even look at me when I’m speaking to him. Just ignores what I’m saying. Like I’m below him. I should fire him, should make him pack up this instant, but I’m always one to let people have second chances. I was given one. It’s why I always let people have them as well. There’s still a very small chance he can turn this around.

But then he just scoffs again. “Fuck this,” he murmurs.

My anger surges up, enveloping me.

“Like I said. A write up, but if you’d rather I fire you now, I can do that.”

He doesn’t answer, his shoulders going tense.

“You’d probably like that, huh? Go cry to Daddy about it. Well, the problem is, your father isn’t here to save you. Maybe you could have gotten away with this shit a few months ago, but you can’t now, Mr. Morris. I won’t keep you on because I feel sorry for you.”

My chest is heaving by the time I’m done, and Mitchell’s eyes move to meet mine. They flash with anger, and I feel the snap before it actually happens.

He lunges at me, his fist pulled back to strike me, but I outmaneuver him, wrapping my arm around his neck and pulling him against me. He struggles and he’s just as strong as he looks. He twists out of my hold, and I curse myself for letting him slip through my fingers.

He lunges for me again, but I kick his feet out from under him and he lands on the ground. I follow him down, grappling with him in my suit and tie until he’s immobilized. My forearm clamps his throat, my leg now wrapped around his and bending his right one at such an angle to keep him still.

“Don’t you ever fucking come at me like that. I will always win,” I hiss, my mouth right at his ear.

He’s heaving against me, his chest billowing in and out like a sail flapping in the wind. I can feel his rage pulsing off him in waves, and I lean into it. I want to bite down on his earlobe and hurt him. Want to make him cry.

“Let go of me,” he hisses, so I push into him further, twisting his leg back even more, almost painfully.

“If I do, will you behave?”

He grunts, and so I let myself loosen up, my grip on him growing lax. And as soon as I do, he lashes out, knocking me in my shoulder with his elbow and trying to scramble away. But I’m on him in an instant, my training in martial arts coming into play. I pin him down on his back, his arms above his head, my knees on his thighs.

His chest is rising and falling roughly, and I can see the fury in every part of him.

“You are a stubborn little shit,” I murmur.

He tries to pry his wrists from my hands, but he can’t. He can’t fucking move.

“I am so sick of you,” I spit, our noses so close they’re almost touching. His whole face is bright red now, the scruff on his face hiding some of it, but I can see how upset he is. Good. He’s been coddled enough in his life. He needs to hear the harsh truths.

“You are useless. A piece of shit who doesn’t want to work for what he has. And now you’re throwing a tantrum because you aren’t getting what you want. Well, tough shit. Welcome to the real world. I’m writing you up for insubordination and I hope you fuck up again because I want to fire your sorry ass. This company would be better for it. You’ll do nothing but run this entire place into the ground.”

The words spill out of me as he just stares up at me, seething.

“Get off me. You’ve made your point.”

“Yeah, I fucking did. And if you come after me again like that I will knock you out.”

He blinks and then turns his head as I let his arms go and push myself up. He sits up and throws his arms over his knees, looking at the floor as I brush the dust and wrinkles from my suit.

“Your write-up will be in your folder, Mr. Morris. If you don’t get it together, you’ll be looking for a new job. Not that you haven’t started already. I’ve received the calls from other employers inquiring about your applications. Remember, this is a non-compete contract.”

Mitch glances away and doesn’t acknowledge me.

“I expect to see you tomorrow in the office on time, ready to work.”

His fist curls as he grabs his bag off the ground.

“You done?”

“Yes.” I feel like I have more to say, but the scuffle on the ground has only confused me, scrambled my thoughts a little.

“Good,” he murmurs and pushes past me, nearly running out of the office. I watch him head toward the stairs and push the door open with a slam, disappearing down them a moment later.

My hand scrapes across my face and my shoulders sag. I don’t know if I won or lost, but for some reason, I don’t feel as good as I should.

Goddamnit.

Mitch doesn’t show up to work on Wednesday. It’s now Thursday afternoon and he still hasn’t shown. Fuck, I want to fire him. I want to sit him down and say those words, watch as his face turns pale with realization that he can’t buy his way out of this. That his father isn’t here to patch up his mistakes. I want to see his face as I give him the news. But in order to do this, I need to actually see him.

