The Relationship Clause

Chapter 17

As I walkto my desk on Monday morning, I put on a new hat. A more professional hat. My “I’m not flirting with my boss anymore” hat, to be precise. Because this is getting more complicated, and I know it kind of started out complicated, but it wasn’t supposed to get more complicated.

Over the weekend, I decided something. I can do both. I can stay in my tower with my nice, cozy walls keeping me safe and sound while still working on my half-hatched desire to find a little more connection in my life. Kiera might think the first and most obvious place to look for this connection is in my love life, but that’s a little too scary still. I’m not quite ready for that.

So, instead, I’ll start with my work life. It’s my goal to make this job stick for longer than the contracted three months, so I can start with that. Connections at work still count. They’ll fill all my little cracks and crevices to the tippy top until I’m ready to move on to something more serious.

If I have any hope of continuing my employment with Em3rge Technologies, I need to fulfill my end of the original bargain and help Mr. Ferguson—who will henceforth be known only as Mr. Ferguson instead of Owen—catch the mole.

Which is why I’ve come up with a brilliant plan.

At 9:05, right on schedule—in other words, five minutes late—Shane comes waltzing through the elevator doors.

“Good morning, Junie,” he says, winking at me when he reaches my desk. “I believe I have an unexpected, last-minute appointment with Owen. You wouldn’t happen to know what this meeting is about, would you?”

Ignoring his question, I push away from my desk, beckoning for him to follow with a finger over my shoulder. “This way, Mr. Thatcher.”

After a quick knock on Mr. Ferguson’s door, I enter his office.

“Oh, Miss Cousins, good,” he says. “I was about to ask you about this meeting on my calendar. I don’t remember scheduling it.”

“That’s because you didn’t schedule it. I did.” I close the door behind Shane, then walk over to Mr. Ferguson’s desk to hit the glass-darkening button. Unfortunately, this means I have to get close to Mr. Ferguson, and when I do, I smell his woodsy, fresh body wash and have an immediate, visceral flashback to our kiss.

The memory hits me right in the feels, and I momentarily forget where I am and what I’m doing, stalling by Mr. Ferguson’s side like a windup toy that ran out of steam. His deep-brown eyes meet mine. Is he having the same flashback too? If Shane wasn’t here, would he hit the window button himself? Take my hand? Pull me onto his lap and run his fingers through my hair…

Shane clears his throat, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Right. Right. Clearly this whole “distancing myself from Mr. Ferguson” thing is going to be more difficult than I originally thought.

I need to be all business. It’s not enough to try not to think of the k-i-s-s itself. I need to distance myself from him entirely. Those bedroom eyes must be avoided at all costs. From now on I’ll look at, um…his nose! Noses can’t be bedroomy. There’s nothing romantic about noses, even ones as perfect as Mr. Ferguson’s.

Yes. From here on out, when I need to look at Mr. Ferguson, I’ll stare at his nose.

“I called this meeting because it’s time to do something drastic to weed out the mole,” I say after I’ve stepped back a safe distance from the desk.

Mr. Ferguson and Shane share a look.

“Okay,” Shane says slowly. “We realize that, but without knowing who the mole is, there’s not much we can do at this point.”

“Exactly, which is why I’ve come up with a plan.” My heart is suddenly racing. Useless adrenaline is coursing through my veins. Why am I so nervous about this?

“Let’s hear it.” Mr. Ferguson folds his arms over his chest, making the fabric of his charcoal-gray button-up stretch and tighten across his shoulders.

Look at the nose, Junie. The nose!

I take a step back for more breathing room. “Mr. Ferguson and I will be in Vail this Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

Shane looks immediately interested, like a dog who’s caught on to a new and interesting scent. “Wait, what? Both of you? In Vail?” A devilish smile grows on his face.

“It’s not what you think,” I rush to say, though Mr. Ferguson remains curiously quiet on the subject. “Anyway, um, we’ll both be gone, and I know we were thinking that might be when the mole would try to gain access to sensitive things on the computers. I was thinking about it, and I’m not sure that’ll be enough.”

Mr. Ferguson frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I think they’ve probably already gotten all the information they needed to steal. Why risk coming back? But what if we make it seem like they missed something? Or that you two have come up with an even better idea for the 3D printers?”

