Falling for Your Boss by Emma St. Clair
Chapter Nine
Zoey
I need you.
It takes me a good five minutes to regulate my breathing and heartrate enough to start thinking clearly again. Gavin needs me.
Gavin needs me?
Gavin needs me?!
With the way things ended at mini golf, this is the last text I would expect from him. Even if the night had gone well, this text would be unexpected. It could mean so many things. But most of those things still don’t really make sense. Taking a deep breath, I try to compose a text that leaves things open.
Zoey:Hey, did you mean to send this to me? Do you need my help with something?
I wait. Then I wait some more. When five minutes have passed, I start to worry. What if he is sick, and needs help? Would he have made it home? Could he have had a car accident? My brain does a nose-dive into the worst possibilities.
Zoey:Everything okay?
When five more minutes go by with no answer, I try calling. He doesn’t answer, and now I’m officially worried. Unsure what else to do, I dial Nancy’s number. She’s the only person I know who sees Gavin outside the office and might have some idea what to do.
I’m surprised when an unfamiliar voice answers. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is Zoey. I work at Morgan-Beckwith. I’m looking for Nancy?”
“Zoey! I’ve heard all about you from Nancy. This is her sister, Patty.”
Right. I remember Gavin saying that her sister came into town. I’m a little surprised Nancy talked to her about me, but then again, Nancy is a sweetheart. Patty’s voice sounds just as warm and grandmotherly, easing my worry about Gavin slightly.
“How’s she doing?”
“Much better. It was a fast and furious bug. She’s finally coming out of the fever and the delirium, which is good. It will probably be a few more days before she’s back at work, I’m afraid.”
“No problem. I can hold down the fort until she’s back.”
“Wonderful, dear. I’ll tell her you called,” Patty says, and I can tell she’s about to hang up.
“Actually, I have one more question,” I say quickly. “I’m, um, concerned about our boss.”
“Gavin?” Patty sounds alarmed.
“Yes, Gavin. He was acting strangely, then sent me a text that didn’t make sense, and now won’t answer his phone. I’m wondering if he might have picked up the virus. I don’t know if he has family or friends who could go check on him or—”
“Oh, no. Gavin doesn’t have family. I would go if I didn’t have to stay with Nancy. I don’t suppose you could go? He doesn’t have anyone else, you know.” She clucks her tongue. “Such a sweet boy and so sad that he’s all alone.”
Sweet boy?
“You know Gavin too?”
Patty chuckles. “I practically raised him. His parents hired me to help on their ranch with housekeeping and the boys as well. I’ve known him since he was hardly up to my knee, trying to sneak lizards into the house and terrorizing me.”
I can’t help but smile at the idea of a young Gavin, palming a lizard.
“Anyway,” she continues. “I’d feel better if you checked on him. I’ll give you his address and the passcode for the gate and house. It’s the same. Ready?”
She doesn’t even give me time to argue, and I manage to open my note app to save his address and the four-digit passcode.
“You really think I should go?”
I can hear Nancy in the background saying something, but it sounds like Patty has her hand over the phone. She comes back a moment later.
“Yes, we’re both concerned. It would mean a lot to us.”
I can hear the smile in her voice, and this is starting to feel like a setup. But who am I kidding? Gavin needs me.
I have plenty of time to rethink this plan on the drive up to his house. And I do mean up, as his house is located in an exclusive neighborhood in the hills overlooking Austin and the Colorado River. The roads are steep and winding, mansions sprouting from the hillsides and hidden in by trees.
When I reach the iron gates at the end of a private drive shrouded in trees, I consider turning around. But I punch in the code anyway. At the least, I have to see Gavin’s house. The sun is just beginning to set, and when the curving driveway reaches an open space in the trees, the house and its incredible view are revealed against a pink and deep purple sky. I hit the brakes, stopping to stare.
The house isn’t massive, but it’s gorgeous, jutting up from the top of the hill in a gorgeous mix of metal, wood, and stone. The immaculate landscaping is gorgeous, but it’s the view that has me shaking my head. This is a multimillion-dollar view.
It’s a sobering reminder that Gavin is completely out of my league. I think of the house I’m sharing with my friends, a small craftsman style that we can barely afford to rent even pooling our money together. I’ve always loved that house and its location in South Congress. But Gavin’s house eats houses like mine for breakfast.
