Falling for Your Boss by Emma St. Clair

Chapter Two

Zoey

What isit about seeing a powerful man in his office that makes me all hot under my blouse? Not that I’ve ever felt this way about any other man in any other office. Just Gavin. I’d probably feel the same way if he was ringing up my frozen yogurt or bagging my groceries.

Gavin’s office overlooks South Austin. It’s gorgeous and very Spartan. Gone are the many potted plants Juliet kept and her framed Georgia O'Keeffe prints. Gavin’s furniture is all clean lines and a harsh modern aesthetic, as though a portal opened to some European furniture store and vomited up a high-end office set.

The walls are gray, and the paintings are those modern kind with just a few broad strokes of color. I always feel like this kind of art is a cosmic joke. There’s a preschooler in some basement with a paintbrush, while his parents laugh all the way to the bank.

The room screams money and power, but for reasons I can’t quite explain, it seems incongruous with Gavin.

Maybe he does have a flaw after all. His taste in decor. It still does nothing to dull my attraction. I am like a giant heart-eye emoji, hidden under a completely composed professional woman.

A woman who will not walk out of this office without quitting. Tomorrow is my birthday, and this is an early present to myself.

“Take a seat,” Gavin says, gesturing to the sleek gray sofa.

It’s as hard as a rock. Enough that I almost grimace when I sink down on it, expecting something that’s, oh—I don’t know. Soft like a couch is supposed to be.

I perch on the edge, smoothing a hand over my hair before I catch myself. Abby recently told me that it’s my tell, how she always knows when I’m stressed. Crossing my legs, I clasp my hands over my knees.

Gavin sets a water bottle on the glass table in front of me, unscrewing the cap first. I stare down at it, unsure whether the gesture is sweet, or if he thinks I’m like a toddler who can’t open her own bottle of water. Hopefully, the former.

Then again, Gavin is forty-three. I read that in one of the many articles about him I saved in a folder labeled Water Bills. I’m turning twenty-four tomorrow. Gavin could have been my babysitter. Or camp counselor. Or teacher.

He also could be my dad.

Ew.

Ick. Ick. Ick.

And yet, putting our age gap into perspective does nothing to lessen the draw to his chocolate eyes, his sharp jaw, and those broad shoulders. I know on paper he’s too old for me. But in actuality, in this room, it doesn’t seem that way. I don’t feel too young for him.

I’m sure he doesn’t see me the same way.

Gavin sits in the black leather chair across from me that looks only slightly less uncomfortable than the couch. I swear he winces as he scoots back.

Is he into punishing himself? Is that why he has such horribly torturous furniture?

“I wanted to speak to you about your position here,” Gavin says.

Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

His face gives nothing away, but that’s the kind of statement that could mean anything. My mouth goes dry, and it has nothing to do with the way his broad chest looks in his button-down shirt now that he’s removed his jacket.

When did he take off his jacket? And why can’t I breathe?

“What would you like to discuss?” I sound professional. Good for me. Can’t let my ridiculous thoughts hang out like an untucked shirt.

But my mind has already raced away, wondering if I overstepped in the meeting with Roxana. Was I too harsh? Or did he notice how I silently judged her overt flirtations? Did he think I was jealous? Oh, please don’t tell me that he thinks I’m jealous.

What if he knows about my feelings? What if I only think I hide them well and he really knows everything?

Stay down, I demand of the flush I can feel starting in my chest and rising up my neck. Don’t you dare—!

Of course, my body doesn’t listen, and blood rushes to my face. I’m sure I look like a doll now, with two perfect circles of red on my cheeks. Zane always used to make fun of me for it, like I can help how my body chooses to display my embarrassment.

“Is your five-year plan still the same?”

Gavin’s serious look dissolves into a grin that’s just a little lopsided. Almost boyish. I smile right back, despite telling myself to play it cool. My body seems intent on mutiny.

The question brings to mind the day Gavin started working here.

My work history is something like a Cinderella story. Juliet, who didn’t care for me that much, left without telling the temp agency that I wasn’t needed anymore. She probably forgot I worked here. Desperate, I kept showing up, hoping no one would notice there was a temporary personal assistant to a woman who no longer worked in the office.

And then Gavin was striding through the door, looking like some kind of Hollywood actor. Harrison Ford in his prime. When he introduced Nancy as his personal assistant, I literally started packing my things, planning to make a quiet exit and head back to the temp agency to try for another job in marketing.

And then a shadow fell over my desk. I looked up to see the man who is far more handsome up close. “What’s your five-year plan?” he asked.

The next thing I knew, the most attractive and intimidating man I’d ever seen had created a new position just for me.

To thank him, I bought him a succulent for his office. I found it in the trash a month later, shriveled and brown, and tried not to take it personally. But it only gave me more resolve to work hard and be totally professional. I thought my crush would dry up and die like that poor plant. Apparently, my feelings can exist on less than a little water once a week.

It takes constant reminders to convince myself that Gavin is out of my league. He is out of my age bracket. And he is my boss.

Until you hand him your resignation. Now is a good time. Or now. Any second, really. Just reach into your bag, slide it out, and put it in his hand.

