Falling for Your Boss by Emma St. Clair

Chapter Twenty-One

Gavin

We’re moving too slowly.I’m already being a caveman, so I bend to scoop Zoey up and toss her over my shoulder.

“Gavin!” Zoey squeals, the sound so unlike her that I smile big enough that my cheeks ache. Running with her weight throwing off my balance is difficult. But I work out on a rigid schedule. And it feels like every dumbbell lifted, every tractor tire thrown, every mile I’ve run has prepared me for this exact moment.

“What are you—where are we going? Gavin!”

I love the breathy way she says my name as she slaps ineffectually at my back. Her hands pause a little in between her swatting, like she’s learning the topography under my shirt.

My little cartographer, I think, knowing even as I do that my mind has cracked. I’m a total mess of a man, brought to this state by the woman currently trying to hide the fact that she’s feeling up my back.

“Do you want me to put you down?” My voice is dark and dangerous, a threat whispered cutting through the darkness.

“No,” she whispers, and I pick up my pace.

When we reach the door of the barn, I roll it open with such force that it skitters a little along the track. Just like me, thrown off the rails.

I don’t turn on the light, but instead march forward in the dim glow of moon shining through the stall windows. Slowing to a languid pace, I’m aware of Zoey’s body against me in a way I wasn’t while running.

Her bare legs under my palm. Soft curves pressed tightly to me. Her hands rest on my lower back, clutching the material of my shirt.

The tack room door is unlocked, and I duck my body a little to keep Zoey from hitting the doorframe. One black eye from me is quite enough, thank you.

I draw in a breath, bending my knees a little and shifting to let her slide down to standing. Slowly, meticulously, with such great care. I’m like a museum worker, handling some delicate artifact. Setting a perfect gold ring on a silk pillow, perfectly illuminated and ready to be admired for its beauty.

The room is dusty, but the smell of worn leather overpowers the other, less pleasant barn smell. Zoey is wobbly on her feet, and her hands find my waist.

I’m hot, but not feverish. I would know. I’m molten, a quivering, bubbling inferno of liquid fire underneath my skin. I feel my nostrils flare as Zoey blinks up at me in the darkness, so sweet and innocent that I can hardly stand it.

Steady, I remind myself. Control. You brought her here for a kiss. Just. A. Kiss.

With every ounce of discipline I have, I place my hands on her hips. Then I begin to carefully crowd her back. The gentle pressure from my hands and the intensity of my gaze guide her until she’s flat against the wall, next to a bank of saddles. We’re in a hidden and shadowy corner of an already dark room.

I’ve saved this space for her. This is one fantasy, one indulgence, I allowed myself to have of Zoey over the years. Because it was too fantastical to believe.

If I had imagined kissing her in the elevator or my office, I might have snapped one day and actually done it. This spot was safe. Perfect. And I have gone over it in my mind enough times that I have no hesitation.

Zoey’s lips part, and her eyes flutter closed as I bend my face toward her. I bypass her tempting mouth for her neck, running the tip of my nose up along her pulse-quickened vein.

So much better than I imagined.

There’s her smell, which is vanilla and cinnamon, spicy yet sweet. She’s mulled cider in winter, delicious, warm comfort. Mixed with the strong scent of leather and wood, I could get drunk on it.

But I won’t. Because I have plans that won’t be derailed.

My nose traces her, and I’m the cartographer now, mapping out the curve of her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. My breath teases her shirt collar, making it flutter. I pause for air, like I’ve been deep sea diving and need to let my body adjust to the changing pressure.

“So … controlling,” Zoey says, her voice husky and low.

“You like me this way. I’ve seen it.” I lift my head and press a chaste kiss to one eyelid, then the other.

“I’ve seen it in the clench of your jaw.” Another kiss, a little less innocent, to the corner of her jaw. She clenches it as I do, and I kiss the other side, a little reward.

“I’ve seen your pulse race in your throat. Here.” I kiss her neck. “Just like now.”

“Gavin,” she says, and her groan is so primal that my careful control shatters.

My lips crash into hers, and I’m lost in the best way possible.

Immediately, I’m aware of how I've departed from my fantasy. I’ve run clear off the path and into a field, my head shadowed below the stalks of corn. This is better, her lips softer, her taste sweeter: chocolate pie and coffee.

And it’s not just this kissing dream that’s strayed from the plan. It’s everything. I don’t know if it was the introduction of Ella or something else, but I look at Zoey and I see a future. The whole thing.

I told myself after Eleanor that I was done. No more relationships. Certainly not marriage. But I would recite my vows right here in the barn, right now, if Zoey asked me to.

A new Zoey takes shape before me, one almost as bossy as me as she slants her lips to mine and drags her hands into my hair, directing me.

I let her. I don’t need control. I don’t need the fantasy.

I need her. Only her.

But I do need to slow this down before we careen so far off the path of a first kiss that we can’t come back. Everything else has moved so quickly for us this week. The last thing I want is to push too far with this.

Maybe outside this room, I’m too old for her. But here, now, everything is fresh and new for us both. We’re on exactly the same page.

I lift my hands to cup her cheeks, steadying the wildness I didn’t expect from her. She senses my change of pace and makes a small sound of protest. For a moment, her fingernails drag across my scalp deliciously. I have a foggy memory of begging her to do just that when she was nestled against me in bed.

My kisses turn slow, languid. My lips are firmer now, a closed-mouthed kiss to punctuate the ending. One on the freckle I first kissed earlier. A last, lingering one on her temple before I rest my cheek against hers.

It feels like I’ve been under water for years, buoyant in the peaceful, dim water. Low visibility and muted sound.

