Falling for Your Boss by Emma St. Clair

Chapter Six

Zoey

“Knock, knock!”

I’m used to my privacy constantly being invaded sharing a house with four of my best friends. But as Sam ducks inside my room, I shove my phone under my thigh, like I’ve been caught doing something far worse than reading and rereading and re-rereading my text conversation with Gavin.

Which is what I’ve been doing this morning when I should have been going running with Harper or even showering for work.

No, I’ve been lounging in bed, squirming as I look back over our decidedly not professional texts. I took screenshots of just in case my phone ever died. The last time I obsessed so much over a text conversation was in college. And I didn’t have it this bad. Not even close.

What was that guy’s name again?

Oh, right. WHO CARES.

The thing is, when I read through the string of messages, I can hear Gavin’s voice in my head. He’s saying everything with that low, sexy tone I have heard often enough to commit to memory. It’s his conference room voice, what I think of as his alpha voice. A bit on the fierce, serious side, though I picture him with smile number six, that utterly kissable one.

How am I going to look at him tonight?

How am I going to look at him at work? Maybe I should call in sick. Except … Nancy already is sick.

“Um, Zo? You okay?”

Sam glances down at my leg, and for a tiny moment, I wonder if she has some kind of secret X-ray vision. Because, I swear, she knows.

I force a yawn and then give her a sheepish smile. “I’m fine! Sorry. Just … slow to wake up this morning.”

Her eyebrows twitch, but just when I think she’s about to say something about the telltale phone beating underneath my thigh, she smiles and shoves a plate toward me with a stack of crepes and a single lit candle. “Happy birthday, sunshine!”

Right. My birthday.

I sit up in bed, making sure my phone stays hidden under my leg. Because, of all the nosy roommates, Sam is the nosiest. And of all my roommates, Sam is the very last one I want knowing about my date—or non-date?—with Gavin tonight. I feel like she’s already on to me.

“Wow.” I take the plate, staring down at the crepes, which looked better from a distance. “This is … awesome.”

Sam sits down next to me and tucks her legs underneath her. “Yep. I had to make them because your favorite place isn’t open this early.”

“You made me crepes?”

“I know, right? I found a crepe recipe with three ingredients. One egg. One cup of flour. One cup of milk. Oh, and salt. Four ingredients. The flipping part was not so easy. Don't look in the trash.”

I blow out the candle so I don’t end up eating wax. The crepes are a little crunchy looking, but they look edible. Sam making crepes is like a dog walking around on only its front legs. She’s the least domestic of all of us, and the least likely to go out of her way to do something like this. Not that she isn’t nice … Sam is just very focused on Sam.

Which makes me instantly suspicious.

I could see Abby making me crepes (except she’s not awake yet) or even sweet Delilah, who performs acts of kindness with the enthusiasm with which some women collect shoes. Even Harper, who we jokingly call Harpy for a reason, spends a lot of time in the kitchen. I could see her making crepes. Except she’d probably ruin them with unpronounceable health-food ingredients. And she’s still out running. The mornings I don’t join her, our three miles turns into five or more.

The point is: Sam doesn’t cook, and she isn’t really into thoughtful gifts. Did she even remember my birthday last year? Sam spends most of her waking hours either managing her persona, the famous Dr. Love, relationship advice columnist, or with her soon-to-be fiancé. I love her, but there are times when I feel the slightest bit used. I mean, she has legitimate emails that come in from strangers, but she also has gotten us to write fake letters with fake emails to give her more content.

Then there’s the book. I swallow, looking down at the crepes, which I strongly suspect are some kind of Trojan Horse. I eat them, and then I owe her my firstborn child … or just information about anything that happens between me and Gavin. Now that there actually are details to share, this is more dangerous.

But they’re crepes. My mouth is practically watering and does not care at all about the danger. Or the fact that they look a tiny bit crispy. Nutella covers a multitude of mistakes. I take a big bite and silently pray I don’t regret it.

“These are delicious. Thank you!” I say around a mouthful.

