11. Romance Risk Management
ROMANCE RISK MANAGEMENT
Dean
My Monday morning began like most others, except for the fact that I spent the first fifteen minutes staring at the coffee percolator as though it could explain the events of Saturday.
I’d told myself, and Maverick, that I’d go back to his house on Sunday.
Truth was, after leaving the Foster farm Saturday evening, I’d driven home and sat in my truck in front of my house for a full ten minutes, staring at the dashboard and wondering what the hell was happening.
It was only when my mom texted asking if I could help her bathe Rex, one of our German Shepards, because he tried to make friends with a skunk that I remembered I had responsibilities that didn’t involve single mothers and their precocious children.
Yesterday, instead of heading back to the Foster farm, as I’d promised, I’d come into work.
I tried my best not to think about Felicity or Maverick.
I’d buried myself in reports reviewing cost control and activity revenue, two things that typically engrossed me, but nothing worked. I couldn’t stop thinking about them.
In all my other relationships, I never felt truly comfortable in the other person’s space.
When I was at their homes, I felt like a guest, because I was.
I would only stay for as long as was socially expected, usually counting down the minutes until I could leave and go back to my home, my environment.
That wasn’t the case with Felicity. I wanted to be there, I’d come up with excuses of things that needed fixing to prolong my time.
I didn’t know if it was because Felicity had moved into a home I was already familiar with, or what, but being at the farmhouse, I not only felt comfortable, I felt like I was home, which is crazy.
So, I’d bailed on going back over there, texted her and let her know something came up. I didn’t tell her the thing that came up was my fear that if I went there, I wouldn’t ever want to leave.
A few hours ago, when arrived at work, I caught sight of Felicity’s car and I parked as far away from it as I possibly could and used the side entrance into the building, instead of the main, which meant there was less chance of me running into her.
Instead of going directly into the office, I walked the perimeter of the barn, checking fence lines and jotting down mental notes about repairs.
The morning air was sharp with the smell of wet grass and the faint reek of manure, which usually cleared my head but today did nothing to chase away the image of Maverick’s gap-toothed pancake smile or the way Felicity laughed at my attempt to make a horse pun during dinner.
She’d made fun of me, and I did not hate it.
I was in trouble.
By the time I finally made it to my desk, I’d constructed an elaborate internal defense—a legal brief—on why Felicity Foster should be entirely off limits.
Exhibit A: She was an employee
Exhibit B: She was a single parent
Exhibit C: She was rebuilding her life
I spent the better part of the morning shuffling through financial projections for the new guest ranch expansion and updating payroll for the seasonal workers.
Still, every spreadsheet and bar graph was haunted by the memory of Felicity’s eyes sparkling with playfulness, the light pink of her nails when she tapped her fingers against my desk, the smudge of flour she’d left on her cheek after breakfast.
In a move that would have made my Grandad roll in his grave, I nearly mixed up the digits on the quarterly report, a mistake I hadn’t made since I was twelve and he was showing me the ropes. I double-checked everything, then checked it again, but it didn’t stop the distraction.
At eleven, with exhibits a, b, and c not having their desired effect, I decided to expand on those reasons. I composed a pro/con list that solely had cons titled Dean’s List of Bad Ideas. At the top, in bold, was Dating Felicity Foster. Underneath, I listed seven reasons
Reason One: I’m her boss.
That should be reason enough. Full stop.
I sign off on her assignments, her performance reviews, her raises.
Sleeping with her would blur every line I’ve spent my career keeping firmly in place.
And if anyone ever suggested she earned something because she was sleeping with me, I’d never forgive myself.
Despite there not being a policy against it, fraternizing would be unethical.
Reason two: I have a six-month expiration date.
Six months. That was my personal best. Usually, I didn’t even make it that long.
Things would be going great until feelings and expectations got involved, and then I’d start looking for the nearest exit.
I found myself feeling trapped, like an animal in a cage.
Once my brain framed the relationship in those terms, it was over.
She deserved better than becoming another woman who thought she could change me and failed.
