Falling for Your Boss (Love Clichés Sweet RomCom #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Zoey

Come on, Taylor Swift. Don’t fail me now.

Today, more than ever, I need her pep and sassy boldness. Because I’m about to walk into work and give my two weeks’ notice. I promised myself I would quit before my twenty-fourth birthday, which is tomorrow.

But as one of my favorite pop star’s anthems plays through my car speakers, I don’t feel the usual confidence building in my chest. Maybe I need to go back to the early Taylor days, when she was trying to break into a music industry that only wanted her songs, not her voice or her face.

Country Taylor. The Taylor who wouldn’t give up and worked and elbowed and fought her way into the Nashville elite.

I pop in a new CD— yes, I still listen to CDs, thank you very much —and skip forward to one of her earliest hits. She sounds soft-voiced and twangy here. Sweet. Little did people know the lion of a woman underneath. They know now.

Sometimes, I miss this early Taylor. I’ve given long thought to the fact that the world doesn’t seem to allow for both. Pick a lane—strong or sweet. At least, if you’re a woman. Men seem to get a free pass on this.

Take my boss, Gavin, for example. He is somehow able to be a total alpha male when it comes to business, but thoughtful and kind outside the conference room. He wears both hats well, switching seamlessly depending on the occasion. I’m not even sure which one I find more attractive.

Both are ridiculously, should-be-illegal levels of hot. Which is, at least in part, why I’m quitting.

Meanwhile, I am one note. Firm, professional, dependable Zoey. According to the other women in my office, who all hate me, Robot Zoey.

At least on the outside , my inner voice says and laughs maniacally.

There’s definitely a quirky, wild side to me, but I picked my lane long ago.

No sense swerving now. I’d probably end up right in the path of oncoming traffic the minute I took my hair down.

Figuratively speaking. Though my hair is almost always, literally, up.

My phone begins buzzing in the cupholder where I have it charging. I forgot to plug it in last night.

“Hey, Abs,” I say.

“Uh-oh. You’re Swifting again,” Abby says in lieu of hello.

I roll my eyes. I wonder what my best friend would say if she knew that I Swifted (as she calls it) every morning before work.

“Stop being such a hater. You know what they say about haters,” I say.

“Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate,” we chorus at the same time.

I grin. Maybe I needed to start calling Abby in the morning for pep talks rather than listening to the same rotation of CDs.

“Is today the day?” Abby asks. “You’re finally going to quit or tell Gavin you’re in love with him?”

“I’m not in love with him. It’s a crush.”

“Uh-huh. Crushes don’t last two years. Just throw yourself across his desk and ask him to kiss you. See what happens!”

I shake my head at my best friend, who is also my total opposite. “What happens is I would get fired.”

“Wouldn’t you get a severance package? Win-win! And then you’d get your own chapter in Sam’s book.”

“Nope.”

That’s the last thing I want. One of our best friends and roommates, Sam, secured a book deal, writing as her famous (and secret) persona, Dr. Love.

For the past few years we’ve helped supply her with real (and sometimes fake) fodder for the popular dating advice column.

But the book chapters are longer, more involved, and I have no desire to have any relationship of mine be immortalized like that in print.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Abby says. “You read what she wrote about me and Zane. It was very respectful. And the names were changed.”

“It’s not going to happen. Anything romantic with Gavin or having Sam write about it. Moving on.”

“Fine. What should I get Zane for his birthday? Your brother is impossible to shop for.”

I wrinkle my nose, glad we aren’t FaceTiming. I love Abby. I love my twin brother. I even love them together.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not sometimes hard to stomach their sickeningly sweet love-fest. I’d also be lying if I deny feeling the tiniest bit jealous that the two people closest to me in the whole world now hang out all the time … usually without me.

“You can always get him another tie. He loves his ties.”

“Ugh! I’m not getting Zane a tie. Are you serious right now? I’ve just gotten the man to loosen up a little. A tie sends the wrong message. You know, you could loosen up a bit too, Zo. It’s been good for Zane.”

It has been good for him. Abby has been good for him.

She upended him completely, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

My brother had been closed off tighter than a hyperbaric chamber.

When he fell for Abby, I could almost hear the hiss as the doors opened, letting Zane breathe real air.

He seems healthier now, and definitely happier.

But that doesn’t mean I need to change. I’m just fine. And like I said, I’ve picked my lane. I know the speed limit and I know the destination. I’m on cruise control. No need to so much as tap the brakes.