“Good!” Sam continues to watch me eat. I’m starting to feel a little like a zoo animal.

“You’re not having any?”

“Nah. I don’t like sweet breakfasts.”

I resist the urge to check her pulse and see if she’s actually alive and not a cyborg. “Your loss.”

I keep eating. She keeps watching. The phone feels hotter and hotter under my leg. When it buzzes with an incoming text, both of our eyes fall to my lap.

What if it’s Gavin? What if it’s Gavin? What if it’s GAVIN?

“Are you going to check that?” Sam asks.

“Nope. It’s probably just my dad or Zane telling me happy birthday.”

“I don’t mind. You can check.”

I take another bite. “It’s fine. I’ll look later.”

Sam is so focused on watching the fork move from the plate to my mouth that I feel like I’m doing some kind of complicated brain surgery and she’s observing.

I set down the fork and turn to face her. “Sam. Not to look a gift crepe in the mouth, but I have to ask. What’s going on?”

Sam feigns mild outrage. And I know it’s not real, because I’ve seen Sam outraged. Like when she didn’t get the promotion she requested. Or when she gets the really nasty messages from people who hate Dr. Love.

She huffs. “What—I can’t make you crepes on your birthday?”

I raise an eyebrow and stare until she sighs and begins picking at the hem of her shirt.

“It’s just … well, I wanted to check in and see how things are going. At work. With your boss. Any new developments?”

If she only knew the treasure trove of developments. Did she know? How coincidental was it that she was here, now, when just last night, Gavin and I jumped over the line that had always been drawn so clearly between us?

And tonight … well. I have no idea what to expect.

Is it a date? Is he actually interested the way his text implied? Tone is so hard to read in texts. But he was flirting. And he did invite himself to mini golf tonight.

This is the moment I’ve thought about, dreamed about, and tried to tell myself would never happen for two years. Two. Years. But it felt intangible, not like reality. A fantasy. Now that it’s here, I have no idea what to do with myself. My insides are like a half-baked cake, gooey and shapeless.

Yes, something is developing. But it’s way too soon to talk about it, and I’m definitely not talking to Sam about it. It would just end up as a chapter in her new book. I set the plate on my bedside table, suddenly feeling ill.

“He’s my boss. The end.”

I know I sound way too defensive, and I know Sam notices when I get up, sliding my phone from its hiding spot under my leg. I keep it tight against my body, just in case anything shows on the screen. Not suspicious at all.

“How does Gavin feel about you quitting?”

Why, oh why, did I tell my roommates about my self-imposed deadline? Oh, right. For accountability. Except now, that’s the last thing I want.

“Today was the day, right? When you said you’d turn in your letter of resignation?”

She keeps pressing, and it’s like the way Zane and I used to poke each other’s bruises as a sick sibling game. Except we were little kids. This feels so much more sensitive. Invasive, even. Yet Sam keeps poking.

Maybe I’m being rude now, grabbing my towel and shower caddy without answering. But Sam doesn’t get to just ply me with one of my favorite foods stuffed with one of my other favorite foods and then think she gets access to my feelings.

“Technically, if he isn’t your boss anymore, you guys could date,” she says, and maybe I snap just a little bit.

“Look, Sam. I don’t want to be in your book.”

Sam stands, looking hurt and tugging at her dark braid. I recognize the gesture because I’m dragging my hand over my hair even as I speak.

“You think I’m just here because of the book?”

“Aren’t you?” I say the words gently, but it doesn’t matter. They find their mark and the hurt turns to anger in Sam’s eyes.

“I’m here as your friend. We are friends, if you remember. I write real advice to real people. I help them. Sometimes you guys forget that. If something is happening with you and Gavin, I might actually have helpful advice for you.”

I lean back against the dresser. “So, the homemade crepes weren’t about getting a new chapter to your publisher?”

Sam throws up her hands. “Happy birthday, Zoey.” And with that, she’s gone, slamming the door behind her.

Unfortunately, the door slamming knocks the plate of remaining crepes from its precarious position on my table to the floor. Upside down on the white rug, of course.

