Falling for Your Boss by Emma St. Clair

Chapter Twelve

Zoey

Ella stares at me.I stare at Ella.

I am not sure I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Because the reality is that if Ella doesn’t want to go to bed—and to be very clear, she doesn’t—I don’t know how to make her.

Physically, I am stronger. The fact that I just managed to get Gavin from the floor to his bed demonstrated that. I could manage this child who weighs a fraction of what he does.

But even though I didn’t babysit ever, I instinctively know that I can’t use physical force to get a little girl to sleep. I see the fire in her eyes. And more than that, I can imagine what it would be like to have your mother drop you in a strange house that belongs to a father you’ve never met who doesn’t know you. And now she has me.

And what am I, exactly? Gavin’s executive assistant who has crossed about a million boundaries tonight, leaving me as … what? Apparently, my new title is Gavin’s caretaker and his surprise daughter’s babysitter.

“I know this must be weird to sleep in a strange house,” I say.

Weird is one word for it. I have a few other words I would use for what her mother has done, but I’m definitely not using those in front of a child. But what kind of woman does this? I’m still reeling.

She blinks at me. “Are you his girlfriend?”

Ella hasn’t said Gavin’s name or called him Dad. Just he or him. I don’t blame her. But I notice.

“No. I work with him.”

“But you’re in his house. At night. And you look…” Her cute button nose wrinkles as she gives me a once-over that rivals her mother’s.

I will not be embarrassed by a child. I refuse. My hand instinctively wants to go to my hair, but I keep it in my lap. I know how I look. A swollen eye that’s turning black. Messy ponytail with a million flyaway hairs coming up off my head like the kind of downy feathers baby birds have. A wrinkled blouse that has dried funny after being soaked in Gavin’s sweat. I’m the hottest of hot messes. I suspect that I also smell.

“This is my first time here as well. Gavin got sick and asked for my help.” And I had no idea when I answered what that would entail. Certainly not this. “And so we need to go to bed.”

Ella crosses her arms. “I’m not in the mood for bed. I’d like to watch YouTube on my tablet.”

“You can do that in bed.”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

I sigh. “I didn’t say you had to sleep. I can’t make you. But it’s time to get in bed. I’ll show you to your room.”

“It’s not my room.”

She isn’t wrong, but I feel like a crazy person arguing word choice with a little girl. “I’ll show you to the guest room.”

“And where are you sleeping? With him?”

Thanks, Ella. Put ideas in my head that don’t need to be there. Me and Gavin—a not sick, not smelly version—cozied up in his soft sheets. Yep. Didn’t need that mental image.Think of his smell. Think of what the women in the office would say.

Think of the fact that he has a daughter.

That one sobered me right up.

“No. I told you—I’m not his girlfriend.”

Ella shrugs and her next words break my heart a little bit. Okay, it breaks a lot.

“Lots of men sleep over who aren’t mom’s boyfriends. She says it’s no big deal and one day I’ll understand.”

I don’t know what exactly to say that won’t sound like I’m totally judging her mom, though I am. Honestly, I’m judging Gavin a little too. How could someone like him marry someone like the woman I hate more with every fact I learn? It’s like peeling back the layers of an onion only to find it a little more rotten the deeper in you go.

“That’s not how I do things. Maybe for your mom, it’s not a big deal. It is to me. I’m sleeping on the couch. I’ll be checking on Gavin, and I’ll be right out there if you need anything.”

“What would I possibly need?”

Probably nothing. That’s the air she wants to put off anyway. But as someone who wears a lot of armor, I’m seeing the chinks in hers. She’s putting up a good show, but she’s at best uncomfortable, and at worst, terrified and upset that her world just got upended. I would be too.

I force a more gentle tone that I’m used to using. “I’m not sure what you might need. But I’m here for whatever that might be.”

“Okay.” She nods, and like that, gets up and begins wheeling her pink Louis Vuitton bag toward the guest bedroom like she’s done this a hundred times. Maybe she has. Maybe her mother carts her around to different men’s houses and leaves her. I really hope not, but based on the events of this evening, I wouldn’t doubt it.

I follow her down the hallway, turning on lights as we go like this is my house and I have any right to do so. Ella walks right into the room, looking around and finally nodding. It’s weird to see her in this space, which has the same grown-up, masculine decor as the rest of the house. When she sits down on the bed, her feet don’t touch the ground, and for some reason, this squeezes my heart.

“The bathroom is right across the hall. I’ll find some towels. Do you usually take a shower or bath before bed?”

Ella shrugs. “I can do it tomorrow. Maybe we can swim. I like swimming. The pool looks awesome.”

That’s the only positive thing she’s said this whole time, and I cling to it, making a mental note to tell Delilah that she needs to bring my bathing suit in the morning.

“Do you need anything else? Water? Or … a bedtime story?”

Ella raises one eyebrow at me. Yeah, this kid is clearly beyond bedtime stories. She’s eight going on eighteen. And that adds to the mounting sadness I have about the state of her life. I’d like to call her mother back and give her another piece of my mind. Or maybe a black eye to match mine, though I would normally say violence isn’t the answer. With Eleanor, a pack of wild dogs would be a fine answer.

“I’m just going to watch until I fall asleep,” she says.

“Okay. I’ll be on the couch if you need me. Don’t forget to brush your teeth. Do you have a toothbrush?”

“I’m not a caveman,” she says, with a little more sneer than I’d like in her voice. I have to remind myself that she has clearly not had a typical or healthy upbringing if what I know so far is any indication.

But our interactions just solidify my resolve that I am not a kid person. I’m the kind of person who plans to work hard, maybe one day meet a man, get a few house plants, and a dog that doesn’t shed. It’s not such a bad life plan.

Is it?

“Right. Well. Goodnight, Ella.”

Instead of answering, she puts earphones on and snuggles up against the headboard, looking entirely too small, too feminine, and too alone in this giant bed. She seems like she needs a hug, and also like she would completely reject one. Especially from me.

I find a few clean towels in the guest bathroom and set them on the counter, just in case. When I peek in on her before heading back down the hall, she is totally engrossed in whatever is on the screen in front of her.

The laundry room is by the kitchen and I go to switch the sheets from the washer to the dryer. I should have thrown my clothes in there, but I didn’t think of it. The dryer is full of clean, fresh-scented clothes of Gavin’s, and after making sure the door is closed, I strip out of my blouse and khaki shorts, replacing them with a giant T-shirt of Gavin’s and some athletic shorts that have a drawstring I manage to tighten enough to hopefully keep them in place.

I knock softly on Gavin’s door, not expecting a response. Still, it feels weird to walk in and not knock. It feels especially weird even seeing him now that I know something huge about his life that he doesn’t know.

“Gavin?” I say softly as I push open the door.

I left the lights off, only the cracked bathroom door allowing in a golden glow. It takes me a moment to realize that Gavin isn’t in his bed. The comforter is twisted around the sheets, making a Gavin-sized lump, but he is gone.

“Zoey?”

The bathroom door opens wider and there is Gavin in only a towel, his chiseled upper body glistening with tiny droplets of water from a shower.

I would be relieved that he’s up and moving, but I’m struck too dumb as my eyes follow a single bead of water over his collarbone and down his right pec, where it disappears into that soft patch of dark hair.

“What are you doing in my house? What are you doing in my bedroom? And what are you doing in my clothes?”