Falling for Your Boss by Emma St. Clair

Chapter Twenty-Two

Zoey

I’m pacingthe room that’s starting to feel smaller and smaller. Hopefully, the creaking floor isn’t keeping anyone awake. The rest of the house is silent except for the constant hum of the air-conditioning. Outside, I hear the occasional lowing of a cow and what I think is the barking howl of a coyote. On a normal night, those nature sounds might calm me. Tonight, however, is not a normal night.

Gavin kissed me.

I’m on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. And I would know, because I had a few in the years just before and right after Mom’s death. First, brought on by stress over my grades and a drive toward perfectionism that I’ve had to fight for years. And then, by the loss and grief after Mom died.

Now? The tightness in my chest and lightness in my head is a direct result of the man sleeping on the couch downstairs. And his expert lips, which I can still feel on mine. His sweet words, which are running through my brain like those big screens at the stock market exchange.

I should be happy. Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted? What I dreamed of?

Maybe not in a barn, but there was something sexy about him dragging me into that dark corner, the scent of leather mixing with his cologne. He could have kissed me anywhere and it would have been mind-scrambling. It was more than what I ever imagined.

But his kisses and his whispered confessions didn’t change the facts that hit me the moment we walked through the kitchen door.

Ella. Gavin has a daughter. One I’m currently contracted to help take care of through the weekend, maybe longer.

The contract was a really stupid idea of mine, but it’s not like Gavin and I couldn’t just revisit that. I resigned at Morgan-Beckwith, so I can forget the worry over him being my boss.

But the age difference isn’t changing. Neither is the fact that he has a daughter. He’s a dad. After so many years of thinking I’d never be a mom, am I ready to suddenly parent an eight-year-old, especially one with the kind of baggage Eleanor left behind?

Then there’s my dad. I can’t even begin to fathom a conversation in which I tell him I’m dating a man in his forties. One who has an eight-year-old daughter.

If Dad even knew I was here right now …

Things felt so easy between us and with his parents, that my worries were swept into a far corner of my mind. Or maybe under a rug. Now, in this quiet room, they’re like a thousand birds squawking in my ear, filling me up with noise.

I’m pacing, and my eyes come to rest on a photograph on the wall. It’s from homecoming or prom, the kind of formal picture they take at the dance. The pose is classic. Gavin is grinning widely, his hands resting on the hips of a girl with dark, curly hair. I hate her instantly, despite the fact that she’s long gone and I’m here. Her hair is awful, I think, and the bubblegum pink dress looks like it’s from another century.

It is from another century, I realize. Literally. Because Gavin was in high school before 2000.

I’m going to throw up. Or pass out. Maybe both. Knowing my luck lately, I’ll probably throw up and then pass out in my own vomit, a completely disgusting thought that somehow sobers me right up.

I have to talk to someone about this before I spontaneously combust. I need help. I’m desperate. My skin is tingling, and if I hadn’t already checked my temperature (because yes, I packed a thermometer, knowing that there’s a high likelihood I’ll get what Gavin had), I would assume I’m coming down with something.

I’m not sick, physically anyway. Perhaps love-sick. Or just sick in the head.

With jittery hands, I pull out my phone, hesitating. For the first time since we’ve become friends, I don’t want to talk to Abby about this. Whether it’s because of her relationship with Zane, or something else, I just can’t.

I remember Sam’s offer to talk, and how I brushed her off so quickly on the morning of my birthday. She was right. We all do take for granted the fact that she actually is trusted for her advice.

Sam gets hundreds or thousands of emails every week, so many that she has an assistant, Taylor, who helps her go through them all. Even so, Sam replies to them all, even the ones that don’t make it online. She has her degree in psychology and had planned to get her master’s. If not for Dr. Love, she’d be on the path to being a relationship and sex therapist.

I don’t have time to wait for an email, and I feel too ashamed to just call Sam. So, I type out a text. Probably the longest one of my life, breaking all the texting rules. I don’t have time for rules.

Sam will know it’s from me, but it helps to pretend like I’m just some anonymous letter-writer.

Zoey: Dear Dr. Love, I need your help. I’ve fallen for my boss. And it’s even more complicated than that. He’s much older. And I recently found out he has a daughter he didn’t even know about. I didn’t dream of being a mom. I always thought I’d be someone who worked hard, fell in love, and just had a husband to love. That would be enough. Now, I’m in this weird situation. He’s paying me to be his nanny and I’m on a trip with them at his family home, meeting his parents. It’s like he went from being a fantasy to us being like an instant family. Tonight, he kissed me, which complicated it even more. I’m panicking and freaking out and don’t know what to do. Can you offer any advice? Sincerely, Tangled up in Texas

It’s the longest text I’ve ever composed, and I hit send before I change my mind or try to edit my words. The whole thing is silly. But it was easier to be honest while pretending I’m someone else, a stranger who really just needs Dr. Love’s unbiased advice.