“Where the fuck is he?” I ask Shiloh, and he shrugs, his purple knit sweater falling off his bare shoulder.

“Don’t know, Boss. He hasn’t called in. Maybe he’s just run away. That’s what you wanted, right?”

I frown at that. “No, it’s not what I wanted. But he would run. I can see that. The little coward.”

Shiloh’s brows meet. “I’ve never seen you so mad about an employee.”

“He offends me just by existing.”

He snorts and then straightens slightly. “Right, of course. We hate him. I know why. Got it. Memo has been created.”

I stare at him, and he salutes me before turning around and striding out.

I turn to my computer screen and get back to work, Mitchell still in the back of my mind, haunting me.

When four o’clock rolls around, I lean back in my chair and stare at the address HR provided me. Debra had stared at me with suspicion while giving me his file. Well, she doesn’t need to know what’s going on or why I need it. I glance down at the piece of paper, my teeth grinding. Those numbers are glaring up at me, taunting me.

I shouldn’t. It’s overstepping. But I want this over with. I want him gone. He’s given me a very good reason to. I’ve not been unfair. I’ve only done what needed to be done and have never spoken a single lie.

He’s done shit work and is a shit worker. I won’t pay another dime toward his useless life.

If I wait for him to show up at work to tell him that he’s fired to his face, it may never happen. So I plug his address into my phone’s GPS and head out of the office a little early.

He lives on a quiet street in a small house near the beach with a neatly trimmed yard. It’s not what I was expecting and much smaller than I envisioned. It looks like a three-bedroom bungalow. Nothing outrageous or tacky. And yet, he lives in an artsy neighborhood, eclectic. His own house is a pale blue with a white door, beachy and soft.

For some reason, this surprises me. I expected something cold and modern.

As I make my way up the driveway, I wonder if he’s the one outside mowing every week or if he hires someone to do it. It’s a stupid thought, but I have it all the same. I adjust my jacket as I peer around the property. His car isn’t parked outside and, for a moment, I hope he’s gone. That he’s packed up and left the state. One less shit to deal with. But when I make it up to his door and knock, I hear the telltale meow of a hungry cat.

Growing up, I fed many alley cats, my heart aching for anything as hungry as I was. I can hear them from a mile away.

My hands cup around my eyes as I peer in through the glass windows at the top of the blue paneling and see some lights on, but I don’t see Mitch. Not that I expected to see him glaring back at me. He’s not going to be lurking around in the window, waiting for me to arrive. He has no idea I’d even show up here. This isn’t what bosses do. And yet, here I am.

I ring the doorbell and knock, and when no one answers, I debate leaving.

I can just send him a notice via e-mail, or even certified mail. I shouldn’t have come here, to his house.

And yet, for some reason, my hand lands on the doorknob and I twist it.

It opens with an ominous creak.

I hear another loud meow from the living room as I call out, “Mr. Morris!”

There’s nothing. No response. Just the cat replying loudly and the sound of the TV in the other room. Is that Bob Ross?

God, what the hell is this? This is fucking creepy.

What if he’s dead?

The thought makes my feet move a little quicker. What I said in his office the other day was nothing but the truth, but it was ugly and sometimes people can’t face that. Sometimes they can’t cope.

What if I’m the reason he’s gone?

I round the corner and see Mitchell lying face down on the couch, wearing only boxers, the cat on his ass, meowing loudly at me. Without a thought, I kneel down and press a hand to Mitchell’s shoulder. It’s warm, his breath coming out in a rush as his eyelids flutter open and he meets my concerned stare.

But he doesn’t say anything, just blinks at me.

The cat makes its way up Mitchell’s bare back and nuzzles against my hand, wanting to be petted. I scratch under its chin as I ask, “Mitchell. Are you unwell?”

He doesn’t say anything, just closes his eyes.

I roll my lips between my teeth and glance around. I don’t see anything amiss, but I can tell that he hasn’t moved much in the past couple days. There’s food on the counter, things not put away. There’s a bit of a stale odor in the air.

It’s like he laid down on the sofa and never got back up again.

I push myself up and make my way to the kitchen. It’s there I find the stacked cans of cat food, so I refill the food and water bowls before emptying the litter box. Mitchell still hasn’t moved. He’s just lying there, prone, eyes shut.

Shit. I can’t fire him when he’s in this state.

