#teninch

-

His what?

She's still pondering her friend's cryptic warning as she heads down the stairs ten minutes later, flat shoes soundless against the rich carpet. There's so much to unpack here. Why would she be looking at his trousers in the first place? What would she see there to make her stare?

It occurs to her that Clara might be taking the piss, which is fine and good—they've been friends far longer than they've had any sort of working relationship—but she decides to be careful anyway, and keep her eyes firmly above the beltline. Whatever he's got going on in his trousers, she doesn't need to know.

Doesn't want to know.

Rose is practicing Not Looking At Things with such intensity that she nearly walks right by the cloakroom—though it would be easy enough to do, even without the distractions. It's closed up tight.

She has a key, of course, but she really has no interest in just a room full of coats.

Perhaps, she reasons, he's gone home early tonight. It would make sense; he'd probably not had anyone down in hours. Or maybe he'd seen the weather report and left, trying to beat the snow. Still, wouldn't he need to tell someone—that someone being her, the manager, she reminds herself—if he'd left?

Maybe he's just gone to the loo.

Rather than hanging around like a limpet, Rose turns on the locked door and heads back upstairs, determined to find something else to occupy her evening. She's got some requests for shift changes—that'll be plenty distracting, and take all evening. Why does nobody want to work on Thursdays?

To her surprise, Rose feels a small sense of disappointment as she ascends the staircase, the all-but-empty restaurant spread out in front of her.

Apparently, she's just not destined to meet the curious creature who haunts the cloakroom. Not tonight, anyway.

She doesn’t hear the sudden rustle in the cloakroom—by then, she’s too far away.

-

On Thursday, her mystery is solved—though not by any real effort on her part.

In fact, she's so busy that she doesn't have time to think about the mysterious Martin, or even appreciate how well the night is going. There had been a shuffling of schedules, yes, but everyone seemed moderately content, in the end. At least, she's received no complaints.

But then, a man appears in her doorway.

"Excuse me," he says. Tall, lanky, and too-thin, he steps into her office and looms over her desk with the lack of grace that can only come from someone used to hunching through doors and making himself smaller. Behind thick-rimmed glasses sparkle brown eyes, the same warm color as the shock of hair atop his head. And she notes all of this because he is completely unfamiliar to her.

"Yes?"

But he's wearing the standard uniform—white button-down, sport coat, black trousers—so he must work here. He doesn't move from his hovery stance over her desk. "You changed my schedule."

"I'm sure I did. I had to make some adjustments—so many requests for time off. You know how the holidays are." She finishes with what she hopes is an apologetic smile, but she isn't sure, because she is suddenly distracted by—

His trousers.

Clara's voice rings in her head. Try not to stare.

She drags her eyes away from the article of clothing in question—oh my god, this is so unprofessional—and back up to his face. Dappled in freckles, it looks younger than his body language and dour expression suggest. Rose clears her throat.

"You must be Martin." I know this because of your—

"Yes, and you changed my schedule." He says this like she's committed a crime, words increasing in venom as he goes on. "You have me working upstairs two days next week."

"Well, I'm sorry if that's inconvenient—"

"It is." His hands tighten into fists at his side; she can see his white knuckles not-quite-touching her desk. But then, he exhales, long and slow—catching himself, almost—and his voice cools. "Is there... a way for me to switch?"

For a moment, Rose feels an unexpected throb of sympathy for the man. He's clearly not at ease with her—perhaps not with people in general. "I'm so sorry, Martin. We've got several large parties booked and we're understaffed. My hands are tied."

Directly in her line of sight, he twitches, his eyes dropping down to her hands—they’re folded atop the desk. His thighs bump against a stack of papers, one of them sliding down in front of her. And then, with one brusque nod, he turns and leaves the office.

-

She catches Clara after closing, snagging her arm and pulling her back into the kitchen.

"Ossy, what the fuck?"

And her friend—after a moment of confusion, taking in Rose’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks—bursts into uncontrollable giggles. “I warned you!”

"And Scottish, too!"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Rose stops short. "I've got no idea."

In the technical sense, Clara had warned her, but somehow, Rose still feels completely caught off-guard by the actual reality of Martin and his rancor—which, it seemed, he had carefully restrained for her benefit—and also… well, by his trousers. She knows intellectually that even being aware of that tiny little detail is grounds for a human resources nightmare, and it’s completely unethical for her to notice or care, but she can’t help the way her mouth goes a little dry at even the memory of his—

“Rose? Babe? Earth to Rose!” Clara, still laughing, waves a hand in front of her glazed eyes. “It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Rose groans, hands flying up to cover her face. “I can’t talk about this. I can’t even think about this—it’s probably against some rule in the employee handbook. Several rules, even.”