Because nothing says Happy Birthday! like hurting your friend’s feelings and getting a Nutella stain on your white rug.

* * *

I’d liketo say that things improved at work, but that wouldn’t be an accurate statement. At least, not by lunch time, when I finally escape to meet Abby at a nearby café.

First, the women in the office decided this year, for the first time, to acknowledge my birthday. Which might sound like a good thing, but it’s almost as though someone went out of their way to find out my dislikes.

From the lime green streamers (literally, my least favorite color) to the strawberry cake (I’m allergic) with cream cheese frosting (which I abhor). Even the drinks were relegated to Pepsi and Diet Pepsi, when I’m a Dr. Pepper girl, as all Texans should be. Did I mention they had a robot put on the cake? Yep.

Well played, everyone. Well played.

Needless to say, the rest of the office seemed to enjoy my birthday very much.

Then there was the Gavin issue. How do you look your boss in the face when you sent flirty texts the night before and have plans for the coming evening?

You don’t.

That’s what I figured out. Whether it was his shiny black shoes, his strong hands, or his broad shoulders, I became familiar with a lot of Gavin as I tried to avoid his eyes.

Which makes me look super mature. Totally ready to date an older guy.

He stopped by my desk first thing that morning, murmuring, “happy birthday,” in a way that made the little hairs stand up on my arms. I could sense his smile when I pinned my gaze on his shoulders. It felt like he was checking in, making sure I knew that things were different now. Setting the tone, which was still office professional, but with a very potent undercurrent of something else. The air between us felt electrified with tension, part attraction and part awkwardness.

“Looking forward to tonight,” he’d said in an even lower, even sexier voice, before rapping his knuckles twice on Nancy’s desk, which I was using while she was out. Gavin left the door open again today, keeping him in my immediate line of sight. And considering I couldn’t look him in the face, this made things pretty awkward. I could feel his gaze on me, like the heat of a thousand suns.

By the time I step out of the building and into the shock of Austin in almost-summer, my neck has a crick from trying to avoid looking at Gavin.

I practically fall into the booth across from Abby with a groan. She’s texting, probably my brother based on the look of utter delight on her face. At least, until she looks up and sees me. I must look awful, because she slips her phone into her bag and leans across the table.

“Did you finally quit? Did it go horribly? Gavin didn’t try to throw you on his desk and kiss you?”

I cover my face with my hands. “Abby! I don’t need the visual.”

“I think it makes a great visual. I mean, not that I’ve seen Gavin. But from what you’ve said, the two of you together would be hot. What do you want to eat? My treat.”

“I can’t eat right now.”

“You can’t eat? Okay. What’s up, birthday girl? Why so glum?”

I peek at her through two fingers. “I invited Gavin to come tonight.”

“You WHAT?!” If her shout weren’t enough to get all eyes in the small café on us, Abby slaps her hands on the scarred wooden table. A woman wearing tons of crystal accessories and a dress that looks like it’s hand-sewn from hemp frowns over at us.

“Keep it down!” My cheeks flame.

“We don’t know these people. Who cares. Let them look. I’m your best friend and I need details! How did this happen? And, oh my gosh! I get to meet Gavin!” She practically squeals this last part and claps her hands.

“That may depend on your ability to keep it down,” I practically growl, still feeling the eyes of other patrons on us. Hemp dress woman shakes her head and rubs one of her crystals like that’s going to lower Abby’s volume. I hope it works.

“Fine,” Abby whisper-shouts, tossing her turquoise-tipped hair over her shoulder. “I’ll stay quiet if you spill.”

I open and close my mouth, trying to figure out how to summarize, then just slide my phone across the table. It’s already open to the text conversation between me and Gavin, which I read yet again while walking here. I watch Abby’s face as she reads, her expression televising every thought she has. When she’s done, her smile is as wide as I’ve ever seen it.

“So? Why the freakout? It’s clear the man is into you. Are you overthinking again?”

“Maybe. It’s kind of what I do.”

Because I keep such a tight lid on my feelings and words, it’s like my brain makes up for it with an overactive thought life. Otherwise, I might explode.

