The Relationship Clause

Chapter 11

From the timeI hit send on the email to Junie until the clock strikes five, I get zero work done.

My brain feels like it’s been scrambled in a pan then left on the burner for too long. All I can do is watch the clock as the seconds tick by. Junie responded to my email promptly, but it was a short, curt reply, like all of our interactions have been today.

This isn’t what I should be worried about right now,I tell myself.

I have a laundry list of things to otherwise occupy my thoughts and time. The mole, our investors, the lawsuit we’re preparing, the so-far-unanswered email I sent to the author of that article, not to mention my normal work, my frighteningly silent mother, or the last cryptic text from my dad saying he’d “see me before our trip to Vail.”

See? Laundry list. The last thing I should be worrying about is Junie.

And yet…I am.

All morning Junie and the last thing she said to me have been stuck in my head like the world’s catchiest pop song.

I’m not like Mom at all,I tell myself for the millionth time today. I’m not like either of my parents. I’ve made sure of that over the years. All of their worst qualities on full display my whole life? Mother’s coldness and Father’s manipulative tendencies. I’d never let myself become them.

“People often glimpse hints of the truth on the path they take to avoid it.”

My therapist’s words from my most recent session with her come back to me, hitting me like a dagger to the heart. It’s enough to make me wish I could call out sick for the rest of the day.

Maybe…maybe I have unwittingly let some of them rub off on me. I sigh and scrub my face with my hands.

Five o’clock finally strikes, and employees start trickling out of the office. I keep stealing little glances at Junie, but she never looks my way. She keeps typing on her computer, back straight, working on who knows what. I, on the other hand, am so wound up at this point, I can’t even pretend to work anymore. I’m counting down my employees, watching each and every one of them until they disappear inside the elevator. Five, four, three, two…

One.

When Junie finally walks into my office at 5:22, I’m more wound up than I’ve been all day.

She sits across from me, and suddenly, the speech I’ve so carefully prepared in my head is gone. Poof. Vanished. I go on autopilot.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Of course,” she says.

“Have you found out anything new over the last week?”

She pauses for half a beat. “Actually, yes. Nothing solid, but I did hear through the grapevine that Erica is still upset about a promotion she was passed up for and Michael has been extra cranky ever since his idea for the software didn’t get picked up. Could be motive for why someone would suddenly want to give away company secrets. I’ll do some more digging this week and see what else I can find out.”

“Good, good.” Idiot. This isn’t what I wanted to talk to her about. Still, it’s good information, so I tuck it away to examine later and clear my throat. “Um, Miss Cousins, what I wanted to say to you was that I’m sorry—”

“I’m sorry.”

We speak the words simultaneously. Our gazes collide for what feels like the first time in a lifetime of minutes. Her mesmerizing, blue eyes draw me in, and I sense rather than see that there’s a whole lot more behind her words. As shocking as her apology is, I’m more surprised by the relief I feel to have those words out. I can’t stop now.

“Please, let me finish. This morning, I was out of line. I have no excuse other than my own selfish tendencies. It was wrong of me to speak to you that way.”

Junie pulls her chair around to the side of my desk. There’s an earnestness about her that makes her somehow even more attractive. “I’m sorry too. I was upset so I said hurtful things. I don’t know you well, and I know your mother even less, but I’ve spent enough time around you to know that you’re nothing like her.”

Her words are like a balm to my troubled soul. I don’t fully believe them, but they help ease the sting. I’ve been examining every single one of my interactions that I can remember in and out of the office from the last couple of months, taking a microscope to them to try to figure out if they were the actions of a good boss or if they were things Cynthia Burton or Frederick Ferguson would have done. Most of my actions, I feel good to say, I can stand by. But some of them…

“From now on,” I say, “I promise to show you more respect, no matter what. Who you flirt with or don’t flirt with isn’t any of my business.”

“I wasn’t flirting with Shane.”

“But if you were, it would be alright. I know you two have a history. And it’s not against any rules to date him if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t?” My heart thuds extra hard in my chest. I try to tell it to calm down, but it doesn’t listen.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Well…alright then. What about Bill?”

