7. Maeve
MAEVE
Oh my god, I am so not okay with this.
The adrenaline of my decision to quit has faded away, leaving behind a nauseating dread that churns in the pit of my stomach. As I sit on the bus with the city lights flickering past the window, the initial feeling of lightness has been replaced by panic.
I just threw my life away. I can’t believe I did that . Why did I just put in two weeks with no plan, no savings to speak of, and no other job lined up? That wasn’t courage. It was a moment of sheer, self-destructive madness.
In my purse, the photographs sit in their envelope.
I glare down at the worn leather. It’s foolish to blame them, but the resentment is a bitter taste in my mouth.
If they hadn’t shown up at the office, if Gabriel hadn’t seen them, it wouldn’t have thrown me for such a loop.
I wouldn’t have been spiraling in a panic of humiliation.
And I wouldn’t have torched my stable, well-paying job out of nowhere.
I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.
My debt is more manageable than it was two years ago, but my credit is still abysmal. Without good credit, a loan is impossible, and without a loan, my dream will always be out of reach.
The truth is, I have the ghost of a dream.
One that I haven’t let myself truly look at in years.
I’ve always loved cooking, turning simple ingredients into something that brings comfort and joy.
My ambition at one point was to open a farm-to-table café.
In college, I got a double degree in marketing and finance, even attending culinary school at night.
The work, the debt—it was all supposed to be worth it.
Then I graduated, and the truth of what my mother had done came crashing down.
When I met Liam, it felt like maybe things were turning around, but then that fell apart too. It’s only through Ford giving me this job that I’ve been able to survive, but I’m still just treading water, living paycheck to paycheck.
The vision I had for my life feels like a mirage. I still have my recipe book, filled with sketches and plans, hidden away in a kitchen cupboard, but I haven’t touched it in years.
I glance down at my purse again, trying to dig up the courage I felt earlier.
Maybe I look ridiculous in those photos… but I did it. I showed up. For a single afternoon, I stopped letting fear dictate my choices. I stopped trying to be invisible.
Maybe, no matter how terrified I am, it’s time to do that again. The worst thing a bank can do is say no, and I’ll never know if I don’t ask.
My stomach is still a mess, and I tell myself I’ll have some calming tea when I get home. Before my dinner of instant ramen—again. It’s the worst kind of irony to love food as much as I do and be unable to afford to cook anything good.
After walking the few blocks to my apartment, I take the stairs to my floor and unlock my front door, pulling my coat in close around me. It’s been freezing in New York this December, and my apartment usually feels like a walk-in fridge. Keeping the thermostat cranked up is a luxury I can’t afford.
I step inside, rubbing my hands together against the cold, then blink in surprise.
The light is on.
And even more shocking than that, Ford is sitting at my rickety kitchen table. Well, he’s not sitting at it so much as commanding it, his large frame making my small apartment seem even more tiny.
“Wha—?” I blurt out, freezing in place.
“Why did it take you so long to get here?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the air between us.
“I take the bus,” I say automatically. “Why are you here?”
“You gave me a key.”
It’s not really an answer to my question, but I nod anyway.
He’s right. I left him a key so he could pick up some files at my place when I had to go visit my mother several months ago—a brief, painful visit that I never told him about, except to say I’d be out of town.
I didn’t want him feeling sorrier for me than he already did.
“You kept it?” I ask.
He gives me a look I’ve seen a million times, the one where a single brow arches upward in a response that clearly says, Of course. Don’t be ridiculous . “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I don’t think even you can control the city traffic,” I point out.
“Your cookware is nice,” Ford comments, his gaze flicking toward my small, open kitchen.
That takes me by surprise. “Um… thank you. Were you looking through my stuff?”
“I needed something to do while I was waiting for you. It’s the nicest thing in this place.”
“Well, we all have our priorities.” Even if I can’t afford the ingredients, my cookware is sacred. A small, tangible piece of a dream I refuse to let go of completely.
“I should have known, with all the pastries you made last year for the holidays.”
“The pastries that you were constantly eating. You’re lucky you hit the gym so much.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t make them so damn good, and I’d be willing to save some for other people.”
I shake my head, forcing myself out of the banter we always fall into and back to the main question. “Why are you here, Ford?”
“Because I can’t accept your resignation.”
I stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Have you ever known me to not be serious?”
That’s a good point. I don’t think this man has ever uttered a word he didn’t mean. Still, I shake my head. “Sorry, but my notice isn’t like an invitation to a party. You can’t just refuse to accept it.”
“Yes, I can. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
I open my mouth, then shut it again. I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he has no intention of going anywhere until he gets what he wants. But if he’s going to be stubborn, two can play at that game.
With a defiant shrug, I set down my purse and shrug off my coat. Then, without breaking eye contact, I reach under my blouse, unhook my bra, and pull it out through my sleeve. I kick off my heels, sighing softly at the instantaneous relief.
Ford’s eyes track the movement, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m getting comfortable in my home. Where you are intruding.” I walk over to the couch, the only real piece of furniture I own. I see his gaze flicker over my body, and for a split second, I see something flare in his eyes that makes my mouth go dry.
“Just stripping in front of your boss, then?” His voice has dropped a little; low and a bit rough.
“You’re not my boss anymore.”
“I am for the next two weeks. And that’s if I accept your resignation.”
“You can’t hold me there against my will. Unless you plan on adding kidnapping to your list of quarterly achievements.”
“We’ve clearly been too lenient with you if you think this is a situation that calls for jokes.”
“Sorry, Boss Man, but you’re not threatening to fire me. I’m quitting. I hold all the cards here.” I collapse onto my couch with a small, contented sound. Taking off my skirt and pulling on leggings would be heaven right now, but I think that might be a bridge too far.
Ford watches me, his assessing gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch, as if he’s attempting to peel back every single layer of invisible armor I wear. If this is what he’s like in the boardroom, it’s no wonder he brings grown men to their knees.
“You’re serious,” he says finally, the words slow.
I exhale, relieved that he broke the silence before I caved and did it first. “Of course I am.”
“You can’t blame a man for thinking this might be a ploy for a raise. You’re no stranger to standing up to us to get what you want.”
“Well, I’m serious now. I know it seems sudden, but it’s what I need to do.”
Ford shakes his head, a slow, deliberate movement. “Sorry, Spitfire. No. I can’t let you go. You’re far too valuable.”
I swallow, my stomach erupting into a storm of butterflies. I know he just means as his assistant. Training a new employee would be a nightmare. They’d probably have to hire three separate people to replace me.
But it still does something to me to hear Ford say, in that low, possessive voice, I can’t let you go. You’re far too valuable .
Get a grip , I tell myself fiercely.
“I’m not going back to being an assistant,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I have to move on. It’s been two years. I need to stop working a pity job and get back on my feet.”
Ford’s nostrils flare, his expression shifting in a way I can’t interpret. “I don’t want you to come back as an assistant.”
I sit up straighter, frowning in confusion. “What? What would I be if not your assistant?”
One of Ford’s brows shifts upward almost imperceptibly, and he leans forward a little, interlacing his fingers as he rests his elbows on his knees.
“My wife.”