This is not what I wanted. I wanted it to be simple, gratifying, but this is nothing like that. The fact that he’s made this more complicated makes me even angrier. He’s no longer just pouting and belligerent, he’s completely shut down.

“Mitchell,” I say again as I watch the kitten lap up the wet food. “You need to get up.”

He doesn’t do as I request. He seems to be barely breathing.

I run a hand down my face and move toward him. Crouching down once more, I press my hand to his shoulder and jostle him.

“You need to get up,” I say again, my voice firm and commanding. His eyelids flutter open and he glowers at me.

“Fuck off,” he mutters.

Well, at least he can still talk. At least he’s coherent. But I hate those two words. It’s all he seems to say.

“Get up. You’ve missed work. You can’t just lie here.”

“I can,” he rasps and then closes his eyes.

My mouth moves into a frown and my heart rate accelerates. This man. He…he makes me so fucking mad. So furious, and yet a part of me aches. It throbs. I rub at my chest and press my fist to it.

I will not feel sorry for him. I will not.

“Get the fuck up,” I bite out and see him roll his eyes behind his closed eyelids.

Something inside of me snaps, and I reach around to his side and pull him up. I can smell him, the stench of an unwashed body, and I now know he hasn’t showered in some time.

“You stink,” I grunt when I force him to sit up. His ass slides to the floor, his back against the couch. His legs are sprawled before him, his hands lying limply on the ground. He’s not even fighting back.

Something’s not right. Something is very wrong.

Flashbacks of my dad filter through my mind, limp and lifeless, and I feel my chest constrict.

No. No. Not again.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, and he just leans his head against his shoulder, his eyes focused on the wall opposite me. Like he’s half dead already.

“Did you take something? Do I need to call 911?”

He mouths “no” and I peel his eyelids back, checking his pupils, but they look okay.

I watch him for a moment, my eyes tracking the orange fluffball settling on his lap and purring. It doesn’t seem worried. Don’t animals sense when something’s wrong? Fuck, I don’t know. Honestly, Mitchell doesn’t seem like a man who owns a cat, or any living thing really. But then again, I don’t fucking know. I don’t know anything at the moment.

I didn’t expect this when I walked in. Not at all.

When Mitchell doesn’t move or even look at me, I fist my hands on my thighs and let out an angry exhale.

“I know you’re wondering why I’m here. But I just came by to say that you’re fired. I’ll have your things packed and by the front desk when you want to get them.”

He just closes his eyes and doesn’t move. “Okay.”

I watch him intently and then stand up, my knees cracking as I head toward the door, hesitating for just a moment.

My hand is on the cool metal of the doorknob when I stop moving. I hear the TV in the background, the purr of the cat, and then a sniffle.

I rub at my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. I will not feel bad, not for someone like him.

And yet… I turn around and make my way back toward where he’s sitting.

I see a single tear track that’s etched its way down his cheek, and I curse myself for looking for it. He’s not my responsibility, and still, I take my jacket off and set it on the kitchen chair, the caretaker I thought I’d left behind making a rare appearance.

I’ll never do this to myself again. I won’t.

“Fuck. Me,” I murmur as I move down the hallway, the kitten scampering after me, attacking my ankles as I go.

“Where’s the bathroom?” I mutter to it, just as I open a door and find it. It’s small, with a sink, a shower, and a small tub attached.

“Don’t fucking do it,” I murmur to myself, and yet I still turn the bath water on and squirt some body wash into the stream of water. I watch as the bubbles foam and grow before moving back to where Mitchell is sitting.

“You need a bath. Come on.”

He doesn’t respond so I just squat down, place my arms around his torso, and lift him up.

He grunts, his legs barely moving, his large body tumbling into mine as I lift. He’s heavy and smells like sweat, like misery, and part of me wonders if I’m the reason for it. Maybe he’s finally come to the conclusion that he’s worthless, that he’s done nothing to earn what he has. Maybe it’s my fault, and here I am, taking care of him.

Just like I did with my dad.

Fuck.

I shake those thoughts away as I drag him to the bathroom, and he slouches against the wall, his legs shaking slightly.

“You really need a bath. You stink.”

He doesn’t respond, just visibly sags, his knees buckling as he slides to the ground.

“You can’t live like this. Just because you don’t get what you want, because for once in your life someone told you no.”

