I Like Being Watched by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fourteen

Wynn

 

 

 

He gave me a car.

Well, I mean, not technically.

But, also, he had.

It was mine in everything but title, but I didn't have to do anything to pay for it, to maintain it, or even to fuel it up.

It was a black BMW 7-Series with the kind of grill and rims that any casual passerby knew it was expensive. And after a quick Google search, I nearly choked on my own spit to see a price tag of almost ninety-thousand.

Ninety-Thousand.

For a car.

That he wasn't even going to drive.

I almost marched right back into the house to hand him back the fancy touchscreen key fob before words of much wiser persons than myself crossed my mind.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Why shouldn't I take it if he was offering it? I had it in writing that nothing that happened to it would impact me.

On that thought, I unlocked the door, opening it to find a fancy tan and black interior that made me think I'd never be able to drink my morning coffee in it on the way to work anymore for fear of staining the buttery smooth leather.

I had the irrational urge to slide off my shoes before I climbed in, but just barely managed to fight it off as I got in, closed the door, and reached for the push ignition, hearing it purr to life.

And, glory of glories, after maybe only two minutes of cold air blasting out of the vents, hot air danced around my face and hair.

"This is like a spaceship," I declared to the car as I eyed the touchscreen command center. "Oh, no way," I gasped, pressing my finger against the screen where it claimed I not only had heated seats, but a heated steering wheel and armrests as well.

Sure enough, within a minute or two, my butt, thighs, arms, and hands were all toasty warm, and I was seriously considering giving up my art dreams to become a venture capitalist or something because, well, I suddenly decided I could not live without heated seats, armrests, and steering wheels for the rest of my life.

On that note, though, I adjusted the seat and mirrors, then hit the button clipped to the visor for the garage, and backed out past my somewhat trusty beater, feeling a bit guilty driving past it in such luxury.

The whole road home, I refused to let my mind wander past enjoying the way nothing rattled and no lights lit up my dashboard.

But after I got home, locked up the fancy new car, and went up into my apartment, there was no stopping the flooding of thoughts that assaulted me all at once.

Fitz got me a car.

I mean, sure, there might have been some rationality to his argument about my car being unreliable, but he'd also never experienced an inconvenience on my part because of my shoddy means of transportation, so it wasn't like that really should have even been on his mind.

So why then?

Because we'd had sex?

Fitz didn't strike me as the sort of man to buy a woman gifts for fucking him. It wasn't like he would have a hard time getting laid. He was rich, handsome, and a pretty nice guy under all the guards he put up.

He didn't need to give women gifts in exchange for their attention and affection.

So why then?

Especially since I'd been freezing him out since the party.

See, after taking off to freshen up and get myself together, I came to the realization that it wasn't safe for me to keep allowing things to be sexual between Fitz and me.

Because I was having confusing thoughts and feelings about him that had nothing to do with sex.

It was risky enough to have a sexual relationship with your boss, but to let one-sided feelings start to get involved? That was a recipe for disaster. It was a surefire way to lose my job as well as the stability I'd started to get accustomed to thanks to it.

So I needed to distance myself. I needed to control my urges to put on a show for the cameras, for the man sitting at his desk watching the feeds from them.

I had to get it together.

I had to put an end to it.

So I put on clothes that wouldn't allow for any sort of malfunctions and I focused my mind on the tasks at hand instead of which angles the cameras were catching me at, and wondering if Fitz was watching me.

It made the days long and boring and exhausting.

But that was what a job was like, right?

On a sigh, I kicked out of my boring flats, took off my bland slacks and button-up, slipped into an oversized tee, and headed into my studio.

Where I stared at the blank canvas until my eyes got blurry.

See, what I'd told Blake was only a half-truth.

I actually hadn't been able to put my paintbrush to a canvas in days.

I blamed my strange mood.

My art flourished with strong emotions like love or hate or anger and joy.

But I felt emotionally stunted right then. Weird and unfocused, my mind whipping from one thing to some completely unrelated thing the next second, leaving me wired and antsy, but too all over the place to get anything onto a canvas or even a damn sketchpad.

I was artistically stuck.

And it was scarier than I could have anticipated, to think I'd lost something that had always been such a vital part of my life.

On a strange whimper, I tossed the brush back into the coffee can I kept them in, and made my way out of the studio to grab my phone.

I didn't call Perry.

I usually would have.

If not for the whole boss thing.

She was understanding and nonjudgmental about most things, but I wasn't sure how she would react to this sort of conversation.

But there was one person I could always count on understanding and never ever judging.

"Hey, honey!" my mom's chipper voice met my ear.