“Probably,” Clara agrees cheerfully. “So, don’t think about it.”

But that’s far easier said than done.

-

She carefully monitors the first shift Martin works upstairs. The staff seem a little spooked about having to work with him, and she’s fully expecting complaints, but she’s surprised when there’s only some slight grumbling. And none of the customers seem bothered either; in fact, several of them—ladies mostly—seem quite charmed by his stuttery addresses. And, probably, by the view he provides.

It isn’t until near the end of the evening that Rose realizes she hasn’t been nearly as subtle as she’s imagined. “So,” Martin mutters, right as she’s walking past the hostess station. “Are you satisfied?”

Rose blinks. Stops in her tracks. “Pardon?”

“Satisfied that I’m not going to shout at anyone,” he says, sounding just this side of amused. He seems surprisingly collected, given all she's heard about him and his unholy temper; maybe, she thinks, people had him all wrong.

"Very," she answers with a smile. "You're good up here. Customers seem to like you."

To her immense pleasure, Martin blushes at the compliment. It's fascinating—more than just his cheeks go pink: it spreads down the tips of his ears and a trail down his neck, like heat is slipping beneath his collar and running all through him. It makes her want to give him another compliment, but—she stops herself, for the sake of professionalism.

"Do you really mind it so much?" she asks. "I know you're usually tied up in the cloakroom—"

He looks up at her suddenly, eyes widening fractionally behind his glasses. Once again, he sort of twitches a little. He really is a jumpy bloke, she muses.

"—but you seem to be doing just fine topside."

"I hate it," he answers honestly. "People looking at me—it makes me… uncomfortable." He stares down at his feet for a moment, and she suddenly feels even more guilty than before: not only for watching him all night, but for eyeing him so overtly when she'd met him the first time.

But she can only apologize for one of those things. "God, I'm sorry," she sighs. "I must've had you on edge all night, then."

At that, Martin looks up again. Cocks his head. "No," he answers, as if the thought is coming to him for the very first time. "No, you didn't."

Rose doesn't know what to say—only, she realizes, she's giving sort of a shy smile. One she has to cut off immediately lest he misread her intent.

Her intent is to be professional. And nothing else.

-

The second shift, Rose tries to let him be. And the third, which is an accident. And the fourth, a week after Christmas, when she's short-staffed and calls him up from the cloakroom.

Sure, she snaps a bit when two of the servers start glancing at him, tittering between themselves at a volume that's just high enough to be irritating. And she makes the occasional—very occasional—excuse to walk through the front of the restaurant. But the rest of the time, for weeks, she leaves him alone.

Because she's becoming increasingly uncomfortable with her own level of attraction to the grumpy, speccy man—with his unnerving straightforwardness and his determination to be polite, even though he clearly loathes the effort. His small, tentative smiles and furrowed brows.

She can't like him. It's absurd. And unethical.

Which means when he comes to her office at the end of shift, late into the January night, she is completely unprepared. He stands in the doorway, his head ducked just a bit, and the low light of her lamp reflects off of his glasses.

"Well?"

Rose clears her throat, putting aside the open file she'd been perusing.  "Hello, Martin."

"Rose," he greets. She starts at the way he says her name—obviously, she's never heard him say it before—but there's a sense of heat to it that makes her heart give an uneven thump. "Did I do something?"

"What do you mean?"

"To make you," he winces, "avoid me."

"What?" Alarmed, she shakes her head. "No, of course not. You've done a great job on the floor, and I really appreciate you picking up so much slack. I promise I'll get you back down to the cloakroom soon," she offers apologetically. "I just don't want to…"

She has to choose her words carefully.

"Disrupt you."

"Okay," he says, exhaling heavily. She becomes aware of how tense his muscles had been only after he seems to release, slumping a little in front of her desk. "That's good. Sometimes, I know, I can be…"

Now it is his turn to search for a word. He wiggles his head thoughtfully, back and forth.

"Too much for people. And so they, er—leave."

There's so much meaning layered into his words: unidentifiable, but undeniably there. Something that makes him cringe and stumble, and that makes Rose want to reach out across the table between them and take his hand in hers. Her knuckles tighten around one another, her hands remaining primly folded on her desk.

"Well, you're not too much," she tosses out. "In fact, I think you're just enough." His eyes on her are a sudden, sharp reminder of where—who—they are and why this turn in the conversation isn't appropriate. "For the restaurant," she corrects, swallowing. "You are—good enough. At your job."

Once again, Martin's head tilts unnervingly. "Thank you."

