Chapter Seven
Eden
I lingered at the edge of the granite island, a mug of coffee so strong it probably voided my dental insurance in hand, and tried to look busy with email on my phone.
This was a lie. I was stalling. Maribel had that look.
The one that said, You and I are going to have a little chat, and if you think you’re getting out of here with your dignity, you are so, so wrong.
She hung up, cracked an egg one-handed, and cocked her head. “You want toast, or you want the gossip first?”
I sipped my coffee. “What are my chances of surviving either one?”
She grinned. “Zero, but at least gossip is gluten-free.” She set the eggs to fry and leaned in, dropping her voice as if anything around us might be wired. “You and the boss had quite the night, I hear.”
I inhaled coffee the wrong way and tried to disguise my need to cough. “Nothing happened.”
“Sweetie, the entire west wing knows you were in the ballroom alone with him for an hour. Either you’re plotting murder, or you’re plotting something else.” She winked, and if anything could make me want to crawl inside the oven and disappear, it was that.
I tried to stay calm. “He showed me how not to break my neck. That’s it.”
Maribel’s laugh was pure evil. “Uh-huh. And then he ‘escorted you to your room like a gentleman’ and ‘absolutely did not hover at your door for five minutes.’ You’re not fooling anyone, you know. Especially yourself.”
I considered running to my room, packing up, and never looking back, but my legs, and probably my bank account, refused. “You really think Mr. Freeze is suddenly capable of romance?”
She shrugged, but her eyes were sharp as knives. “He’s not made of ice, honey. He’s made of trauma and caffeine, just like everyone else. But with you, there’s-” she flapped her hand, searching for a word, “-cracks. Even I see it, and I’m old enough to remember when he used to smile.”
I was too proud to ask who’d made him smile before. Instead, I went for the classic move when I’m uncomfortable; change the subject. “How’s the breakfast roster for tomorrow?”
She rolled her eyes, completely unfooled.
“Six extra. One lactose, one celiac, two vegetarians, and one man-child who only eats cereal. But don’t get cute.
We’re not done.” She narrowed her gaze, which is something I wouldn’t have thought possible until this moment.
“Tell me this. When you’re alone with him, does he look at you like he wants to set you on fire, or like he wants to hide under the table? ”
I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want to remember the way his gaze had burned in the ballroom, or how his hands had found my waist and held there, tight and trembling, as if he was physically restraining himself.
I especially didn’t want to remember the kiss, quick, fierce, and so unexpected it short-circuited my whole brain.
But my cheeks went hot, which was answer enough.
Maribel’s grin turned triumphant. “That’s what I thought. The man is in agony.”
“Good,” I shot back, desperate for ground. “He deserves it.”
She only laughed. “Just don’t be surprised when you find him lurking around every corner. He’s a wolf, not a monk.”
I finished my coffee in one long gulp, trying to flush the memory from my mouth. “If he’s a wolf, I’m a can of bear spray.”
She cackled. “Honey, you’re a raw steak in a miniskirt. And I mean that in the best way.”
My face was going to combust and I tugged my respectable knee-length skirt down as far as I could without embarrassing myself. I had to get out. “I have party details to work on. If I’m not at his desk in an hour with spreadsheets, he’ll send out a search party.”
Maribel waved a spatula at me. “Go. But you owe me details. I want every second. If you leave out the juicy bits, I’ll know.”
I made it halfway down the corridor before the embarrassment faded and the memories kicked in, as vivid as day. The echo of his hand at my back, the sharp snap of his voice when he told me to “just follow.” The feeling of being held, properly held, for the first time since, what, college?
Gareth Wolfe had held me like I was glass and dynamite, and when he’d kissed me, it was like his life depended on it.
Of course, after that he’d turned cold again. There was a rhythm to it, I was learning. Heat, then freeze. Advance, then retreat. I wondered if I was just a chew toy for his emotional confusion. Of course, I also wondered if I liked it.
I ducked into his office - grateful he wasn’t there - closed the door, and exhaled.
My inbox was merciless; 38 new emails, all flagged urgent.
All from Gareth himself, every one signed off with just a single initial - G.
I read the first one, a blistering shot at all my dinner ideas and a reminder that I can do better, and my jaw tightened so hard it hurt.
This was better. This was familiar. I could handle work. Work was safe.