"I can't paint," I said, hearing the mix of desperation and fear in my voice.

"Huh," my mom said as I put water on for hot chocolate. "Okay. Well, what is going on that might be messing up your aura?"

"It's sort of a long story," I admitted, putting a teabag and sugar into a mug as I watched the electric kettle start to warm up.

"And the condensed version is?"

"I, ah, I sort of slept with my boss," I admitted.

"Did he fire you?"

"Ah, no. Actually, he is lending me a really fancy car," I admitted.

"Is he now?"

"It's not a sex gift," I insisted.

"Of course not. I would never imply that, darling. I'm afraid I'm not seeing the issue here. You slept with your boss and he is being kind to you?"

Okay, put like that, it didn't sound all that confusing or complicated.

"I, ah, it was... I sort of... you know... initiated it. But it was really more of a game. For weeks. And then..."

"And then you had sex and decided maybe it isn't just a game to you after all."

My mom, bless her heart. She always got it.

"Exactly."

"And what has happened since then?"

"Well, I, ah, I distanced myself. I can't have feelings for my boss."

"Why not?"

"Because, you know, it's like a rule."

"Whose rule? Is it his rule? Your rule? You are the only two people whose opinions matter on this issue, don't you think?"

"Well... yeah, I guess."

"His opinion seems to be clear."

"I mean, not really. He said I needed a reliable car to keep doing my job."

"My sweet girl, you are not that gullible. I can all but guarantee you that the car has nothing to do with your job. Men don't typically think like that. Right, honey?" she asked, but I knew she wasn't talking to me by the way her voice got far away. "Wynnie wants to know if a boss out of nowhere gets his assistant a fancy new car just so she can do her job more effectively."

"That depends," my step-father said, likely leaning his head against my mothers to talk into her phone. "Has your car been breaking down lately?"

"No. I mean, it does its usual nonsense, but never that he has known about."

"Then no. That is not typical," he said, and I could already tell he'd lost interest in the conversation. I loved my step-father, but he was a practical man who didn't usually have a lot of time for chit-chat. I guess that was why he and my impractical and loquacious mother worked so well.

"See?" my mother asked. "I think your boss might have feelings for you, but doesn't know how to express it. Bill was the same way when we first started dating. He was wholly incapable of telling me he was into me, so he would take my car to get it washed and serviced, or hire someone to come in and fix the leaky sink in my kitchen, or tell me he just so happened to get tickets from a client to a nearly sold-out and very expensive opera I'd told him I was dying to see. Sometimes men weren't raised to regulate and express their feelings, so they show them instead of telling you about them."

"I just... I don't think my boss has feelings for me," I insisted, pouring my hot water into my cup.

"Why not? Because he's rich and powerful and you're not?" my mom asked, making me wince because, to an extent, that was something that had crossed my mind.

"He could have any woman he wanted," I said, knowing it was true.

"Sure, darling. But he wants you. Who are you to tell him he's mistaken in his decision? Those are his feelings to feel, not yours to change. You don't have to participate in his feelings if you don't want to. That's your choice. But it's really not your place to question why he wants you. He just does."

My mother, bless her, was one of the most self-assured people I'd ever met. Not cocky or conceited in any way, just sure of herself, never plagued with rampant intrusive thoughts about her own inadequacy. She didn't question why people adored her, just accepted it.

I, however, didn't inherit that gene.

Sure, I was confident in many ways. In my physicality, in my sexuality, in my talent, in my drive and ambition to make something for myself.

But when it came to things like feelings and relationships? That wasn't my strong suit. The path behind me was littered with the scattered, decaying remains of all my previous relationships. It stretched back to when I first started dating at fifteen and ended about a year ago.

It just never worked.

And it left me with this lingering worry that there was simply something wrong with me that I could never make it work, that no one ever just looked at me and saw me as enough.

These were just average guys, too. Not rich, powerful, educated, and cultured like Fitz.

What would a man like that see in me?

Other than sex, obviously.

Maybe that was what it boiled down to.

I was sure all he could want from me was sex—since I had worked hard at making him want that—and a part of me was terrified that after we'd done it, he would be done with me.

"Listen, Wynnie, I get it. You're struggling to see it right now. I'm just suggesting you be open to letting him show you," my mom suggested.

"That's... that's good advice," I decided.

"I'm known for it," my mom agreed, and I could almost see the smile I knew she had on her face.

"I miss you."

"I miss you too, sweetie. Just a couple more weeks," she assured me.

Schedule-wise, we hadn't been able to swing actual Christmas this year, but we were going to spend a few days together between Christmas and New Years.

