Chapter 7
SEVEN
Rowan
‘Today will be a good day.’
“I’m still waiting for you to do your magic,” I mumble to my empty water bottle before I slide it into my purse. “Tonight would still count.”
I heft my purse over my shoulder and head to the door before shutting the door behind me, sliding my key into the lock and turning it until I hear the lock engage.
It’s weird to be at the office so late, but I really wanted to get that list organized for Mr. Fowler before I headed out. I know he hates chaos and disorganization, and I really would rather stay on his good side than mess up again and have him snap at me like he did in that stupid empty building.
My phone’s flashlight illuminates the pathway to the parking lot as I head for my car, which desperately needs the windshield scraped off. A layer of ice has built up on it just in the time since I got to work today, though I guess that was more than twelve hours ago, now.
I toss my purse into the back seat and grab my ice scraper, using what little strength I have left for the day to take off as much of it as I can before sliding into the driver’s seat and turning the key to start it.
The engine lets out a low sputter before starting and I shift the gear into drive. As soon as I press the gas, the car up and dies. This process repeats at least three times before I get out and swing my foot at the front bumper, landing a hard kick on it.
“God damn it!” I shout.
“Rowan?” Mr. Fowler’s voice rings out behind me as he approaches, concern on his face. “What are you still doing here?”
He sets his heavy leather briefcase down next to my car and I throw my arms up in surrender. “I was finishing that list for you,” I tell him.
“You were off more than three hours ago.”
“It was important.”
He opens his mouth, probably planning to argue with me, but he decides against that and closes his mouth again, instead jerking his chin toward my sad little sedan.
“Car trouble?”
“Yeah,” I say, waving a hand at it. “It keeps making this put-put-put sound, then dies when I step on the gas.”
“Pop the hood for me?”
I slide back into the driver’s seat and reach down to find the lever that opens the car’s hood, watching as he props it up, effectively blocking my view.
I step out and move to stand next to him, watching as he slips off his suit jacket and neatly folds it before setting it on the roof of the car.
He’s gotta be freezing, but he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows.
Even in the dim light, I can see the thick cords in his arms flexing as he leans forward to check the engine.
He brushes a hand through his hair – a chestnut brown flecked with silver at the sides that almost shimmers under the street light – and he digs in, pulling parts out and replacing them, feeling for god knows what in there.
He does this for several minutes before bracing his hands against the hood and turning to me.
“I have good news and bad news.”
“Bad news first,” I say.
“This car isn’t going anywhere on its own tonight.”
I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration. “And the good news?”
“I was here when your car died, so you have a safe way to get home.”
I should fight him on it. I should insist on getting a cab or something, but I’m so tired. I don’t have the energy to fight him. I haven’t felt good all day, and I just need to get home.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Let me call AAA and we can go.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, “I’ve got it covered. Grab your stuff.”
I do as he says, grabbing my purse from the back seat, and swipe the car key from my key ring, plopping it into his hand.
“Good. Go on and wait in my car. Seats are already warmed up.”
I wait for a few minutes in his car, letting the warmth of it soak into me and relax my aching muscles.
He climbs into the car and slides something across my lap, dropping it down next to my legs.
I look down to see the black metal of my cane, and mortification floods through me like fire.
I can actually feel the burning of the embarrassment on my skin.
“You forgot this,” he says. “It seemed important.”
“It— Thank you.”
He turns to look at me and I feel like I’m burning alive. I’ll spontaneously combust any second, now, I just know it.
I drop my eyes to my lap, avoiding his gaze. Trying to hide from the fire dancing on my skin.
“Why don’t you use it?”
Eyes locked on my lap, I quietly answer, “I don’t want to get in the way.”
“Rowan.” I feel his finger hook under my chin as he pulls it to face him, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You’re not riding down the halls on a clydesdale. It’s the equivalent of a stick. If you need it, use it.”
“It’s embarrassing,” I admit. “I’m twenty-one.”
“If you need it, use it,” he repeats, more firmly this time.
“You don’t think I’m faking it?”
“You’re hiding the thing in your car,” he says. “No, I don’t think you’re faking it.”