Except… I couldn’t. Not really. Not with the way my body still hummed from the memory of him, not with the feeling of his lips on mine, not with Maribel’s knowing cackle echoing in my head.
I tried to lose myself in logistics and centerpieces, but every few minutes my thoughts drifted to the ballroom, the way he’d led me, the way he’d looked at me after.
God, get a grip, Eden.
By noon, I’d answered every email, revised every complaint, and run out of distractions. I opened the text thread with my best friend, fingers hovering over the screen.
Is it possible to die from secondhand embarrassment?
Her response was instant. Details. Now.
After a short pause, the dots on screen began to bounce. Girl, that’s called courtship. You should try it sometime.
I rolled my eyes. If he’s courting me, why does he spend half his energy pretending I don’t exist?
Maybe he’s shy. Or maybe you’re terrifying. Or maybe, and hear me out, he likes you and has the emotional range of a broken Roomba.
I snorted because that tracked, but my thumb hesitated before the next message.
What if I like him back?
Then maybe stop pretending you’re not into it? Just a thought. I can hear her snark through the text.
I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling for a long time, waiting for the nausea to settle. I told myself this was nothing. A confusing, not quite but maybe office fling, a one-off, the kind of thing you laugh about later and put in the “it never happened” box.
But then I thought about the way he’d looked at me, the way he’d pulled me close, the way his eyes had lingered at my jaw like he was memorizing the exact shape of it, and I knew I was lying to myself.
Maybe the kitchen would be safe by now. I could maybe sneak another coffee, act like a normal person for five minutes.
I wandered down the corridor, half-expecting Maribel to leap out and interrogate me, but the place was empty except for the low hum of the espresso machine and the thuds of fat raindrops on the window.
I poured a cup, wrapped my hands around it, and tried to remember what it felt like to be an adult with impulse control as I inhaled the hot, not-quite-bitter brew steam.
But all I could see was the ballroom, the chandelier, the flash of surprise in his eyes right before he kissed me. All I could feel was his hand at my ribs, steadying me.
You’re not a fairytale princess, I told myself. You’re the help. And he’s the boss. This ends in HR, or in heartbreak, or both.
But even as I sipped my coffee, I knew it was already too late.
Still, I had work to do, so I took my coffee right back to his office, praying he was still gone. He was, so I sat down on the guest side of the desk and pulled out my notes, pretending to get them in order as my mid raced.
The worst part of falling for your boss is that you can’t tell anyone, except one friend who’ll take a secret to her grave. The second worst part is knowing exactly who you want to tell but can’t. For me, that person was my grandmother. If there was anyone who could talk me off a ledge, it was her.
So after I finished my coffee and stared at my inbox for a solid half hour without absorbing a word, I caved.
I went up to my room, locked the door, and sat in front of the french doors.
The rose garden below was still wet from the morning rain, the air outside heavy and green.
I dialed Gram’s number, feeling twelve years old and five hundred years old at the same time.
She answered on the second ring. “If you’re calling to tell me you got fired, I’m hanging up.”
I smiled, even though my stomach was a rock. “Not fired. Just…having a day.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to come out there and box your ears.” She was silent for a second, then, “You’re crying.”
“I am not.” I wiped my face. “Maybe allergies. There’s pollen everywhere.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got the voice.” Gram’s voice softened. “Talk to me, Eden.”
I looked out at the garden, watched the gardeners in their matching raincoats huddle over a busted sprinkler head. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
“Welcome to adulthood,” Gram said. “Is it the boss?”
“Of course, it’s the boss. It’s always the boss.” I pulled the hair tie that was pulling far too tight, loosening it to give my screaming scalp relief. “He kissed me last night.”
Gram was silent for a moment. “Was it any good?”
I almost dropped the phone. “Gram!”
“Don’t get all Victorian on me. Was it worth the drama?”
“Yes,” I said, before I could stop myself. “No. I don’t know.”
“Pick a side,” she said.
I lowered my head to my free hand’s palm, pressing skin to skin. “He’s impossible, Gram. He’s cold, then warm, then he acts like nothing happened. I don’t know how to read him. I don’t even know if I want to.”
“Yes, you do.” Her tone was as sharp as the kitchen shears I watched her use to take apart full chickens for soup in my youth. “You want him, or you wouldn’t be calling me at noon on a workday.”