I’m angry, my words cutting, and yet still, my hands peel my shirt sleeves up, getting ready to get dirty. I cuff them right under the elbow before turning off the water in the tub and gesturing toward Mitch’s boxers.

“Take those off and get in.”

He closes his eyes and another tear slips down his cheek, disappearing into his unkempt beard.

Jesus. What the hell am I doing? What the fuck is this?

I don’t even like him.

You didn’t really like your dad and still, you looked after him.

“Stop crying,” I bite out, and when I realize he’s not going to move on his own, that he’ll just sit there against the wall for the rest of eternity, I reach forward and pull him up again. I unceremoniously tug his boxers down his thighs, his soft cock making an appearance. I glance away, making a point to not look for too long. He’s big, but I already knew that due to his little rendezvous in the office the other night.

Placing my arm around his back, I lead him to the full tub, biting my tongue when he takes ages to finally get in and settle down. The water is slightly opaque, his body covered by only a few bubbles. But the tub is small and the water only comes up to his belly button, leaving the rest of him exposed. He just sits there, resting his head against the wall beside him and closing his eyes once more.

“Wash yourself,” I command, but he doesn’t move. “Jesus,” I murmur as I take a seat on the closed toilet lid and reach for some shampoo. I squirt some in my palms and scrub at his hair and beard, the suds sliding down his neck and chest. Then I grab a bar of soap and work on washing his body, making sure to avoid anything private. I don’t want to touch him there. Have no desire to.

When he’s finally soapy and washed, I rinse him off by cupping my hands in the water and pouring it across his body. He doesn’t assist, doesn’t move.

Just sits there and lets it happen.

When the water has been drained from the tub, I debate just leaving him to finish the night alone. But instead I find myself wrapping a towel around his shoulders and helping him up, wetting my own shirt in the process.

Goddamnit. Fuck this. I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t want this.

But still, I help him to his room, his body sagging against mine until he’s seated on the edge of the bed, the towel falling open and exposing him to me. I don’t look, just turn away and go through his drawers, pulling out a pair of boxers and helping him put them on. He at least lifts his hips while I tug them up before he lies back on the bed. The kitten scurries up near him and makes biscuits on the damp towel.

“Mitchell.”

“Go away,” he finally replies, his voice weak.

“I can’t just leave you here like this.”

“You can.”

“No. I can’t. Do you have anyone I can call for you?”

Something’s really wrong, and I don’t know what the fuck to do to fix it. I didn’t know how to with my dad either.

Fucking Jack Morris. That asshole.

He pauses and swallows roughly, the sound pulling me back to the present.

“I have no one.”

He curls up on his side and stares at the wall, and I just watch him as another tear slides down his cheek.

Well, hell.

I end up making him something to eat, which is not something I wanted to do, nor is it anything I’m good at. But he has plenty of food in his fridge and so I make him a grilled cheese and bring him some chocolate milk.

I hate that I’ve been reduced to this. I feel like I’m feeding a toddler.

He just stares at it when I set it on the bedside table and then sighs.

“You need to eat, Mitchell.”

He just huffs, and so I grit my teeth and force him into a seated position, his back against my chest, my legs sprawled out against his. I grab the sandwich and press it against his lips, and he takes a tentative bite, his stomach grumbling loudly.

“Good,” I say, my hand on his chest, my other feeding him bits and pieces. I alternate between the sandwich and the chocolate milk, and by the time he’s done, his head is resting on my shoulder, his body limp against mine.

“Don’t you feel better?” I ask softly, and he just huffs his response.

I need to leave, need to go home and get back to my own life, but I don’t move. Just sit there, my chest tight, my brow furrowed.

I hate him, utterly despise this man, and here I am, in his bed, holding him.

Feeding him.

Caring for him.

I can’t be here. This is…it’s not what I want. I shift to move, but his hand comes up and grabs on to my wrist.

He doesn’t say a word, silence engulfing us, and I don’t move away either. I just stay there, holding him against me.

We sit like that for a while, my back cramping up slightly from him leaning all his weight against me. I peer down at his face and notice that his eyes are shut, his breathing evened out.

I need to leave, and yet I can’t. I just can’t.

Pulling up my phone, I message Shiloh, instructing him to drop off an overnight bag for me. He sends me an eyeball emoji, but I ignore it.

I’m sure this isn’t what Mitchell would want, people knowing about him. He’s private, not having made any friends in the office. I doubt he wants anyone there gossiping about his mental health.

