Unspoken Rules

      The next three days slipped by like a shadow, each day slipping into a routine that felt suspiciously comfortable. Amy got up at six-thirty, fixed Theo’s bottle, and spent those early, golden hours with him in the nursery. He was gradually beginning to know her voice. Whenever she walked in, he’d whip his head around, squealing like she was the best thing he’d seen all day.

   She sang silly songs while she changed him, doodled quick cartoons on her tablet when they played on the floor, and caught herself smiling more than she had in months. The money was already starting to make an impact on her life, too.

She cleared her biggest overdue bill from the first advance of her monthly salary, and, for the first time in ages, she could actually breathe without that constant threat of eviction breathing down her neck.

But still, the real tension for her slipped in between the routines, where the silence between her and Damien hung heavy.

He never stayed out or away for too long. Most mornings, he worked from his home office, popping out at odd times to check on Theo. He never asked or demanded anything; he just always seemed to show up when she least expected.

On the fourth evening, after she’d put Theo to bed, Amy slipped into the main living room with her tablet. She curled up on the giant sectional couch, sketching out a new logo for a client who had suddenly resurfaced.

She didn’t hear when Damien walked in.

“You draw when you’re trying to disappear,” he said from the doorway.

Her stylus nearly jumped from her hand. Damien stood there in a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants - casual, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. Arms folded, eyes fixed on her with that steady, unsettling focus.

“I thought everyone was asleep,” she managed to reply, closing the tablet a little too quickly.

He pushed off the doorframe and wandered over, stopping just out of reach. He didn’t sit, just stood there, staring down at her.

 “You’ve been here for days, and you still haven’t asked me anything personal. Not about the company, not Theo’s mother, not even why the nannies before you quit so fast.”

Amy put the tablet aside, folding her hands in her lap.

“I figured if it mattered, you or Aunt Clara would just tell me.”

A low sound, almost a laugh, slipped out of him. He stepped closer. Then closer again, until he was right in front of her.

He was taller from this angle - commanding, but not threatening. 

“You’re different,” he said, his tone dropping to something quieter.

“Most women walk in here and see the money first. Then they start acting - laughing too loud, touching my arm, hinting at what I like in bed, sometimes in the first week.” His eyes narrowed.

“You don’t do any of that. Instead, you look at me like I’m a problem, and your solution is to ignore me.”

Her heart picked up speed. She held his gaze, refusing to sink back into the couch.

“I’m not here to solve you, Mr. Ross. I’m here for the paycheck. And for Theo.”

He leaned in, putting one hand against the back of the sofa, close to her, but not touching. His voice got low and rough - the kind that got under her skin before she could stop it.

“You use my name like armor. ‘Mr. Ross.’” He gestured with his free hand before he locked eyes with her, probably hearing her breathing hitch.

“Be honest with me, Amy - how long do you think that shield’s going to last while you’re living with me?”

She could smell his cologne - dark, woodsy, outrageously expensive. She noticed the stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed as they studied her.

Amy swallowed.

“As long as I need it to.”

He didn’t budge for a second, then finally straightened, that small, half-smile curling on his lips.

“Interesting,” he said. “Most people break faster.”

He then turned for the hallway that led to his wing, pausing once without looking back.

“Sleep well, Amy. Theo has an early pediatrician appointment tomorrow. You’ll come with us.”

Then he was gone.

Amy released the breath she had been holding and pressed a hand to her chest. Her skin felt too warm. Her thoughts spun with the memory of how close he’d just been to her - not touching, yet somehow more intimate than any man who had ever laid hands on her.

She whispered to the empty room, “Stay professional, Amy. Just stay professional."

But deep down, a small, traitorous part of her wondered how long she could keep telling herself that lie.