“You mean set a trap?” Shane says, looking interested.

“Exactly. We set a trap. We dangle a tasty treat in front of them that they won’t be able to resist going after. We can even give it a name so it sounds more official. Shane can do his magical coding stuff, and as soon as they go for the bait, boom! We’ve got them.”

Shane and Mr. Ferguson look at each other like they’ve stumbled upon buried treasure. “That’s brilliant,” Mr. Ferguson says.

Nose, nose, nose, nose.

“Seriously!” Shane’s smile grows until it fills his whole face. “Why didn’t we think of this before?”

“Could we have something ready by Thursday?” Mr. Ferguson asks.

“Dude. My mind is already going into coding mode. But what idea could we use for bait?”

“It doesn’t even have to be a real idea,” I say. “You could hint that you have a new idea. Hold a staff meeting this week and mention you guys have something big in the works. Something even bigger than your current project. That’s sure to tempt the mole to do some poking around.”

“Great idea.” Mr. Ferguson is standing from his desk now, energy in every movement.

“Yes, that’s perfect!” Shane says.

They slap hands, then start launching into ideas and technical talk. It’s as if they’ve forgotten I’m here, and I’m totally fine with that. Happiness floods my chest, and all the adrenaline and nervousness is gone, replaced by endorphins and the feeling that I can accomplish anything.

I’m about to slip out of the room and let them finish the meeting without me when Shane sees me, grabs my elbow lightly, wraps his arms around me, and spins me around, laughing. “You’re a genius,” he says as he plops me back down right in front of Mr. Ferguson.

Mr. Ferguson looks as if he might move in for a hug or something too, but alarms go off in my brain, and I take a big step back, holding my hand out to him instead.

The mood in the room instantly changes to hard-core awkwardness. I shake Mr. Ferguson’s hand while staring at his nose, and Shane hides a smirk as I move to the safety of the door again.

“Um, okay, well, glad I could help. I better get back to my desk. Byeeee!”

Back in my chair, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I did it. I survived my first interaction with Mr. Ferguson post-kiss. Now I need to make sure I survive the trip to Vail.

The rest of the week, I make sure I’m more reserved in my interactions with Mr. Ferguson. I’m not cold and distant like I was when I was upset with him before. Instead, I’m more professional. I keep my biggest smiles to myself, I keep my distance from him physically, I stare at his nose, and if any interaction can be completed with a text or an email, I do that instead of popping into his office like I normally would.

Mr. Ferguson and Shane set the bait and the trap—which we’ve decided to call Phase Three—for the mole, and I continue to surreptitiously investigate various employees with little success.

By Thursday afternoon, I feel like a slinky being pulled apart by two toddlers. My breaking point is near. It has required all my effort to be aloof with Mr. Ferguson and professional in all other aspects. I feel it, and Summer and Kiera feel it. I know this because they’ve sent me multiple text messages this week asking, “What’s wrong?” and “Are you okay?” even though I’ve told them repeatedly that I’M FINE.

I’m almost, almost, looking forward to this little vacation to Vail. Partly because it will be nice to have a vacation, but also because I’ve come up with a plan.

Yes, I know, another plan. I’m a planning machine, I tell you! A machine! Muahahaha!

Ahem.

Anyway, this plan should help the stress of the whole fake girlfriend thing go away, and it involves a public breakup in front of Owen’s—er, Mr. Ferguson’s—dad at the end of our trip. All I need to do is get Mr. Ferguson on board with it, but that’s a conversation for another time.

As soon as the clock strikes five on Thursday, I’m like Cinderella at the ball. Without another word to Mr. Ferguson, I hightail it out of the office. This evening, I need to pack, eat a healthy microwavable dinner, then relax in a bubble bath until bed. That’s my intent at least. The more likely scenario will probably involve putting the packing off every conceivable way until I finally stress-pack at midnight and fall into a fitful sleep shortly after.

I’m in the middle of the very important task of researching the different methods of packing when there’s a knock. A peek at my phone tells me it’s almost nine o’clock, and when I open the door, I’m surprised to see a casual Mr. Ferguson on the other side of it, pacing.

Now, he’s not wearing a suit or jeans, he’s wearing gray sweatpants, a hoodie, and only socks on his feet. This version is worse than Jeans Owen. This is Lounge Owen, and if it wasn’t for my newfound vow of professionalism, I might have jumped him on sight.