That’s really no one’s business but his own.

When the doorbell rings an hour later, I peel myself away from Mitchell. He still has a tight grasp on me, but I assure him I’m not leaving, just getting my things.

He curls up on the bed, the kitten nestling into his neck and his eyes watching me as I disappear from the room. When I pull the front door open, I see Shiloh peering around me to get a look at Mitchell’s place.

“You’re far too nosy.”

“I’m human. Is he okay?” he asks, handing me my bag.

“He will be. I just… I’ll be in late tomorrow. Please make notes in all the meetings that you can handle, so I can catch up when I get in.”

“Sure thing, boss,” he says and then lowers his voice. “And let me know if you need me to swap with you. I know you don’t like him.”

“I don’t,” I reply.

“I know you feel obligated with your dad and that sticky relationship he had with⁠—”

“Enough,” I bite out. “I’m fine.”

Shiloh raises his hands and backs away. “Just offering. Keep me updated.”

I nod and close the door, pulling out my laptop and powering it up at the kitchen table. Dealing with Mitchell this week has left me behind in many aspects of my schedule, a schedule I’ve carefully curated. But then again, ever since I took over the company, things haven’t exactly gone to plan.

Mitchell eventually wanders out, his hair slightly sideways, a crease on his cheek, the cat cradled in his arms.

“You don’t need to stay,” he mumbles.

I eye him over the top of my laptop.

“I’m staying. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He scoffs and then rubs at his eyes. “I don’t want you here.”

That’s not what his body was telling me earlier, so I just ignore him.

“I’ll be ordering in for dinner. If you have any aversions, let me know now, or I’ll just be ordering whatever’s convenient.”

“I don’t care.”

He sinks down on the couch and turns on the TV once more, his eyes slowly drifting closed. I don’t like it, how apathetic he is. It bothers me more than it should. This is not the same man who scuffled with me in his office earlier this week. That man had fire and grit. This one just…doesn’t.

He’s got nothing.

I turn my thoughts away from him and work for another half hour, following up on emails before placing an order for Chinese food. Then I settle in next to him on the couch and wait for it to arrive.

“I have a phone number for you to call,” I say, and Mitchell peers over at me.

“For what?”

“For therapy.”

“Fuck off,” he murmurs. “I don’t need therapy.”

“I disagree. You need it.”

“What I don’t need is you in my space, telling me what to do.”

I feel my chest grow tight, anger flaring inside of me. Here I am, doing a good thing, trying to help, and he hates it. He doesn’t respect it. Once again, I’m wasting my fucking time.

I hate that I tried.

I loathe him.

“I’m here in your space because you looked like you might not have made it through the night.”

“I’m fucking fine. I’m a man. I can handle it.”

I shift on the couch, running a hand across my face. I’ve heard that, far too much, too often, and then it was too late.

“You don’t need to handle it.”

“I don’t fucking want help.”

I stare at him in disbelief and then stand up, placing the psychologist’s business card on the fridge under a Colorado magnet. It sits next to a picture of him and two other guys around his age. They’re all so attractive, full of life. His friends? Brothers? I don’t know much about him. And to be honest, at the moment, I really don’t care enough to ask.

“You can go. I don’t want you here,” Mitchell repeats from his place on the couch. The kitten meows loudly at me in agreement.

“Too fucking bad. I’m staying until you snap out of this.”

I cringe at my words. People don’t just snap out of depressive episodes, but I also don’t want to leave him and then find out he hurt himself. I was naive once. Never again.

“Whatever,” he murmurs and then leans his head back against the couch.

I stare at the top of his head and roll my lips between my teeth.

“Tomorrow morning before work, you and I will go to the gym and work out.”

He scoffs. “Thought I was fired.”

“I’ve reconsidered.”

“Yeah? You want a spoiled brat working for you? Someone you clearly despise?”

“If he does his job, I don’t mind it. I can keep my feelings at bay.”

Mitchell scoffs and turns his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting mine.

“I did my fucking job. I did it well and it was all for nothing.”

He turns back around and my heart clenches tightly.

“You haven’t been doing your best.”

“Yeah, and why the fuck should I?” He stands up and turns to face me, the muscles on his chest rippling slightly as he breathes. Good, he’s angry again. Not sad and depressed. This is what I wanted. He needs to feel, to not be numb.