His big, handsome, perfect hand.

“Zoey?”

I take a sip of water. “My five-year plan? Yes. I want to be a marketing director.”

That plan used to be specific. I wanted to be the youngest director ever at Morgan-Beckwith, but I don’t say that part. I learned at an early age that, as sexist as it is, downplaying my ambition is a smart move. Strong women, driven women—we get labeled with words that would never be used to describe a man doing or wanting the same things. I work hard, but the full extent of my drive is kept close to my heart, guarded like a tiny photo tucked inside a locket.

Gavin smiles, and I wonder briefly if he would be an exception. Maybe he would appreciate my ambition rather than be threatened by it. But I’m not going to test that theory today. I still want to work my way up in marketing, but not here.

“You were pretty brilliant in there with Roxana.”

I resist the urge to preen under his praise. But I tuck away the compliment so I can pull it out later and examine it from all angles.

Brilliant. Gavin thinks I’m brilliant.

“Thank you,” I say in a clipped tone. Because if I don’t swing myself hard in the opposite direction of my feelings, I’ll be a giggling puddle on the floor. Decidedly not brilliant.

“You saw right to the same flaws I did but managed to point them out without embarrassing her. And create a valid solution. That takes special skill.”

I’d like to showyou my special skills.

No. No, I would not. My special skills are completely based around work.

You know what skill I should pick up? Poker. Because Gavin clearly doesn’t see the internal battle raging behind my composed face. I look totally normal, not like a woman hanging on the precipice of a breakdown caused by the two sides of my brain having it out in an MMA deathmatch.

Sorry, Gavin, I’ve revised my five-year plan. I’ll be playing in the World Poker Tournament in Vegas. See ya!

“Thank you,” I say again, feeling like a robot. Robotic is better than a giggling schoolgirl, so I’ll stick with that.

“I’d like to start grooming you.”

I choke. I literally choke on my own spit at his words, and I am coughing and trying to clear my trachea so I don’t become some weird statistic. The number of women to choke to death on their own spit: one.

Gavin’s eyes go wide, and I’m not sure who is more embarrassed. I know what he meant. But grooming? Just such a poorly chosen word.

“I’m sorry.” Gavin stands, looking like he wants to do something, but doesn’t know what. “Are you okay?”

My eyes are watering—thank goodness for waterproof makeup—but I can finally breathe again. I pat myself on the chest, then take a long swallow of water before I answer.

“Fine,” I manage. “I choked on spit.”

Because I just had to say that phrase out loud in front of Gavin. I want a sinkhole to open in the floor and swallow me up. Preferably without this painful couch, which I swear is bruising my butt cheeks.

Gavin blinks, and then bites his lip to hold back a smile. That jerk. I barely survived an attempted murder by saliva over here and he thinks it’s funny?

Also, he should really never bite his lip like that in the office. It’s decidedly not office appropriate.

“Sorry about my word choice,” he says. “I meant training you. Mentoring you for a new position. To accomplish that five-year plan. Maybe in less time.”

Forget choking on spit. Did he say less time? Now my fingers twitch toward my bag, wanting to crumple up my letter. Because if Gavin is going to actually promote me, I should stay.

But that’s not the only reason you were planning to leave. You were going to leave because of him. And how hard it is to work with him. And the witches in this office who refer to you as a robot.

I made myself a promise—quit by tomorrow. I have to remove myself from this painfully torturous work environment.

But can I really turn this opportunity down?

“Obviously, that sounds great. But what does it entail? I already shadow you most of the time.”

And I will happily shadow you outside the office should the occasion arise.

“I want your voice. Your thoughts. Your ideas.”

I swallow. Hard. He did not say he wants you, Zoey. Your thoughts. Not your body. Not your heart. Not your utter devotion. He likes your brain, and that is all. Purely professional.

That’s a start. We’ll lure him in with our brain—

There is no luring. We are not luring. No. Shut it down.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, and I realize that I have gone silent, my brain having its own conversation.

I consider his question. Am I okay?

Not in the slightest. If anyone knew the way my thought life runs wild behind my composed exterior, they would not think I was okay.

“Yes. Sorry. You just caught me by surprise.”

“It shouldn’t come as a surprise. You’ve surpassed my expectations over and over again. Today was no exception.”

If he pays me any more compliments, I’m going to pull a Tom Cruise and start jumping on this sofa.

“Were you testing me?” I ask.

Why does my voice sound coy? We will not flirt with our boss. We will not flirt with our boss. We will not—

“Did you like it?”

My face might be Switzerland, but the inside of me is a country filled with soccer hooligans celebrating a World Cup win. Running through the streets, screaming. Those obnoxious horns are blowing. Flags are being tossed in the air.

Because I am definitely not imagining the flirty edge to Gavin’s voice or the heat in his gaze. His eyes could ignite a rain forest. It sends a series of tremors through me that I mask by gritting my teeth.

Suddenly, I am very thankful for the very uncomfortable couch digging into my butt through my black slacks, grounding me, and reminding me of what I know above all else: I cannot date my boss. I need to resign.

But instead, I find myself smiling and saying in a throaty voice that sounds anything but businesslike, “I like everything you do.”