Four Of A Kind - Chapter 165: [3.6-7] Just For Tomorrow
Chapter 165: [3.6-7] Just For Tomorrow
My heart stumbled over itself in my chest. Not the calculated kind of reaction I’m used to—this was pure idiocy, triggered by nothing more logical than the sight of her standing there, all that perfect Valentine posture starting to splinter around the edges.
“Do you keep looking at me?”
“You know I do.”
Yeah. I did know. I just wanted to hear her say it out loud.
“So what do you want me to say?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Her voice dropped to something quieter, something gentler. The kind of softness Vivienne Valentine probably rehearses hiding from cameras and strangers. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what I want you to say because I don’t know what this is.”
“This?”
She waved her hand in the space between us, a vague arc that somehow managed to encompass the two feet of ridiculously expensive carpet separating our bodies. “Whatever’s happening. With you. And me. And.” She stopped. I watched her swallow. “It’s unprofessional.”
“Yep.”
“It’s a terrible idea.”
“Absolutely.”
“My mother would.”
“Probably fire me on the spot.”
Vivienne’s hands drop to her sides. “Then why are you still here?”
“Because you asked me a question and I’m waiting for you to answer it.”
“I don’t remember the question.”
“Yes you do.”
She looks down. Studies the expensive carpet like it holds the secrets of the universe written in its Persian weave. When she speaks again, her voice comes out barely above a whisper, so quiet I almost miss it over the sound of her tablet buzzing again on the desk.
“I don’t want you to be my assistant tomorrow.”
The admission hangs between us, heavy and terrifying and real.
“Okay,” I say.
She looks up fast. Her eyes are wide, surprised, like she expected me to fight her on this. Like she prepared for an argument and got agreement instead. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just okay?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
“I don’t.” She stops. Starts again. Her words come faster now, tumbling out like she’s been holding them back for weeks. “You’re supposed to argue. Or refuse. Or tell me this is a bad idea. You’re supposed to remind me of all the reasons this doesn’t make sense. The consequences. The complications. The way my mother will look at me when she realizes what I’ve done.”
“It is a bad idea.”
“Then why are you agreeing?”
“Because you asked.”
Something in her expression shifts. Softens. Gets dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with business or strategy or any of the armor she normally wears like it’s part of her skin.
“Isaiah.”
“Vivienne.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like.” She takes a breath. The kind that means she’s trying to steady herself, trying to find that perfect composure again and failing. “Like it matters. Like saying my name means something.”
“It does matter.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
Her tablet buzzes again. This time she walks over and silences it completely. Presses the button so hard I hear the click from here. When Vivienne Valentine turns off her tablet, when she chooses a conversation over the constant stream of emails and schedules and demands, you know you’ve entered uncharted territory.
She comes back to the window. Stands directly in front of me now. Closer than before. Close enough that I can see the individual strands of red in her hair where the light catches them. The exact shade of pink on her cheeks that she probably thinks she’s hiding better than she is.
“If I bring you to this party as my date instead of my assistant, everything changes.”
“I know.”
“People will ask questions.”
“Let them.”
“My mother will.”
“She already does.”
“This is different.” Vivienne’s hands twist together. Actual nervous fidgeting from the girl who once fired a marketing director without blinking. Who treats emotions like inefficient variables in her success algorithm. “If I do this, if I bring you as something other than staff, I’m saying something. In front of my mother, the board, every fashion editor in New York.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you matter.” She looks at me. Really looks at me, not the professional assessment look but something rawer. “To me. That you’re not just.”
“The help?”
“Don’t.”
“It’s what I am.”
“No.” Her voice goes sharp. That edge she uses in business meetings when someone’s wasted her time. “You’re not. You’ve never been. Not to me.”
My brain tries to process that statement and fails completely. Crashes like a computer asked to divide by zero.
“Then what am I?”
“I don’t know.” She steps closer. Another six inches disappeared between us. “That’s what terrifies me.”
We stand there in her study while the sun finishes setting outside and the room gets darker. The last orange light paints everything gold, catches on her hair and turns it molten. Neither of us moves to turn on a light. The shadows feel safer somehow, like they give us permission to have this conversation.
“So tomorrow,” I say carefully. “What do I tell people when they ask?”
“Tell them.” Vivienne swallows. I watch her throat work. “Tell them you’re with me.”
“As your date?”
“As someone who matters.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have right now.”
Fair enough.
I should probably leave. Give her space to backtrack. Let her blame it on exhaustion or stress or temporary insanity brought on by seating charts and launch party logistics. Walk out of this study and pretend the conversation never happened. That’s the smart play. The safe play.
But here’s the thing about Vivienne Valentine that I’ve learned over three weeks.
When she makes a decision, she commits. Even when it scares her. Even when it’s stupid. Even when every logical part of her brain is screaming that this is a mistake.
Especially when it’s stupid.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll be your date. Or whatever we’re calling it.”
“Just for tomorrow.”
“Right. Just for tomorrow.”
