Shameless by Ann Major Page B

room, and he followed her with his eyes, she would feel the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She would blush and smile at him shyly, and he would look away too quickly.
    To avoid such scenes, she kept away from him. When he watched television in the living room, she stayed in the kitchen and read by herself. Not that she could totally ignore him even there. He’d laugh and she’d look up from her woman’s magazine and think about him in those ways she didn’t want to think about him.
    He was so big and broad-chested and tanned. And his mouth. Oh, dear. That warm, gorgeous, delicious-looking mouth of his. Just the thought of his mouth tickling her skin made her knot her hands in her lap and made her body get hot all over. Yes, even in the kitchen all by herself, knowing he was nearby made her edgy and restless and somehow unfulfilled. Before, he’d been affectionate all through the day. Seven years ago he used to come up behind her without warning and she’d feel his fingers at her nape and then his lips.
    Now, nights when he didn’t come home at his usual hour, she would run to the front door or watch the phone, waiting for it to ring. And all the time an ache in her stomach would worsen as she wondered where he was.
    She’d worry herself into a headache. Maybe he’d had an accident and had forgotten to put on his seat belt again. Maybe he’d fallen off the tractor or been gored. Maybe whoever had killed that cow had attacked Phillip. Not that Phillip ever told her his plans. Not that his whereabouts were any of her business. After all, they weren’t married. They weren’t even lovers. All theywere was boss and employee. And as the weeks passed, both were more determined than ever that the other understood that. It was as if they’d drawn lines in the sand and dared one another not to step across. But she worried about him. She couldn’t stop herself. And she thought about him constantly. She even sang about him.
    When her chores were done, and she had nothing to do, she would go to her bedroom or sit on the front porch with her guitar and write songs. The best ones were always about Phillip. How could that be when he was her boss?
    What was she doing here? Was she crazy?
    When Phillip was away, she taped the songs and mailed them with a letter to a hot new producer, Greg Furman, in Nashville. Not that Furman ever wrote her back. Even so, she always felt a little guilty, as though she was going behind Phillip’s back, as though she should share everything in her heart and soul with him.
    But her career was none of his business. What were they to each other, really? She was his maid and that was hardly the career she’d had in mind. Constantly, she had to work to remind herself that this wasn’t her home, that Phillip wasn’t her husband or even her lover, and that he never would be. But she thought about him when she was in bed, and she dreamed about him when she slept.
    She would wake up and tell herself she owed him nothing. Nothing but her friendship! She would tell herself that the next night she would refuse to think about him or dream about him, that she was her own person, and as such, she had to get her career back on track—as soon as possible. And yet…
    And yet the very next night, when she was alone in her narrow little bed again and he was such a short distance down the hall in his big double bed they’d shared and made passionate love in, staying in his house even for a few months would seem like a big mistake. A board would creak outside her room and she’d nearly jump out of her skin, thinking it might be Phillip at her door. Hoping it was, her heart would beat faster. She’d imagine his hand on her doorknob, and a bolt of heat would course through her. She’d sit up shivering expectantly. Then she’d realize he wasn’t there. She’d wrap her arms around herself and remember how it used to