HIS STRIPPER, HIS WIFE novel Chapter 103

Chapter 103

Adrian

I didn’t even pause before typing my reply. “No, I’m not going to let you continue with that silly attitude. You don’t work for me anymore, so you will only refer to me by my first name. Whenever you decide to come back to working with me, you can go back to calling me sir, but for now, I’m Adrian to you.”

I sent it before I could second guess it, then set the phone down and picked up my glass, pretending I wasn’t watching the screen out of the corner of my eye.

A minute later it lit up again. “Sorry. Understood.”

I almost laughed at how formal that sounded, like she was replying to a memo at the office. “Good. Now that we’ve settled that, how is the new role treating you?” I sent it.

“It’s good so far,” she wrote. “Still learning where everything is. I got lost twice today looking for the supply closet.”

“That’s concerning. I expected better navigation skills from someone who used to run my entire schedule without missing a beat.”

“Running your schedule and finding a supply closet are two very different skill sets, sir.”

“Adrian.”

“Sorry. Adrian.”

The conversation stayed stiff after that for a while, short replies, careful pauses between messages like both of us were testing how much the conversation could hold before it broke.

I asked about the studio, she gave short answers about fabric samples and mood boards, nothing personal, nothing that was telling me as much as I wanted to. I could tell she was choosing her words carefully, the same way I was choosing mine, both of us circling around the whole thing.

Somewhere around the tenth message, the mood changed. She mentioned a woman named Mrs Gina who apparently talked too fast and moved even faster, and I found myself smiling at my phone like an idiot as she described trying to keep up with the tour on her first day.

“She sounds exhausting,” I wrote.

“She’s actually amazing, just a lot to take in at once.”

“Sounds like someone else I used to work with.”

“Are you comparing me to your creative director?”

“I’m saying you both apparently enjoy giving people no time to breathe.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

I laughed out loud at that, actually laughed, alone in my study with nobody around to hear it. The conversation kept easing after that, question after question, small jokes slipping in between the more careful lines.

She told me about the fabric room and how one of the designers kept losing his brush, I told her about Felix rejecting every candidate complaint I threw at him all week, careful not to mention why none of them were good enough.

We were still on our toes the entire time, both of us skating around anything that sounded too much like missing each other, but underneath the careful wording, it was very obvious.

It went on longer than either of us probably meant it to, the messages slower and comfortable now. Then her replies started coming like someone who was now pleased with talking to me.

“I should sleep,” she wrote eventually. “Work begins tomorrow and I’m still easing into everything, I don’t want to be the one who shows up late on day three.”

“Go to sleep then. Don’t want you getting fired before you even settle in properly.”

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