I park in front of the house and climb the front steps. Large windows line the front of the house. No lights are on inside, but I can see straight through to a wall of windows on the back of the house. Beyond that, it’s just sky. From this vantage point, the house seems like it’s perched in the sky itself.
I have the code for the keypad, but I knock first, shifting back and forth on the balls of my feet while I wait. There’s no response, and when I press my ear to the smooth wood (clearly the next obvious step), I hear nothing. I look at my phone again, checking for new texts. Maybe one from Gavin saying, Oops! Meant to text someone else! But there’s nothing.
I guess I’m going in.
Channeling a confidence I most definitely do not feel, I punch in the passcode. The bolt slides back, and I open the door to Gavin’s house.
I’m in Gavin’s house.
“Hello?” I call softly as I close the door behind me. “Gavin?”
The house is immaculate, beautiful, and dead quiet. I’m relieved to notice that the decor in here is nothing like the exceedingly uncomfortable European vibe he has going on in his office. I walk through the entry into the sunken living room, open to the kitchen and overlooking the infinity pool out back. I bet I could stand on the back patio and look down on the river. A stone-encased hot tub is next to the pool, and as I’m looking, outside lights come on, probably hooked up to a timer, but it still makes me jump.
I shouldn’t be examining the comfort level of his furniture or admiring the view. This isn’t an episode of some HGTV show, but more like a detective show, one where I’m searching for my boss.
“Gavin?” I call again, glancing toward a door leading to a hallway behind the massive stone fireplace in one wall. There’s another hallway on the opposite side, just off the kitchen. How much do I snoop? What if Gavin isn’t here? What if he isn’t even sick?
And then I turn around and Gavin is right there, so close that I make an embarrassing sort of scream-gasp combination.
“Gavin!”
He doesn’t answer. Actually, he doesn’t really move, unless I count the swaying he’s doing.
Two things catch my attention at the same time. The first is that Gavin is here, but not really here. His eyes have a glazed, unfocused look as he stares at nothing over my shoulder. Sweat beads on his forehead and his unshaven cheeks are flushed. He’s definitely sick.
That’s alarming, but not nearly as terrifying as the second thing. Which is that Gavin is shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose athletic shorts that are barely hanging on his hips.
For a moment, I shamelessly stare at the muscular physique, which I didn’t get to properly ogle earlier in the parking lot of Peter Pan Mini Golf. The light sheen of sweat makes him look like he belongs on an ad for a sunscreen commercial or one of those masculine body sprays. Whatever he’s selling? I’m buying.
I blame Gavin’s commercial-worthy torso for the fact that I miss the way his eyes roll back in his head as he pitches forward. He comes down on me like someone has sawn him off at the ankles, and I missed them shouting Timber!
I manage to catch him, albeit awkwardly, with his head flopping down on my shoulder and my feet planted. Thank goodness for all those runs with Harper! That’s what I’m thinking just before Gavin’s dead weight becomes too much and we both go crashing to the floor.
There is no gracious way to land. We’re basically starring in a winning clip on America’s Funniest Home Videos. My head hits the floor and Gavin’s chin goes right into my right eye. We’re an awkward mess of legs and arms, with his considerable weight squeezing the air out of my lungs.
Every part of my body hurts. It takes me thirty seconds of recovery to take in the situation. This moment has elements of my daydreams in it. Me and Gavin, tangled up together. But he was always awake in those moments, not passed out on top of me, pinning me to the hard floor.
When people say that muscle weighs more than fat, they’re onto something. Gavin is all muscle. And it’s all trapping me in a most uncomfortable way. It feels like a stack of rocks is crushing me, an avalanche of Gavin.
His glistening chest isn’t so attractive when it’s pressed up against me. Because it was glistening with sweat. The heat coming off his body is more powerful than August in Texas. He is feverish, sweating profusely, and he smells. Not some deep, sexy woodsy scent like I’ve often imagined and not been close enough to know.
No, Gavin smells like body odor and sickness. Just kill all my daydreams all at one time. He couldn’t be freshly showered, smelling like whatever bodywash or cologne he wears. Nope. I get the pure, unadulterated Gavin at his most primal.
Maybe this will finally kill my crush. Nothing like being trapped underneath a man smelling like freshly cut grass mixed with sliced onions to remove any romantic feelings.