He sounds angry; he’s probably pissed that I didn’t disclose my illness when I got hired. I risked a great, cozy job, just to avoid embarrassment. I really wanted this job. I needed it. And now that’s at risk because my boss just found out I’ve been lying to him.
“I know your car, you know,” he adds. “I saw it at the party. You’re in an accessible parking space, with the placard to match. It wasn’t my business, so…”
“Oh. Right,” I say. “So you knew.”
“Is that why you don’t expect a second date?”
“Mr. Fowler—”
“Colt. We’re not at work anymore. Call me Colt.”
“Colt,” I correct myself, staring into those honey-brown eyes as I shrug. “People don’t want to be with the sick girl.”
“Frogs?”
I smile, feeling some of the tension roll off of me. “Frogs.”
4. None of the above.
I give him my address and we cruise through the parking lot.
I watch him as he drives – his left elbow propped against the door of the car, hand resting against his chin.
His right hand controls the wheel, his hand moving flat against it as he makes turns.
Those veins in his arms flex and roll against his skin as he moves.
I can’t help but imagine that hand wandering over to me, squeezing my knee, trailing over to my thigh. Moving up, up, up until his fingers…
Oh my god, Rowan, he’s forty.
I cross one leg over the other, squeezing my thighs together, and I force myself to look out the window, away from those arms. My own arms wrap tightly around me as we cruise down the streets.
Pulling up to my house, I sigh when I realize that Dad’s car is in the driveway, parked off-center and almost sideways. He’s drunk again.
“Thank you,” I say to Colt, reaching for the door handle. He opens his door and steps out, and I try to stop him. “Colt—”
Before I can even finish my sentence, he’s already run around the front of his car, opening my door for me.
I smile as I take his hand and let him help me down, then grab my stuff in my arms and start toward the door.
I can feel him behind me, walking closely enough to be on the lookout, there if I need him, but not so close that I could have reason to file a complaint at work.
I turn to him at the door and say, “Thank you…sorry I called you a frog.”
He laughs, just a little. “I’m glad that you did. I was being a frog.”
“Well, this rescue mission was very princely,” I tell him, heat rising to my cheeks in a flush.
“Goodnight, Rowan.”
“Goodnight, Colt.”
As he walks back to his car, I fumble to get my keys in the lock.
I beeline straight for my room, not stopping to find my dad or check on him. He’s not going to ruin this feeling for me. Not tonight.
Flopping down on my bed, I grab my pillow and stuff my face into it, letting out a squeal.
God, I feel like I have a schoolgirl crush on this guy.
My boss. A man only a few years younger than my own father.
But the feeling of his finger under my chin, the way his eyes sparkled into mine, I didn’t make that up.
My mind drifts back into that car, the thought of those strong, veined arms touching me. Warming me up. Teasing me.
Alone in my room, I let that fantasy take over.
I let myself imagine him keeping one hand on the wheel, his focus on the road ahead of him as he puts a hand over my knee.
I think about a thumb lazily drawing circles at the side of my knee, taunting, teasing, until he slides that hand slowly up my thigh, playing with the hem of my skirt.
In my mind, his fingers find home between my legs, seeking me out as pressure leads to a throbbing need for his touch.
I slide my own hand into my panties as I think about his hand doing the same, fingers toying at my clit as it throbs, and I let out a soft moan into my pillow, sliding a finger inside.
“Colt,” I gasp, “oh, that feels so good.”
I work my finger, matching pace with Colt, until my hips start to rock against my hand, sending lightning through every nerve in my body as I pant into the soft cushion of the pillow. He feels so good, he knows exactly what I need and his only goal is to make me feel good.
His fingers would be bigger than mine – I need more.
I slide in a second finger, joining the first, and groan at the sudden fullness of it, giving myself a few strokes to adjust to it before I find my rhythm again.
As I reach the edge, pressure building inside me like a volcano ready to blow, I think about those eyes on me.
Watching me as I coast over the edge, letting the eruption rock me as I come, moaning and crying into my pillow.
Still catching my breath, I hurry to change out of my clothes and bury them in my hamper – not that anyone but me will see the evidence of my orgasm, but I’m suddenly full of shame. He’s my boss. He’s forty years old. This is so wrong.