The VIRGIN STRIPPER

63

***** Lisa Michaels *****
I watched as the window fogged up from the rain. Dave's house keeper was going to have a hard time with the windows this time round— but God bless her soul that woman, she had been extremely nice to me ever since I moved in three days ago.

A short knock sounded from the door before it was opened slowly. I never really opened it myself in such scenarios.

"Did you go outdoors today?" Was Dave's first question as he set the tray he had on my bedside table.

"You're home early today," I noted quietly before moving from my spot near the window.

"Yeah, well it was raining and I had a feeling someone couldn't eat without being forced so," he shrugged as if the gesture would finish his statement and it did.

"I ate," I told him as I eyed the way he had a hard time finding a place to sit.

It was funny really, watching the man feared by half his employees and partners, and respected by men twice his age, struggle to pick a place to sit in my room— technically still his but that was debatable.

"Breakfast, " he replied flatly before choosing the couch far away from the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," I wasn't lying, his presence made a significant difference to how I felt, but that was something I wasn't going to admit.

"I have an interview with some rich people magazine tomorrow," he started and I laughed. 'Rich people' was my term and it sounded weird coming from him. "I want you to join me," he continued as he bit his own lip to suppress a smile.

"I don't feel like going out," I declined and it wasn't a lie because for the past three days since I moved in all I wanted to do was stay in bed.

Vin had come by the other day with some employees from the firm I rarely worked at to offer their condolences and some of my classmates dropped by too after going through a gazillion security checks thanks to mister rich and protective.

"I invited them over," he told me before proceeding to take the tray and sort out tiny bits of food like he always did before sitting on my bed. "The interview is going to be held here. "

"I don't feel like interacting, " I said, watching as he mixed the fruit salad one more time.

"It's been three days," he breathed quietly and stopped fiddling with the tray to look at me, "I don't want you to be so closed in," his other part was like a silent wish because his words were barely audible.

"We talk, " I protested weakly and eyed the tray of food in his hands as if to ward off his gaze.

"I talk, you just listen," he said. "I don't know what's going on in your head and that scares me, " he placed the tray where it was before and turned to look at me fully.

"Well, I was just thinking how hard it was going to be for Essie to clean the windows," I pointed to the patch of fog on the glass, "before that I was thinki-" with a chuckle,  Dave shook his head and stood from the bed.

He went over to the window and drew the curtains before reaching for the remote control to switch the TV in my room on.

"Make a choice," he said kicking his shoes off and I watched feeling a little elated.

Whether it was the grief and immense feeling of loss or my hormones had really started to work up,  everytime Dave did something slightly over-friendly,  I found myself feeling giddy.

Like yesterday with the chocolates, or the day before that when I moved in and he cooked dinner for us, yes I couldn't stomach the food, but the gesture just threw me off my emotional beam balance.