“Gavin,” I grunt, trying to find a way to breathe that doesn’t include tasting the scent coming off his body. I try to wiggle out, but he’s just so dang heavy!
“Maybe you should go easy on weight days, buddy. Try running. It’s a good way to lean out those muscles,” I say. “What am I talking about? Keep the muscles. Just don’t faint on me again, okay?”
He doesn’t answer, obviously. There’s a soft snore near my ear. I need to get up, which I think is going to involve a combination of wiggling while I try to roll him off.
Which sounds far easier than it is. Gavin is dead, smelly weight on top of me. And maybe that’s a good thing, because I think that under different circumstances, I could appreciate all the bare skin and his stubble brushing against my cheek.
By the time I’m able to wiggle enough to get my palms centered on his firm, hot, damp chest, I’m sweating too. This is overall one of the most unsexy, uncomfortable, and unbelievable situations I’ve ever been in. But I do manage to get in a position where I can shift his weight to one side. It involves a lot of rocking back and forth and I am blushing because if Gavin wakes up while I’m pressing against his body this way, I will literally die right here on his hand-scraped hardwood floors.
By the third grunt and roll, I manage to send his body rolling off me. But maybe with a little too much momentum, because the next thing I know, he’s thunking down the two steps into the sunken living area, his head banging on the floor as he goes. He comes to a stop at the edge of the plush gray rug, groaning with a furrowed brow.
I sit up, taking in deep breaths of fresh air without my lungs being compressed by Gavin’s body weight. I hope his head is okay. We might have matching black eyes by tomorrow. I touch the area around my right eye and can already feel the swelling.
“Gavin?”
He doesn’t answer, going back to louder, wet snores, so I manage to get to my feet, taking stock of the situation. I’m drenched in a combination of his sweat and mine. My whole head is throbbing, and Gavin is now two steps down, on the floor of his living room. He’s not going anywhere for now, so I walk to the kitchen, flicking on the lights as I go. Outside, there is just barely a sliver of purple in the sky. The pool has lights inside of it, and I’m tempted to hop right in and cool off.
I locate a bag of frozen peas and press it to the side of my face. What the heck am I supposed to do with Gavin? He’s obviously pretty sick. Feverish and passed out on the floor. I can’t just leave him there, but now he’s down a level. Two steps may not seem like a lot, but his body mass is no joke. While I’m thinking about that issue, I walk around, locating the master bedroom, which is breathtaking.
Behind the kitchen, it juts out from the house with almost a panoramic view, two sides directed toward the river and Austin. The other side faces the trees along the drive where I came in, oaks with their branches twisting over the pavement. His king-sized bed is rumpled with dark gray sheets and a white comforter. The furniture is all dark wood, masculine but not cold. I can see a sleek, modern bathroom that’s all gray and white marble and tile.
I don’t think Gavin’s wealth hit me until seeing his house. I mean, I read the articles. I knew he was a multimillionaire, coming from family oil before he started the successful practice of essentially flipping businesses for profit. I knew he was out of my league. But just how much escaped me. In a way, it calms me.
There is no way that Gavin and I could ever work. The age gap, his income bracket, this place—no. I need some guy who’s like me, just starting to make his way in the business world. Maybe someone a little more established. A doctor finishing up residency. A lawyer who just passed the bar. Someone accessible. Handsome, but not Gavin-level handsome. My bar needs to lower in a big way.
Knowing that, I can handle this. Because it never fully hit me how off-limits he was. Now that I understand it, I can relax.
Well. I can relax as I plan how to get his body from the living room to the bed without some kind of forklift or dolly, two things which he could clearly afford, but likely doesn’t have.
Though I shouldn’t, I sink down on the end of his bed and toe off my flats. I’m shocked they’re still on my feet, honestly. His bed is heavenly, and if it didn’t also smell a bit like the sick, sweaty Gavin I’ve become acquainted with, I’d be making my own blanket fort.
I make a mental list of what I need while trying to google something that isn’t going to have national security banging down my door. Because the best thing I can think of to search is “how to move a dead body.” I’m sure there are answers to that somewhere, maybe Reddit? But exactly no one is searching how to move someone who is sick and passed out on the living room floor.
But an idea comes to me as I consider whether or not to strip his bed and wash the sheets. It’s not going to be easy, but I think I know exactly how I’m going to attempt to drag Gavin’s limp body across the house to his bed.