“I don’t want to date him either.”

“Oh.”

Oh. She doesn’t want to date Shane or Bill. I mean, Bill, I get, but every woman wants to date Shane.

We’re both quiet for a stretch of time. I get the sense that she’s waiting on me to process everything, and I’m grateful for it, but I’m not sure exactly how. What is she saying? Is there some sort of subtext I’m not getting here?

I clear my throat. “Well, you’re free to date anyone in the office, just so you know.” Why am I still talking about this? And why is my mouth saying words I absolutely don’t mean? I don’t want her to date anyone at the office. Not unless it’s…

Not unless it’s who?

I can’t answer my own question. I’m gripping the arm of my chair so hard, it’s probably going to give the thing stress fractures, so I release it and fold my hands together. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She’s focusing on her career, I remind myself. Building up her resume. She wants a full-time job, not a relationship. And why wouldn’t she? She’s proven how capable she is time and time again.

These thoughts twist through me, distracting me so much that I almost don’t notice when she starts reaching across me to something on the other side of my desk. I don’t know what she’s doing, but suddenly, I don’t care, because she’s in my personal space and she smells amazing. But then she retreats, and I realize what she was doing. My coffee cup is in her hand. My old coffee cup. The one she brought me this morning like she does every morning. And it’s still full of the coffee I never drank.

Usually, I sneakily dump it down the drain in the breakroom so no one knows, but today, I’d been so distracted that I forgot.

Junie swirls the liquid around in the cup, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Hmm, this is still full.”

Heat erupts up my neck. “Well, it’s not. I drank it, then refilled it with coffee from the breakroom.” I’m such a liar.

She gives me a look. “You know I can see you in your office basically all day, don’t you?”

I don’t say a word. Silence is obviously the only response I can make here.

“Is there something wrong with the coffee I’ve been bringing you? Do you want to change your order?”

She’s on to me. She’s going to figure out that I hadn’t continued coming to Pete’s for the coffee.

“Um, no, nothing’s wrong with it. I sometimes forget it’s there. I always finish it at the end of the day though.”

“Is that so?” She bunches her raspberry red lips together, and then she turns around and does something no woman has ever done before. She sits on my desk.

I have a strict “no sitting on my desk” policy for anyone I work with, be they male or female. It sends the wrong message. But for some reason, I can’t force myself to tell her about this rule. There’s barely any room for her up there with my computer and the rest of my things, so I’m not quite sure how she’s managing it, but she’s there, and it’s all I can do to keep my eyes above her collar bones.

I have to regain control of this situation. I clear my throat. “Miss Cousins, I think you’re the one who needs to answer a few questions.”

“Oh? And what would they be?”

“W-well, for starters, what does Mr. TDC stand for, and why do you write it on my cup every day?”

That’s not what I actually meant to say, but it’s what ends up coming out. It’s a question I’ve been curious about ever since she first wrote it. I thought it might stop after she started working for me, but she still brings me my coffee with those letters written in her handwriting every morning.

Junie looks at me like she knows exactly what I’m doing, and she isn’t going to play along.

“Tell you what,” she says, looking down at me from her perch. “If you answer a question for me, I’ll answer that question for you.”

I swallow. Can she see how much she’s getting to me? Is she enjoying it? Because I’m kind of enjoying it.

She leans down as if she’s about to whisper a secret, and I can’t help leaning toward her. It’s that mystery book thing again. I’m on the verge of a paragraph ending on a cliffhanger. All I need to do is turn the page. One more little page, and I’ll have it. The information I crave.

“What question is that?”

Junie blushes and suddenly looks shy, like maybe she won’t go through with asking her question. I can’t have that. Not after all this tormenting.

“Go ahead and ask,” I say. “I still might choose not to answer.”

Her blue eyes caress my face. “Do you even like coffee? Or is it possible that maybe you were coming into Pete’s every day to see me?”

Here it is. The chance to come clean. To tell her I’ve been attracted to her since day one.

But then my office door swings open, and the last person I expected to see is standing there: my dad.