Big Boss by Cassie Mint

Seven

Daphne

Iwake up sore. There’s a strange feeling between my legs, like I can still feel Jacob there, even hours later. My throat is dry, and my head is thick from barely sleeping, and my legs are twisted up in the sheets of the guest room bed.

It’s wonderful.

A goofy grin stretches over my face, and I lie there for a few minutes longer, replaying every single detail of last night. The things he said. The way he felt over me, around me, inside me. The tender way he kissed me goodnight.

Everything.

I never dreamed it would be like this.

There’s a bright bubble of happiness inside my chest as I shower and dress, taking my time over choosing my clothes, picking things I think Jacob will like. He’s a skirt man, I’ve decided. He likes me in soft sweaters and flippy little skirts.

An evil part of me wants to wear those pajamas down to breakfast, but if I do, there’s no way I won’t blush deep red the second I see him.

Kate’s already up when I enter the kitchen, fiddling with the knobs of the coffee maker. She yawns and smiles at me, still bleary even though she sleeps more than a house cat, and my stomach flips as I cross to the refrigerator.

“Morning.” Her voice is husky first thing. She fishes another mug out of the cupboard. “Coffee?”

Oh god. She’s so wonderful, and she has no idea about her dad and I.

What have I done?

My heart pounds as I walk over to her. I have to do it. I have to tell her everything. She’s my friend—I owe her the truth—and more than that, I don’t want to hide.

I’m not ashamed of what I did with Jacob last night. Far from it. I’m counting down the minutes until I can do it again.

“Kate. Um. Listen…” I swallow hard, searching for the right words. And she smiles at me, patient and kind, until her gaze dips to the skin of my throat.

Her smile fades.

“Beard rash?” She snorts, pulling a lever on the machine. “God, Daphne. Who have you been…”

She trails off, and the horror dawning on her face—it kills me. I hold up my palms, like I’m fending off an attack, and speak quickly, voice hushed.

“It’s not what you think. I mean—it is what you think, but it’s not just… not just beard rash. I love him, and—”

“My dad?” She grimaces and turns to me fully, the coffee maker forgotten. “Daphne, what the hell? Is that why you wanted to visit?”

“No!” Oh god, but it was part of it. I wanted to spend time with my best friend, yes, but knowing Mr Callahan would be here too…

She reads it all on my face.

“That’s disgusting! What, did you sneak into his room?”

“It’s not like that, I promise—”

“What’s going on here?” We both freeze at his deep voice. Jacob stands in the doorway, a frown etched on his forehead, looking between us. When his eyes land on me, they linger, and I suck in a deep breath.

Jacob’s here. It’s going to be okay.

“You screwed my best friend?” Kate’s words hit him like a physical blow. He winces, and the guilt in his face is easy to see, even from across the room. He falls back half a step, his mouth opening, but no words coming out.

Say something, I will him privately. Make this okay.

But he’s not saying anything. He’s not even looking at me anymore. He’s staring at his daughter, eyes pleading, and there’s only one emotion clear on his face: regret.

Regret. This was a mistake.

Iwas a mistake.

…Oh god.

“Kate,” he rasps, and her scoff echoes around the kitchen. Like she doesn’t even want to hear him say her name. He steps out of the doorway, crossing to her. “Listen to me. It’s not—it didn’t—”

Didn’t mean anything?

I need to go. I need to get out of this house, away from him, away from the judgment and betrayal in Kate’s eyes. I need to go far, far away and curl up in a ball and not think for five minutes.

I edge around the kitchen counter.

“How could you?” Kate’s ranting now, building up steam, throwing her arms around as she yells. “You’re like a thousand years old. It’s so gross, and she’s my best friend, and you just—”

I slip through the doorway unnoticed, fleeing into the hall. My feet race over the floorboards, wool tights slipping on the wood, and when I rush up the staircase, my eyes blur so badly I nearly miss a step, grabbing the banister at the last second.

I can’t hear it. I can’t listen anymore.

I can’t be here.

Empty doorways whip past as I run to my room.

It takes two minutes to throw my things into a bag. Almost everything I brought was a gift. My fingers are shaking, clumsy, but I shove on my coat, my boots. Jam my black wool hat onto my head and sling my satchel over my shoulder.

I tip toe out into the hallway.

Raised voices echo from the kitchen.

It’s easy to sneak out. They’re not listening for me, after all—they’re too wrapped in their anger and guilt and apologies. Too busy with the mess I created. My glove slides around the front door handle, but I grit my teeth and squeeze it tighter.

The icy wind whips my cheeks.

I sprint the whole way down the gravel driveway.