“Was it the kiss?” he asks as soon as I open the door.

I pull up short. “Uhhh…what?”

He steps closer, ignoring any and all need for personal boundaries. “Was it the kiss? Or was it something else? Did I offend you in some way that would cause you to be upset with me again?”

Words won’t form, so all I do is shake my head.

“No? Are you sure? Because the way you’ve been acting around me this week has me thinking otherwise. You barely talk to me, you never smile anymore, you won’t look me in the eye. You’re still not looking me in the eye.”

My gaze wants to snap to his, but I keep it trained at his chest. I can’t even look at his nose. Still, I can practically feel the tension rolling off his body. He’s waiting for me to say something. I have to say something.

“I was being professional.”

“Exactly. You were professional. Too professional. You weren’t—” He motions with his hand as if trying to pull the word he’s looking for out of the air. “You weren’t you.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I say it because what else can I say? I didn’t have fun this week either, but it was necessary. If he only knew how close I am to falling for him, he’d agree too.

“Is it going to be like this in Vail?” he asks after another beat of silence.

“Like what?”

“Like this. Distant, cold, uncomfortable.” He moves in further, as if trying to physically force away the distance between us from the past week. “Because if it is, if this is what it’s going to be like, I’ll call and cancel with my dad. I don’t care what he says. Nothing is worth making you feel discomfort or distress.”

“N-no, it’s not—I mean, I’m not—”

“Because I like the way things are. Were. I like the way we work together. Or at least, the way we used to work together.”

“You do?”

He’s standing so close to me now that my nose is practically touching his chin. It’s too close to be called professional. I should back up. Create clear and pointed space between us. There’s nothing behind me. I could move. He’s not keeping me here.

But I don’t.

I swallow hard, trying to clear my head, trying to remind myself to stay professional, act professional, but it’s impossible because the only thing my brain will register is the fact that Mr. Ferguson likes the way we work together, flirty banter and all.

He nods and licks his lips. I can’t help tracking every micromovement “Yes. I’ve never thought of the office as a place of enjoyment, but ever since you got here…”

When I speak, my words are breathy. “I…I think I need, well, we need to be professional, you know? With this trip to Vail and everything, the lines around our relationship felt like they were getting a little…blurry. I didn’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

He nods, and I allow my eyes to drift up to see that he’s processing my words. “And what impression would that be?”

I swallow hard, wishing my knees would stop shaking. “Well, you know, I mean, we have that contract between us, and now we’re in this fake relationship, and I’m kind of a flirty person by nature. I didn’t want you thinking that I thought anything had changed between us. I’m still taking my job seriously. After the kiss, I wasn’t sure how to act. This is going to sound crazy, but I was thinking too much into things. Like maybe there was more behind the kiss than there actually was. But, like I said, that’s crazy. It was just a kiss, right? We needed to get your dad off our backs, and we did, and it was just a kiss, and there was nothing more to it, and it’ll never happen again, and I need to stop talking now.”

“I suppose I can appreciate that,” he says after a long beat passes. It kind of sounds like he might be smiling, but I’m not going to risk looking up there to find out. “But, Juniper?”

My heart skips a beat at the use of my full name again. His voice is deep and kind of rough, and it’s taking all my concentration to keep my eyes trained on his chest.

All of my concentration implodes, though, when I feel his fingers against my skin. He cups my cheeks with both of his hands, tilting my face up, up, up. At last, he coaxes my gaze to his. I expect to see storm clouds staring back at me, but instead, there are two warm, soft, brown eyes, bright and captivating. And I was right. There’s a teeny tiny smile on his lips as if he’s biting back gentle laughter.

“This weekend,” he says, “I don’t want professional Miss Cousins in Vail. This weekend, I want you. The real you. How do you feel about that?”

Seconds tick by as he waits for my answer. How long will he wait? A whole minute? An hour? All night? I don’t know what to say. My head and my heart are at war, both wielding heavy weapons, neither willing to yield. That is, until his thumb starts caressing my chin, barely grazing my bottom lip. My heart wins out.

“Okay,” I whisper. “This weekend, you get Juniper.”

“Promise?”

I look between his eyes, knowing it’s impossible, knowing we’ll both end up hurt.

“Promise.”