I’d already proven, multiple times, that I was not cut out for a relationship with one person, let alone a family. As a single parent, she needed stability.
Reason Three: I actually like her.
Which made this infinitely worse. Casual was easy when I didn’t give a shit.
But I already cared about her more than I wanted to admit.
Whenever I walked into a room, my eyes automatically scanned, trying to find her.
I noticed small shifts in her personality, how she got quiet when she was upset or embarrassed.
I’d learned her coffee order. She’d never explicitly given it to me, so I must have just learned it by osmosis.
If this goes to hell, which where else could it go, I wouldn’t just lose someone I’m dating. I would lose her.
In risk assessment, you always have to weigh the worst-case scenario as a viable factor before making a decision, giving in to the feelings I had for her.
The risk/reward wasn’t worth it. She meant too much to me, I respected her too much to start something I had no idea what the outcome would be.
That was a bad bet, one I wasn’t ready to gamble.
Reason Four: I’m terrible at communication.
Ask me about work, and I can talk for hours. Ask me how I’m feeling, and suddenly the English language becomes an unsolvable fucking mystery. She deserved a man who could tell her what he’s thinking without requiring three beers, an interrogation lamp, and forty-eight hours’ notice.
Reason Five: I don’t know how to give her what she needs.
I can show up. I can fix things. I can take care of problems. I can make sure she gets home safely and remember that she hates pickles on her burger. But saying the important shit? Telling someone I need them? Letting them see the parts of me I keep locked down? I don’t know how to do that.
Reason Six: I already know how this ends.
We have a few incredible months. She starts wanting more.
I start pulling away. She asks what’s wrong.
I say “nothing” when there’s obviously something.
Eventually, she gets tired of trying to pry emotions out of me with a fucking crowbar, and I hurt her.
Then we have to see each other at work every damn day.
Reason Seven: Dating me could fuck with her career.
It doesn’t matter how good she is at her job. The second people find out she’s sleeping with her boss, there’ll be whispers. Every promotion becomes suspicious. Every opportunity gets questioned. She worked too hard for me to become an asterisk beside everything she’s earned.
Reason Eight: I’ve done this before.
I don’t cheat. I don’t lie. I don’t make promises I know I can’t keep. Somehow, I still hurt people. I let women believe that if they wait long enough, eventually I’ll let them all the way in. Then they realize there’s a locked door I have absolutely no intention of opening.
Cold. Distant. Emotionally unavailable. Those were not the attributes of someone who anyone, would want to be with, much less a woman who deserves the world.
Reason Nine: She makes me want things I don’t want to want.
I like my life, I like my space and plans.
I like knowing exactly what tomorrow looks like.
Then she smiles at me, and suddenly I’m thinking about dinners that have nothing to do with work.
Sunday mornings. Her toothbrush next to mine.
Waking up with her stealing half the fucking bed.
I don’t do forever, so I sure as hell shouldn’t be imagining it.
Reason Ten: Maverick. Enough said. He was a four year old, innocent boy who, for some reason, seems to like me.
I didn’t know a lot about his dad, but the little bit I did told me he wasn’t a reliable guy.
That little boy deserved a guy who would be there forever, a man who was equipped to step up to the plate.
I was not that man. (See reasons: 2, 4, 5, 6, 8 & 9)
I’d just finished when there was a knock at my door. Not a polite tap—an assertive, slightly impatient knock.
“Come in,” I called, already knowing who it would be mainly because she was the only person who respected my closed-door boundary, everyone else, aka my family, just walked in.
Felicity strode in with her signature brisk walk, holding a color-coded binder in one hand and a rainbow collection of sticky notes in the other. She smiled, an expression that always seemed to be at least partly for her own amusement.
“I need five minutes,” she said, already moving towards the chair across from me. “And I promise not to bring up the rodeo clown incident, even though I’m absolutely dying to.”
“Who told you—?” I was halfway through the question when I realized it was either Damon or my mom. Damon because he wanted me to look bad, my mom because she thought the “rodeo clown incident” was adorable.