“I’m not my brother.”

Abby sighs. “Fine. Back to gifts. Help!”

“Maybe something for his house,” I suggest. “Weren’t you helping him decorate?”

“Boring. I was thinking about a puppy.”

I blink. “You want to get my brother a dog ?”

“Is it a bad idea?”

“Pets make terrible gifts. I mean, I know Zane’s working less now that he’s not full-time at the startup. But at his core, my brother is a giant workaholic. Who’s going to take care of the puppy? I don’t even know how much he likes dogs.”

We’d never had a dog or any pet growing up, probably because of my dad. He spent years in the military, and I suspect he irons his socks and underwear, though I’ve never actually caught him doing so.

The idea of pet hair in his house? No. Slobber? No way. Potty accidents? God forbid. Zane might have loosened up, but I have a feeling he would be the same way. I can almost picture him, following a puppy around with a vacuum cleaner and a damp rag.

“Fine. You’re no help,” Abby says. “Question: Is this thing you call ‘music’ supposed to help you muster up the courage to quit? Because I don’t get it.”

“I don’t need to defend Teffy to you. Her awards and album sales speak for themselves.”

“Teffy, huh? Is that her new nickname?”

Teffy is what Taylor Swift’s brother calls her. It predates the names her fans and the media call her. But Abby, a staunch hater of pop music, doesn’t deserve to know that fact. She can google it.

I eye the clock on the dashboard. “Speaking of quitting, I’ve got to get into work.”

“Before you go, one more thing.”

I can tell by the tone of Abby’s voice that I’m not going to like whatever this thing is.

“Zane invited me to your birthday night. But I don’t want to come if you feel like that steps on your toes or something.”

I swallow back the hurt. It shouldn’t matter. The tradition that Zane and I started back in high school was that on our birthday, we’d go mini golfing at the iconic Peter Pan Mini Golf and then treat ourselves to Sandy’s frozen custard. If that’s not an Austin cliché, I don’t know what is.

It’s our thing. We never even invited our dad.

“Of course I don’t mind. You’re my best friend.” I find myself squeezing the steering wheel with my free hand, hard enough that my knuckles turn white.

“Yay! I’m excited! Okay, gotta run. Computer code is calling. Love ya!”

She hangs up before I can respond.

Now I have a new reason to need cheering up. Groaning, I dial up the volume and lean my head against the steering wheel.

Is it ridiculous that I am sitting in my car outside work, trying to apply meaning from Taylor Swift’s life to my own? Maybe.

But ever since my mom took me to one of her concerts the year before she died, the singer has become my spirit animal. Maybe it’s because Taylor Swift reminds me of one of the best last times I had with my mom. Or maybe it’s simply because Taylor is awesome, no matter what Abby says.

Either way, I need to channel some of her grit before walking into the offices of Morgan-Beckwith, boutique marketing firm.

Taylor had the music industry to fight. I have an office full of catty women, my ridiculous crush on my boss, and a resignation letter I haven’t had the courage to turn in yet.

Gavin is both the reason I’m resigning and the reason I’m struggling with it so much.

No one has any idea the amount of self-control it takes to look uninterested in Gavin day after day. It’s like wearing a corset on my emotions all day long, the laces squeezing tighter, tighter, tighter until I can hardly breathe from the effort.

Crushes are supposed to die. They’re like a fire running on only lighter fluid and no good fuel. They burn bright, they burn hot, and then they fizzle into ash. At least, they’re supposed to. But the feelings I have for Gavin simply refuse to go the way of the dinosaur.

It’s like a Night of the Living Dead Crush .

I beat it back, thinking I am safe, and it pops right back up again when he smiles or says my name or just breathes in my general vicinity.

There is a reason Gavin tops a list of the most eligible bachelors in Austin, a title once held by Texas’s favorite naked bongo player, Matthew McConaughey.

Gavin is wealthy, successful, and hotter than a flamethrower on the Fourth of July. If I could find a flaw in Gavin, I would have latched on to that thing like it was my only lifeline.

But to Abby’s point, I’m not in love with him. I mean, that thought is ridiculous. Silly. Completely untrue.

Probably .

I turn off my car, the silence feeling somehow loud after Abby’s bright voice and the music I’ve been blasting. With a sigh, I grab my purse, lock the car, and head into battle.

* * *

“If the proposal needs tweaking, I can do that,” Roxana says, her voice a throaty purr that would rival any 900-number phone operator. “I have so many ideas.”

Gag me .