“Because I’m your boss and you want to keep your job.”

“Yeah, thing is, I fucking don’t. I don’t give a shit about that shitty job in that shitty office.”

I move toward him. His chest is heaving, and I pull the cat from his hands and place it on the couch before facing him.

“It’s only shit because you’ve made it that way. You chose it, Mitchell.”

“My name’s Mitch,” he grumbles. I, of course, ignore it.

“If you want to be better, do better.”

His knuckles crack, and he glances away. “I did my best for years.” It’s a whisper, an admission. “I did so much, for so long. And it was all for nothing. All of it’s been for nothing.”

His shoulders slump and he runs a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”

The way his countenance suddenly changes makes me take another step forward and another until I’m chest to chest with him and I can smell the soap on his skin.

“No, that’s not true. Everything matters. You can do better, Mitchell. I know because I’ve brought myself up from nothing and you can do the same.”

He blinks at me, his eyes growing watery.

“I’m not strong enough,” he whispers, and I crack, pushing into him entirely and cradling the back of his neck. He leans into it, his forehead against mine, and whispers, “I’m not—I’m not gay.”

I stare at him, almost disbelieving that this is where his mind has gone, but then again, I met his dad. I know exactly who raised him and why he’d think that a simple touch like this would mean more than it does.

And yet still, my fingers slide into his hair, caressing his scalp, and he leans into my touch even more, his eyelids fluttering shut.

My own gaze tracks across his face to his lips, parted and panting, and for an insane moment, I can envision myself kissing him. But before I can do something stupid, the doorbell rings and he jolts away from me, nearly knocking into the wall as he leaps back.

I let out a tense breath and move away from him, answering the door and grabbing the bag from the delivery guy with a muttered thanks. My heart is thumping loudly in my chest and I can hear it ringing in my ears. I need to calm the fuck down. I need to not do something stupid, like think about kissing Mitchell Morris on the lips.

Setting the food on the kitchen table, I glance over and see that he’s still standing against the wall, his hand running back and forth across the back of his neck.

“Come over here and eat. When we’re done, we’re going for a walk.”

I need to get out of the house, to not be in such close quarters with him.

He huffs and then grumbles under his breath, something I don’t understand, but he takes a seat next to me and pulls open some food containers, looking at what I’ve ordered. I half-expect him to complain, but he doesn’t. He just grabs some chopsticks and gets to work, eating slower than I imagine he normally does, but still eating nonetheless. I wonder, before I made him that sandwich, when the last time he ate was.

I don’t care enough to ask, though.

When we’re done, we both change into something comfortable to walk around in and head out of the house. As we leave, the cat screams at us in derision.

“What’s the cat’s name?” I ask, and Mitchell shrugs, closing the front door and locking it.

“Dunno. I just call it Little Shit.”

That makes the corners of my mouth quirk up. Of course he hasn’t named it. I’d expect nothing less.

“Where did you get it?”

“It just came in my house the other day,” he grunts and then takes a step away from me, making sure we aren’t even close to touching. Fine by me. “Let’s go this way. There’s a park with a lake,” Mitchell says, and I follow him as he heads off to the right. Once more we walk in silence, the sun setting slowly behind the hills. It’s warm out, a perfect summer evening, and I let the heat seep into my skin.

My eyes wander around the neighborhood, taking in the neatly cared for houses and the eclectic lawn art, before settling back on Mitchell. He’s not my type at all, too big, too muscular, too brash. I like thin and petite, a little bratty and sassy, but ultimately a simp for me.

And yet, for some reason, despite the dislike I hold for this man, I can’t quite tear my eyes away. It’s making my insides squirm.

I clear my throat and try and distract myself from pondering that feeling a little too much.

“So I saw some guys in a picture on the fridge. Who are they?”

Those dark eyes peer over at me. “My brothers, well, two of them. The third…” His voice trails off, and he runs a hand down his face.

Suddenly, I wonder if that other brother died, if something traumatic happened and Mitchell doesn’t want to talk about it. Perhaps Mitchell and I aren’t so different after all.

“Yeah, they’re my brothers. I’m the oldest.”

“What are their names?” I ask, and he scoffs.

“Seriously, why the fuck do you care?”

“I don’t know. Just making conversation.”

“I don’t want to make small talk with you, asshole.” His words are cold, and I bite back a retort. But as we make our way into the park, a large pond in the middle and a cement walkway around the edge, he says, “Magnus is the youngest. Then Matt and Max.”