“Well, stop. Or,” she says, seeing my irritation at her oversimplified advice, “you could talk it out with your bestie. Lay it on me.”

I sigh. “He’s my boss. He’s older. Like, almost twenty years older. I invited him tonight without thinking it through. He’s going to meet Zane. Who won’t be nice.”

“I’ll keep him on a short leash.”

I snort. Not likely. Though if anyone could, it would be Abby. She has my twin wrapped around her pinky finger and tied into a little bow.

“Plus, aren’t you handing in your resignation today? He won’t be your boss for long.”

“I couldn’t! Not when I have to face him tonight. I gave my deadline an extension. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

I expect Abby to argue, but she only nods. “Makes sense. Permission to speak freely, sir?”

I wince, because I never know what Abby will say, only that she doesn’t hold back. “Granted.”

“You’ve got to let go. I know that I didn’t know you before your mom died. But I have talked a lot with Zane about losing her.”

“You have?” It makes sense that they would talk about Mom. I mean, the two of them went from zero to serious pretty quickly. But still. The tiniest thread of jealousy weaves through me that he talked to Abby, not me. Zane and I almost never bring up the M word together.

“Not a lot. But some. And from what he tells me, I think you both closed off a lot after she died. He says you all got more serious. Too serious, maybe?”

You can’t lose your mom and not change. At any age. But especially when you lose her in high school. Even Dad changed.

The three of us got quieter. More serious, like Abby said. Dad stopped smiling, cutting back from a dozen smiles a year to maybe two. Zane and I focused on grades. I added track into that, beating all my own records senior year. Running was one of the only times I felt sort of lighter, maybe because of the endorphins?

Honor roll stopped being enough. I became a straight-A student, taking extra courses for college credit. I only loosened up the tiniest bit in college, mostly due to Abby and our other friends. I allowed her and the girls to convince me to go out one night a weekend, rather than spending both doing homework. My drive now is still just as intense.

I’m sure it’s the reason none of my relationships worked out. More than one guy I dated said roundabout things that all sort of pointed to me being too intense. It’s probably why my office mates made me a cake with a robot on it.

“I can’t be you,” I say, feeling the sting of tears I wish I could shove back behind my eyes. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m not intense. Serious. Like it or not, this is me.”

“I’m not asking you to be someone else. Definitely not me. I’m a hot mess. I’d never do that, and neither should anyone else. I’m just saying that maybe you could hold things a little bit more loosely. Maybe ease up on the control a bit without losing yourself?”

Abby isn’t wrong, and that’s what scares me most of all. Because I don’t know how to do what she’s asking, even if I know in my gut that she’s right.

“What if I can’t do this?” I whisper, tracing over the table, where someone has carved a drawing of an alien.

“Do what?”

I shake my head, unsure how to even articulate the pit of panic forming in my stomach. “I don’t know.”

Abby sighs, and leans across the table to take my hand. “Look. Falling in love is scary.”

My eyes widen and I’m already shaking my head. “I’m not in love with him.”

“Semantics,” Abby says. “Falling—in like, in love, or whatever you want to call it—is scary. It’s a risk. And it requires opening up. If you don’t open up, no one can come in. You had to do that for me. Remember?”

I smile, thinking back to freshman year of college. “You were like a battering ram. Relentless.”

“Thank you. But maybe you could make it a little … easier.”

“If Gavin isn’t willing to do the work to push past my walls, maybe he’s not worth it,” I say, sounding a bit petulant even to my own ears.

“Point taken. A guy should be willing to cross moats and climb walls and go on quests. But, at the end, the prize is you. I think that terrifies you. I can see why it does. You think I wasn’t scared about dating Zane? I was. Sometimes, I still am. I don’t know if Gavin is the right guy for you. But isn’t it worth the risk to find out?”

Is it, though?

This is the one question I wish I could answer ahead of time. And yet, I get the feeling there is no way to know without taking that first step out into nothing, hoping to find a pair of solid arms ready and willing and strong enough to catch me.