Chapter 3: "What Do You Want Me to Use it For?"

Continued from chapter 2:

A faint blush touches her cheeks.

“You can’t seriously want to spend your evening sitting in your thirty-eight-year-old boss’s office listening to him complain about patents and negotiations.”

Her laughter is soft and musical.

“Well, first of all,” she says, “you make yourself sound much older than you actually are.”

I snort.

“And second?”

She lowers her eyes briefly before answering.

“I don’t really have a huge social circle.”

Chapter 3:

Something **** flickers across her face.

“Most of my friends are online,” she admits. “And my closest friend from college moved a couple of hours away.”

I study her quietly.

Under the office lights, she looks young in a way that has nothing to do with age.

Open.

Earnest.

Trying very hard to be brave.

“You know,” she says after a moment, “I was terrified this morning.”

“That obvious?”

“A little,” she replies with a grin.

Then her expression softens.

“But you made things easier.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I did?”

“Mhm.”

She nods slowly.

“You treated me like a person instead of just an employee.”

The sincerity in her voice settles heavily in my chest. For reasons I cannot entirely explain, the room suddenly feels quieter. Becky tilts her head slightly as she watches me. There is a calm steadiness in her now that had not existed this morning.

“You spend so much energy taking care of everything around you,” she says softly. “I don’t think many people take care of you.”

The comment catches me off guard badly enough that I look away. She notices. Of course she notices. Her voice becomes gentler.

“You don’t have to impress me all the time, Ero.”

Something about the way she says my name makes my chest tighten unexpectedly. Not flirtatious. Not manipulative. Just kind. She reaches across the desk then, resting her fingertips lightly against the back of my hand.

The gesture is innocent. Comforting. And somehow far more intimate than overt seduction could ever be.

“You’re allowed to be tired sometimes,” she says.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The city glitters outside the windows while the office remains wrapped in quiet golden light.

And sitting there across from Becky Winthrop, with empty takeout containers scattered across my desk and cold beer sweating beside unfinished paperwork, I realize hiring her may have been the best instinct I have trusted in years.

The conversation drifts further as the evening deepens. The beers loosen both of us. What begins as harmless joking gradually slides into stranger territory — the kind of late-night conversation that only happens when two lonely people remain together long after everyone else has gone home.

We laugh about ordinary office objects being used in ridiculous ways. Paperweights. Staplers. Printer toner. At some point, grinning to myself, I open a drawer in my desk and pull out a long wooden ruler.

The thing is old-fashioned and heavy, nearly two feet long, smooth from years of use. Becky’s eyes brighten immediately.

“Oh no,” she says, laughing.

I place it between us on the desk.

“Tell me something, Becky Winthrop.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“What would you use this ruler for besides its intended purpose?”

Her grin widens mischievously.

“Well,” she says, leaning forward, “first of all, it could make an excellent self-defense weapon.”

She picks it up and points it toward me like a fencing sword.

“I shall protect the office with honor.”

I laugh despite myself. Becky giggles too before lowering the ruler again.

“Or maybe it could be a drumstick,” she continues. “You could put on a whole percussion performance with this thing.”

She begins tapping the ruler rhythmically against her palm. The sharp wooden sound echoes softly through the quiet office.

Then she pauses. A faint blush creeps slowly into her cheeks.

“Orrr...”

My stomach tightens. Her eyes flick upward toward mine through dark lashes. The tapping slows.

“Maybe,” she says softly, “it could be used for something a little more personal.”

The room suddenly feels warmer. Becky laughs nervously under her breath.

“Oh my God. Listen to me.”

She looks away briefly, embarrassed by her own boldness.

“The beer is definitely getting to me.”

Still, she keeps lightly tapping the ruler against her palm.

“Ero?” she asks quietly.

My throat tightens.

“What would you want me to use it for?”

To be continued in chapter 4...