Falling for Your Boss by Emma St. Clair

Chapter Twenty

Gavin

There isno point in asking my mother not to tell embarrassing stories about me. It would be like asking the wind not to blow or the sun not to shine. All throughout our dinner, which Ella miraculously sleeps through, I force myself to sit back and let nature run its embarrassing course.

Which means I get to hear the addictive sound of Zoey’s laughter, to watch the long column of her neck as she throws her head back. I can’t help it if I’m cataloguing the pale color there, and the number of kisses it would take to travel from her collarbone to the curve of her jaw. I got started with the count earlier, before Mama interrupted us. And I’m eager to get back to it.

Maybe Zoey meant to keep some distance between us when she asked for a contract. I can understand that. Though I don’t think it’s working.

When she looks at me, Zoey’s eyes are warmer than they’ve ever been, the blue of a tropical ocean I’d like to dive into. Her smiles hold something more, something weightier. And just before Mama cleared the dinner plates, Zoey’s thigh comes to rest against mine under the table. Though it might have been an accident at first, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, like magnets, our legs press together in a hidden leg hug.

“Happy birthday,” Mama says, passing out plates of her famous chocolate pie. Zoey’s has one lit candle in it. “My son said he ruined your birthday. We don’t have to sing, and we don’t have a gift, but—”

“This is enough,” Zoey says, and she’s blinking back tears as she stares down at that sliver of pie.

When she looks up at me, it’s like she thinks I hung the stars. I’ll take it.

Thanks, Mama.

We settle in, scarfing down Mama’s pie, while she continues with the embarrassing stories from my childhood.

“And then there was the bleeding-cow-butts incident,” Mama says with a laugh.

Daddy and I both groan in protest. “Nope. Not this story,” Daddy says.

“What?” Mama asks, blinking too-innocent eyes. “Why not this story?”

“For one thing, we’re eating,” I say.

Mama nods down at my empty plate. “Looks like we’re all finished up. Zoey, you don’t mind a story with a little bit of nature thrown in?”

“Nope. Not at all. Please, continue.”

I wonder if she’ll regret saying that. Dad stands from the table, clearing the plates and starting the coffee pot percolating. He and Mama love to end a meal with decaf coffee, usually out on one of the porch swings. It’s a tradition I’ve missed. It isn’t the same sitting out by my pool alone.

“Well,” Mama starts. “Gavin must have been about nine or ten.”

“I was nine. Trust me. I remember this all too well.”

“Mm. So, Chet and Jeff were three and four. And as we’re walking by the pasture, Gavin wanted to know why the cow’s butt was bleeding.”

Zoey grimaces. The description is disturbing. But I can assure you, at nine years old, the real-life visual was worse. Much, much worse.

“I tried to warn you about this story,” I tell Zoey. “But you wanted to hear it.”

Mama keeps on. “I tried to move on and distract Gavin, but he’s like a dog when he gets his teeth into something. He won’t let go.”

“Some people consider that a good quality,” I say.

“Depends what you’re sinking your teeth into,” Mama says, with mischief in her eyes.

Zoey glances at me, then down at the table. I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about my teeth nibbling her earlobe or her neck. I take a much-needed swallow of ice water.

“Anyway, I tried and tried to change the subject, but Gavin wouldn’t let it go. So, that’s the day that he learned about the menstrual cycle.”

My father grunts, setting a dented silver tray on the table with four mugs of coffee, a small pitcher of cream and bowl of sugar. I watch as Zoey blinks in surprise, glances at me, then bursts out with laughter that washes over me like a spring rain. Her leg knocks mine under the table, and I knock hers right back.

I fix her a mug of coffee the way she likes, with enough cream to make it a light brown, and set it in front of her. Our fingers brush as she takes it and the spark traveling up my arm is like the jolt of a cattle prod.

Which I actually know about. Because when you grow up with brothers on a ranch, that’s the kind of inside knowledge you learn about: cattle prods and cow periods. I’m like the ranching version of a Renaissance man.

When she’s finally done laughing, Zoey shakes her head at me. “You’re handling this so much more maturely than Zane. That’s my twin brother,” she explains to my mom. “We shared a bathroom, and if he so much as saw a box of tampons on the counter, he’d lose his mind.”