"And, I'm sure—as a person, too."

A minute look of disbelief flickers across his face, arching a brow and narrowing his eyes. And then, more slowly: "Thank you."

There is a rattle as a trolley with clean cutlery rolls by—it makes Rose jolt. But Martin barely seems to notice it; his eyes are intent on her, his brows low and furrowed behind his specs. "Would you like to go to dinner?" he asks, rather abruptly. "Not here. Somewhere else."

"Martin, I'm your boss—that wouldn't be… ethical." She sounds apologetic. She is apologetic, and as she strains forward over the table, leaning on her elbows, she wills him to understand. I would. I would, I would, you strange man.

"Ah." Once again, the sagging shoulders—the mild, pained expression. But he seems used to rejection. Or as if he'd anticipated it, in response to this particular question. He gives a short nod. "All right, then." And then he turns to leave, and Rose’s heart gives an odd little pang.

"But if—" she starts.

Freezing, Martin looks back at her.

"If we don't—if we keep it a secret," she says, her tongue heavy in her mouth. This is a bad idea, she thinks absently. But something fluttery in her belly says otherwise—that this might, in fact, be the best idea. "And if you're comfortable with that, of course. I don't want to pressure you."

Distantly amused, but largely with a tone of confusion, he says, "I'm the one who asked."

"I know," Rose replies earnestly. "But you were asking for a date—plain, straightforward. What I'm suggesting is… different."

Martin's lips curl, just a little. They hitch unevenly, higher on the right side. It's a surprisingly stunning expression on his face—bright, interested. "I like different," he says.

She tries not to grin. But she can't help it. "Okay, then. We have a date."

-

A few months on, Rose receives a phone call. It's from work—of course, when isn't it work? She's taken the night off, but that means less than nothing; the level of responsibility she holds at the restaurant means that she's never really off duty. Once upon a time, she might've resented that.

But lately, she's come to love feeling needed.

"Hello, Rose speaking," she answers, endeavoring to sound professional—despite the circumstances.

"Oh, thank God." It's Clara on the line, her voice a strained shrill. "Heather called in sick tonight and now we're short a server. I checked your files—sorry, by the way—and got Martin's number, thinking we could swap him in for Sam, and then Sam could do service. But he's not answering his phone," Clara gripes. "Wanker."

A few inches away, Martin arches his eyebrows. Rose stifles the urge to laugh as Clara rolls on.

"I tried not to call, babe, I really did—"

"It's fine, Ossy," she clucks in reassurance. She loves her friend, but she's honestly rubbish in a crisis. "Try pulling Jake out of the kitchen—I've been meaning to get him started serving, and I'm sure he can learn on the fly. He's a clever bloke, and he’s been bussing for ages."

Martin pinches her thigh; it seems he takes offense to Rose doling out any unnecessary compliments. She bites her tongue to stop from smiling.

"Right. And who's going to train him?"

"You, of course. You were a server once," Rose teases. "Unless you've forgotten how. Leave the bar for a few minutes and get him brushed up on the basics."

"Can't you come in and do it?" Clara pleads, her tone dangerously bordering on whinging. But Rose just chuckles and shakes her head, even though her friend isn't there to see it.

"Sorry, babe," she says. She doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. "I just can't tonight. My hands are tied."

"Oh, fine, but you—"

"Yeah, yeah," Rose laughs. "I owe you. Bye, Ossy!"

And then, before the other girl can make her farewells, the call comes to an end as Martin pulls the phone away from her ear. She hears the faint beep of the line going dead.

"That was rude," Rose points out, but the effect of her scolding gets lost in the spreading of her smile.

"Well, you know me: rude, wanker, all that." Shrugging, Martin stretches across her and sets her phone on the nightstand—safely out of reach. Not that she can reach anything, really. His bare chest is all she sees for a moment as he plugs her phone back in, and then he leans back, propped on his knees.

Rose wriggles her hands in the restraints above her head, letting her fingers fumble worthlessly at the layered, indecipherable knots. At least she can grip the rungs of the headboard, she thinks pleasantly.

"Very rude," she agrees. "Complete wanker." She bites her lip, wiggles her hips. "Speaking of wanking—"

"Right." Martin looks her over seriously—as he usually is when it comes to this sort of thing. So careful. He fusses with the knots around her wrists, testing their tightness. When he has deemed them safe, he looks over her body, stretched out over the bed, with a look like pride.

Smiling a little to himself, he leans down close to her ear. She can feel the bristle of his five o'clock shadow against the side of her face, and Rose shivers. "Where were we?" he asks.

Breathlessly, she whispers back, "I believe I was caught in your web."