"I want some details on you and your boss," she demanded. "If things happen between now and when I see you. I also wouldn't object to a picture of the man who is spoiling my much-deserving little girl."

"I'll see what I can do," I said.

"Good. Don't overthink it. Just let the universe guide you."

"I'll try," I agreed.

"Good. Love you, baby."

"Love you too," I said, ending the call and taking a sip of my tea, deciding she was right.

I had growing feelings.

And if Fitz did too, wasn't that worth exploring?

I would just... take my cues from him.

On that note, I went back into my studio to work, finally getting something done for the first time in days.

—

"What do you mean you don't have a Christmas tree?" I asked, sure I misunderstood him, like perhaps he always got a real tree each year, so he didn't have one at the moment.

"I don't have one," Fitz said, shrugging from behind his laptop screen.

"Do you get a real one each year then?" I demanded to know.

"No, I do not," Fitz said, half closing the lid of his laptop, looking over at me with drawn-together brows. "You look insulted," he said, lips twitching.

"Do you... you know... not celebrate?" I asked.

"I mean, traditionally, yes, Christmas has been something I've celebrated."

"But you don't have a tree."

"Correct."

"For how long?"

"I don't know. Probably since my father passed. That was his department."

"But with his passing, wouldn't that task fall to you? You know, so your brother and you could celebrate?"

"Honey, I don't think there is enough spiked eggnog in the world that could make us tolerate each other for a solitary holiday. It was different when we had our father as a buffer. Now, all we would do is bicker."

We were just going to pretend to ignore the fact that he called me 'honey.'

"Yeah... Christmas," I said, throwing up a hand.

"You bicker with your family at Christmas?"

"Well, I won't be this year, but I mean... yeah. There is always little sniping at each other over the meals or old and new traditions or spending too much on gifts. What do you two do for holidays then?"

"Blake throws a Christmas Eve party in the guest house, then sleeps it off most of Christmas Day."

"What about you?"

"It's just another day. I actually get a lot of work done with some overseas countries. You're looking at me like I kicked your puppy."

Okay, he wasn't wrong.

I realized my hand was even over my heart at his words.

"That's just... unacceptable," I declared. "I'm going to be all alone this Christmas, but I am putting up a tree, and baking cookies, and watching Christmas movies."

"You bake?"

"Occasionally, yeah."

"Could I add baking Christmas cookies to your job description?" he asked, looking hopeful.

"What kind of cookies?"

"Any kind of cookies," he decided.

"I can do that. In fact, I will do you one better. I am going to get you a tree too."

"You don't have to do that."

"But if I want to, would you be interested?" I asked.

"I think I might," he agreed, nodding.

"Also, I'm going to make the grounds guy put lights up outside. No one likes a dark, Scrooge house."

To that, I got a smile.

"Okay."

"Anything else I'm missing?" I asked, mostly to myself.

"Christmas music?" Fitz suggested.

"Oh, don't worry. If I am baking, there will be Christmas music blasting. You might regret mentioning it since I sing like a couple of cats engaged in a nasty turf war, but it will be happening."

There was warmth in Fitz's eyes and smile then. So warm, in fact, that it made a gooey sensation move across my chest at the sight of it.

"I'm looking forward to it," he said, and, what's more, I was pretty sure he meant it.

And that, well, it gave me free rein to do something I usually didn't get to do a lot of. Recklessly spending money on Christmas decor. I always picked up one thing here or there, but money was always tight, and I tried to focus more on getting gifts for loved ones than decorations for my house.

But when I'd asked Fitz about the budget for decorating his estate, well, he'd told me to buy whatever I wanted, that the price really didn't matter.

So, yeah, I went a little crazy.

I got a massive tree to suit his tall ceilings, tons of lights and ornaments, garland for the staircase, wreaths for the doors, throw pillows, and little bric-a-brac items to put on sideboards or console tables.

Then I'd bided my time until Fitz had an overnight trip away to get to work. It wasn't nearly as dramatic to watch your house transform into an elegant Christmas wonderland as it was to walk in to see it decked out.

I worked from morning until late at night the evening he was away crossing the Ts and dotting the Is for his big deal. Then I'd dragged myself out of bed the next morning and got right back at it.

Then, when he still wasn't home, I went ahead and got to work on the cookies with the Christmas music blasting.

It wasn't until I was doing an over-the-top rendition of All I Want For Christmas Is You when I turned to find Fitz leaning in the doorway from the garage, watching me with a sweet, bemused expression on his face.

"I, ah, I warned you I couldn't sing," I said, turning down the music. "But it's the enthusiasm that coun—" I started, getting cut off when Fitz pulled away from the doorway, stalked toward me, grabbed me, and sealed his lips to mine.