I stare down at the phone, waiting. Hoping. My stomach sinks as the moments go by.

There’s no warning before a text pops up. Sam must have a different kind of phone than I do, because there was no indication that she was even typing a message.

Sam: Dear Tangled, Wow! That is a truly complicated situation. I can only imagine how confused you’re feeling.

Sam: The thing about love is that it’s never easy. There isn’t one simple path, or a clear trajectory all the time. If it feels easy, either it’s not love, or there is something just waiting to surprise you, for good or for bad.

I read the texts, again and again, knowing that she’s probably typing something else while I wait. The band of tightness around my chest loosens.

Sam: There are two things you need to know. The first is how you feel. It seems like the future with this man might include things that weren’t on your life plan. Are you okay with that? Would you want to co-parent his child if it came to that? Are you okay with the age difference? Ultimately, that should only matter to you. Not society, or meddling twin brothers.

I smile at that, feeling the shine of tears in my eyes. I don’t bother to wipe them away, letting them roll down my face. It feels like letting go, and I need, desperately, to let go.

It doesn’t remove the difficulty of the situation though. Because while it may ultimately matter just to me and Gavin about the age difference, I know that it will matter to my dad. I’ve always been his little girl. I’m used to making him proud. Just thinking about him makes some of that tension return.

Sam: The second thing you need to know is how he feels. And I urge you to think about how YOU feel first, even if it leads to heartbreak later. Because if you find out how he feels first, it could convince you to want to co-parent his child when you don’t. It could convince you to change your life plans when that’s not really what you want. If you feel sure of your feelings, then it’s time to talk to him. I think in this situation, there needs to be honesty. Lay all your cards on the table. Let him do the same.

Zoey: You say that like it’s so easy to be honest and put myself out there.

Sam: I know it isn’t easy. But I also know you’re brave. You’ve made it through so much in your life. If this is something you feel sure about, I know you’ll fight for it. And if it’s not, I know that you’ll walk away, even if it’s hard.

Walk away.

Just the idea that things could end with me walking away brings that tightness back to my chest with full force. Which I think is an answer in and of itself.

It feels terrifyingly risky. Like the kind of choice I’ve always avoided in lieu of safety and comfort and things I can control. But maybe Abby was right when she said I needed to let my hair down. Maybe picking a lane has meant choosing safety at the expense of really living. I remember how it felt to hold nothing back with Annette and Roxana at the office.

Maybe I don’t need to choose such a narrow path for myself.

The phone buzzes in my hand, and I bite my lip as I read Sam’s text.

Sam: BTW how was the kiss?

Zoey: It could have woken Sleeping Beauty.

Sam: As your friend, not as Dr. Love, can I give you an extra piece of advice, just for Zoey Abramson?

Zoey: Of course.

Sam: Don’t let your head shut down your heart.

The words are so intuitive. Because that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. My worries and thoughts have taken the wheel, shutting everything else down.

There’s a soft knock at my door before I can respond to Sam’s last text. My heart responds with immediacy, and it’s like the hooves of a horse galloping. I roll my eyes at myself even as I glance at my reflection in the mirror above Gavin’s dresser.

As good as I’m going to look, I guess. Before I turn the knob, I draw in a breath, preparing myself for the sight of Gavin in the dark hallway. Will I invite him in? Tell him to shoo? I try to calm my skittering nerves and excitement at the idea of sneaking around in his parents’ house like we’re teenagers.

But when I pull open the door, it’s Ella, shifting on her feet. She’s wearing pink pajamas that Norah bought her.

“Ella?”

When she lifts her eyes from the floor, I can see the emotion in their depths. Her mouth opens and closes, and she can’t seem to get words out. A nightmare? A new bed? Going cold turkey off the macro diet her mother put her on?

Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter. She’s frightened and lonely and needs someone. I’m the last person I would recommend, but she’s here at my door.

Without taking the time to question it, I curl my arm around her thin shoulders and pull her into the room, flicking off the light and closing the door as I do so.

“Come on,” I say, pulling back the sheets on Gavin’s childhood bed. I know it’s illogical since his mother probably washed them earlier, but I wish they smell like him.

Without a word or any protest, Ella slides over next to the wall and I climb in beside her. It’s the most natural thing in the world to snuggle up next to her, and I think that we’re both somehow desperate and greedy for the affection. With a sigh, her breathing evens out, and I’m honestly shocked that she could sleep any more than she already has today. But I know that the emotional weight of all this has to be impacting her physically. Sleep is a natural response.

One that unfortunately doesn’t come to me quickly as I stare up at the same ceiling Gavin must have looked at countless times in his life. I’m in his bed, with his daughter gathered to me like she’s my own, and I’m terrified that this can’t end in any way but with me being completely gutted.