“I’m sure it was harder being the only girl among the boys,” Mama says, and the air shifts slightly. “How old were you when you lost your mama?”

Normally, I can take just about anything my mother dishes out. I’m used to the way she leaps over boundaries, broaches uncomfortable conversations, and holds nothing back. But I can feel the way Zoey stiffens at the turn in conversation.

“Mama,” I chide.

“It’s okay,” Zoey says, her voice soft.

Her eyes meet mine, and I feel a distinct pinch in my chest, like a corner of my heart has been folded down, bookmarking this moment. Despite the fact that we aren’t alone at the table, something intimate stretches between us. Under the table, I find her thigh and give it a squeeze just above the knee, letting my hand rest there, and doing my best not to take liberties with the smooth stretch of skin I’d like to explore. Another time.

I hope.

“We lost her when we were in high school. It was a car accident. She and Zane were together. He’s fine, just a little scar.”

I blow out a breath, wishing I could do something to make this better. To make it untrue. I can read the loss in Zoey’s face, and also the strength. I already admired and respected her, but those feelings expand with the knowledge that she lost her mother and still became this amazing woman, untinged by sadness or bitterness.

“I’m so sorry you lost her,” I say, giving her leg another gentle squeeze.

Zoey nods and smiles. “Me too.”

I want to say more, how I know her mother would be so proud of her, but not right here in front of my parents. As if she can sense my mood shift, Mama stands, patting Zoey on the shoulder before grabbing her coffee mug in one hand and my daddy’s flannel shirt in the other.

“We’re going to finish up the evening on the porch swing.”

“Thank you so much,” Zoey says. “Everything was delicious.”

“We’re so glad to have you, sweetie. Hope we’ll be seeing a lot more of you.” She winks as she drags Daddy toward the door. “Now, don’t mind us. We’ll be on the south side of the house having a little adult time.”

I groan, covering my eyes with my hands. “Mama.”

“Norah,” Daddy chides. “That is quite enough. No need to broadcast our untoward intentions to such young ears.”

“Young ears?” Mama teases, giving me a look.

“Don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out,” I call as they disappear out the back door. Mama’s giggle fades into the night, and I hear the click of toenails as one of the ranch dogs trots after them.

I’m almost afraid to look at Zoey. But when I do, she’s grinning at me. “I feel like I’ve seen a whole new side to you.”

“A good side or a bad side?”

She considers. “Maybe the real side. The full side.”

I take a sip of my coffee, feeling bold, and aware of my palm still resting on her bare thigh. I feel the same way about her. “And what do you think?”

If my fingers take on a life of their own and begin tracing a few inches of skin on her leg, I can’t help myself. And when Zoey catches her breath, her eyes looking slightly glazed, I feel like a pirate who’s just laid claim to a treasure. One I plan to keep close and guard with my life.

“I … don’t know. It’s a little hard to think with you doing that.”

“Doing what?”

My voice drops to a gritty register that I barely recognize, and I can’t seem to control my fingertips, which drag lightly up her leg. Not anywhere close to even PG-13 territory, but enough that Zoey’s breath quickens.

She lunges, grabbing my hand with hers and stopping its motion. But this bumps our shoulders together and leaves our faces only inches apart.

“Gavin,” she whispers, drawing my attention to her lips, which stay slightly parted.

I’ve made a study of her lips over the years, committing them to memory, but I’ve never been close enough to notice the tiny freckle just at the edge of her lower lip, close to the corner.

There is no conscious thought involved when I close the distance between us, pressing my mouth to that freckle. A small gasp escapes her, causing her lips to barely brush against mine.

It’s not even a real kiss, and yet the impact of it is seismic. Everything in me shifts, like the very geography of my body and soul have moved, cracking and dragging against each other like tectonic plates. How can a movement so small be so significant?

And what would a real kiss do to me?

I have to know. I will die if I don’t. But it can’t be here, not at this kitchen table where we cleared the plates from pot roast.

Standing so quickly from the table that Zoey gasps a breath, I grab her hand. “Come with me,” I say in my most firm, demanding, bossy voice. My suspicion about how much she likes that voice is correct, because Zoey’s eyes go all hazy and heavy-lidded.

If I don’t hurry, the kiss will be a kitchen kiss. And I have other plans, so I rush her toward the back door and out into the night.