Now I’ve broken the surface, taking big, gasping breaths. Seeing and hearing things so bright and so loud. It’s glorious.

Our chests rise and fall, barely brushing. It’s too much and too little, so I slide my hands around her back and draw her to me in a solid hug.

Guilt begins its whispers as I feel Zoey tremble in my arms. I forget sometimes how young she really is. We haven’t talked about our pasts, about relationships. I literally carried her out here and then mauled her, two years of pent-up longing erupting in a kiss so heady that I feel like I’ll be recovering for days.

“Was it too much? Was I—”

“Perfect,” she says. “I’ve never had … I’ve never felt something so perfect.”

She sighs and relaxes into me, cradling her face into my neck.

“I love that you’re so tall,” I say, not even embarrassed as my secrets spill out like candy from a piñata. She has broken me open, and I’m hanging by a thread, everything inside rushing out.

“I love the color of your hair. Your eyes.”

She giggles a little and I shush the protest that I can sense rising in her throat.

“I love the way you don’t let the other women in the office walk all over you. I love the way you raise that eyebrow and shoot lasers from your eyes. I love your stunning mind. I love how you laugh with Nancy. Do you know that I watched Pride and Prejudice for you? I had to google the hand thing, and I still don’t get it, but—”

“Gavin—”

“Sh. Let me admire you. Please.”

When she settles again with a tiny sigh, I continue to lay out my catalogue of her qualities. The ones I’ve carefully tucked away for a moment such as this, a moment I thought would only exist in my mind. The fantasy Gavin had much smoother moves than real-life Gavin. I’m making a fool of myself.

I don’t even care that I’m being so vulnerable, laying it all out there in front of her. I’m sharing my collection of treasures. Each one carefully selected. Beautiful. Priceless. Not for sale.

“How long?” Zoey asks when my words have slowed from a rushing river to a trickle of a creek to a soft exhale.

She doesn’t need to clarify. I know what she’s asking.

“Attraction? From the start. The very first moment I saw you.” I pause, for the first time a little lost in what words should come next. I need her to know the depths of how I feel without scaring her off.

“But it grew into much more. So much more.” I’m tempted to kiss her again, but I think I’ve used up every shred of my control for tonight.

“Me too,” she says, pressing the smallest, softest, most perfect kiss just underneath my jaw.

I want to get a tattoo there. I don’t care of what. An X maybe, marking this spot. Forever. It’s hers.

Before I lose any more of myself, I pull away, lacing my fingers through Zoey’s, palm to palm. I lead her out of the tack room, and the leather smell fades into a distinctly less pleasant one. Horse and hay, which I don’t mind, but the waft of manure effectively kills the mood. Probably not a bad thing, considering.

We walk toward the door and a barn cat scuttles along the wall, disappearing into the shadows. There are rustling sounds as the horses settle. A low breath here, the drag of a hoof there.

How can it be such a normal night in the barn when my life is completely undone?

A horse snorts and swings its dark head over the stall door, right in our path. Zoey jumps a little, pressing her hand to her chest.

“This is Merlin,” I tell her, reaching forward to pat his neck. He bobs his head, flapping his lips and whinnying low in his throat.

Zoey clutches my arm, almost ducking behind me.

“Do you not like horses?”

“No, I do. It’s just … He’s judging us. Look at his eyes!”

I laugh, but don’t disagree. Merlin’s dark eyes do hold something almost human. Right now he looks like he knows exactly what we were just doing in the tack room. “He can judge all he wants. Go on, boy.”

With another snort, he stamps his hoof and swings his head back over the door. As we walk, the air has changed between us. Like the temperature has taken a sharp dip. I can almost hear Zoey’s thoughts, banging around inside her head.

“Everything okay?”

“What are we doing, Gavin?”

I slow us to a stop, resisting the urge to wrap her up in my arms again. She needs to speak, and I need to give her the space to do so. I don’t answer, because I sense that her question is more the start of something.

“I mean, this is so sudden, isn’t it?” she continues. “Except it’s not. It’s two years of longings and feelings. I know you. But I don’t. You're my boss. But you aren’t. Anyway. The point is … I don’t know what the point is.”

She seems to sag, and my heart glows in my chest, burning to be nearer. I curl one arm over her shoulders, kissing the top of her head.

“Why don’t we give this a little room to breathe? I’m dead serious about you. But I don’t want to rush. I’ve dreamed of kissing you for so long, dreamed of dinners and walks in parks and anything else you might want. I know there are complications. With time, we can work on them. Figure them out. This week was intense. But we don’t have to jump ahead.”

She nods, but it’s too quick. I sense the impending freak-out building inside her. I wish I could spread my hands over the span of her rib cage and hold it all inside her, soothe the worry away.

“Gavin?”

“Yes?”

“Can we ride horses tomorrow?”

I blink at the change of subject. Maybe the freak-out wasn’t impending after all, or maybe it’s just been slightly delayed. I grin as I lead her up the porch steps. “Of course.”

“But not Merlin. He’d probably throw me off.”

I laugh, swinging open the door. “I’ll give you a different horse. Merlin’s mine.”

Her smile and tone are teasing. “Now his judgey eyes make sense.”

I give her one last kiss as we walk inside, completing what I started in this kitchen an hour ago. But a voice makes us both jerk apart, our lips making an awkward smack as they separate.

“You might still be contagious. Swapping spit is probably a bad idea,” Ella says.

Ella. The daughter I didn’t know about and then forgot all about while I’ve been putting the moves on Zoey is sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling pot roast into her mouth while my mama and daddy give us knowing—and much too delighted—smiles.