“All M’s,” I reply.

“Yeah, it’s fucking stupid.”

It is stupid, I think and then watch as a few geese make their way out of the water and waddle near us. I don’t trust geese and they seem to be everywhere around here.

“And do they live close by?” I ask.

His hands fist near his sides. “Yeah.”

“So, when you said you have no one⁠—”

“Seriously, it’s not your fucking business, okay?” he nearly shouts, making the geese honk loudly at us. Oh no, here we go. “It’s not your business. Why do you even want to know? You want to tuck it away to use as ammunition later? Because that’s fine with me.”

His chest heaves and his nostrils flare.

“My brothers all hate me. They fucking despise me. They had weddings and everything, and I didn’t even know. And you want to know why? Because I’m an asshole. An unlovable piece of shit that no one wants.”

A goose honks at him once more, but he doesn’t even notice.

“They hate me, and I have no one. There. Is that what you wanted to know?” He runs a hand along his jaw. “Even my dad hates my fucking guts.”

My chest squeezes at the anguish in his tone, and yet I don’t reach out. If I do, he may try to snap me in half, and honestly, I’m watching an angry goose that’s aggressively waddling over to us.

“And anyway, he’s not my fucking dad.”

Of course he feels that way after everything his dad did to him. Selling the company out from under him. I’d probably disown my dad too. If he was still alive.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, sounding defeated. “Just…when I say I have no one, I have no one. So please don’t fucking ask me any more questions. Just know that I’m pathetic, okay?”

Just as he says that, he steps to the side and nearly tramples the angry goose. It honks furiously at him as it’s long neck leans forward and pecks at his leg.

Mitchell grunts, kicking his leg out slightly, moving the goose along, but he should know better. You don’t taunt geese. You don’t get in their way.

“Mitchell,” I say warily as the goose returns, honking viciously and trying to poke a hole in his shin. “You should run.”

“I’m not running from a fucking bird,” he says, kicking out his leg again.

Just as he utters that, it spreads its wings out and flaps them at us, making me jump back.

“Geese are notorious for this, Mitchell,” I warn as a few more join the instigator. Mitchell’s eyes meet mine and then he takes off into a sprint. I follow, trying to outrun the geese charging after us. Mitchell looks back at me, his eyes wide, and I let out a small laugh.

“Better run faster, they have wings.”

Just as I say that, all of them honk angrily in unison, like a deranged chorus, and Mitchell curses, his legs pumping faster. I can hear the furious flapping behind us as we cut through some trees, and after a few minutes of that shit show, we finally seem to have lost them. Mitchell leans over, his chest heaving, his hands on his thighs, his face red and sweaty.

“Shit,” he murmurs, and I grin behind my hand, trying like hell not to laugh.

“I told you. Geese are mean fuckers.”

“Yeah, they’ve never bothered me before. They must hate you.”

“Well, you did almost trample one. They don’t like being bothered.”

He rolls his eyes and swipes a hand across his forehead. “I still think it’s you.”

Our eyes meet, and I see something sparkle in those depths before it’s snuffed out and he turns away from me.

“Right. Should get home. It’s getting dark.”

“Scared to be out in the park late at night?” I ask, and he grumbles next to me.

“Fuck off.”

“Don’t worry,” I say as we begin the trek back to his house. “I’ll protect you.”

“I don’t need fucking protection. Don’t need you here. Period.”

But he still walks next to me all the way back to his place and lets me inside. He moves to the freezer and pulls out a container and then two bowls from the cabinet.

“Ice cream?” he asks, and I nod, settling down on the couch. He brings me a large scoop of vanilla with a spoon and sits down beside me. Little Shit just eyes us forlornly before Mitchell dips his finger into the ice cream and holds it out to the cat, watching as its rough little tongue laps at it.

“You don’t need to stay,” he tells me again, only this time his voice holds no anger, only resignation.

“I’m staying tonight,” I say, firm in this decision. “I will sleep on the couch.”

He doesn’t respond, just turns his gaze to the TV and flicks it on. He puts on something I’d expect him to watch, an action film of some sort, but I just keep my mouth shut and let myself relax for a moment. I’m sure tomorrow Mitchell and I will be at odds once more, but right now, this is peaceful.

And that’s good enough for me.