Chapter 5 Theo #2
Something indescribable settles in my chest that she’d feel comfortable admitting that out loud to her boss. And yet, I did ask for a secret. I feel honored that she felt safe enough to share that major aspect of herself with me.
“You want a family?” I ask her softly, even though she just said it out loud. She nods, and the way her face takes on a resigned expression eats at my heart. “Then why don’t you have one?”
She plays with a strand of her sandy blonde hair and looks down, as if she’s now embarrassed by this line of conversation.
“I don’t know. I guess I just never met the right person, and I got comfortable in my position with Nexus.
And Mr. Peterson was a lot of wonderful things, but I doubt he would have been flexible enough to allow me to be a part-time mom and a part-time assistant at the same time.
He’d love my children as if they were his own, but he’d need someone who could be there full-time for him. ”
“That’s a shame,” I say.
“I guess. I’m happy where I am, though.”
I can’t help the frown that forms on my face as I lean forward again. “Comfortable isn’t always good, you know? Sometimes you have to get uncomfortable to grow into the best version of yourself. Sometimes you have to take risks to get what you want.”
Whitney falls silent, and her eyes study my face intently like she’s trying to find something that’s not there. She blinks a few times, but then her lips twist into a smile. “You’re right. Maybe someday.”
“How’d you end up working for Peterson anyway?” I inquire.
A fond smile spreads across her face, though it’s tinged with a hint of sadness and mourning.
“It’s kind of a long story.” When I don’t move, waiting expectantly, she inhales and then drops her shoulders.
I suddenly have a spark of regret, knowing this is probably still a sore subject for her.
But she surprises me when she jumps right into her story.
“Okay, well. I grew up in a single-parent home. My father was never around, and then died when I was ten, anyway. So, it was just me and my mom. She died too, from an aggressive form of breast cancer, when I was eighteen. Mr. Peterson was a member at the church we went to, and he had always been a family friend. We spent a lot of holidays at their home. For pretty much my whole life, he was the only father figure I’ve ever had.
“When my mother died, he swooped in, kind of like a hero, and helped me get everything settled, and figure out what my next steps were. After everything, he offered me a position at his company to be his assistant, and I couldn’t say no.
At that time, I really had no home, and no money, so it was the obvious choice to say yes.
” She shrugs her shoulders like it makes perfect sense in her head. “And I’ve been here ever since.”
My stomach twists with a sick realization that my predecessor was extremely important in Whitney’s life. She can’t possibly know that he was dealing in shady business, otherwise she wouldn’t have such a fond expression on her face when she spoke of him.
It’s hard to unite these two versions of Vance Peterson, knowing that he was such a good person in her eyes, yet possibly stealing large amounts of money from his company on the side.
My mind and my heart are conflicted with the realization that at some point, she’s going to have to accept that he wasn’t the person she thought he was.
And with that realization comes a sense of guilt, knowing that at some point, I’ll have to ruin that perfect image she has of him.
“Why do you call him Mr. Peterson?” I ask, curious. “I’d think that if you were that close to him and his wife, you’d be more on a first name basis.”
She shrugs her shoulder. “I don’t know. I always called him that as a child and for whatever reason, it carried into my adulthood.
The idea of calling him anything but that makes me feel weird.
” She tilts her head as she thinks it over.
“I guess it’s like if you ever had a favorite teacher in elementary school.
I’m sure if you ran into them, even as an adult, you’d still refer to them as Mister or Missus whatever. ”
I chuckle and nod, catching on to what she’s saying.
Before I have the chance to ask her any further questions about her story, our food arrives, and we get distracted.
Each of us digs into the plates in front of us.
I try to ignore the way Whitney makes a satisfied noise when she takes the first bite of her chicken sandwich, but the sound cuts me straight to the core.
God, this woman.
She’ll be the death of me, I swear it.
We make small talk while we eat our lunches, though we never get back to the subject of Peterson, which is probably by her design. I’ve just barely started telling her a story about when I was volunteering at a house build when she cuts me off with a raised hand.
“Wait. You volunteer?”
There’s something about the way she asks the question that has me laughing. Like it’s a fact that surprises her. “Yes. I work a lot with Habitat for Humanity. I donate to them annually, and I help out on their projects when I can.”
She gives me that weird look again; her eyebrows knit together thoughtfully in the middle and her lips pull off to the side, and I’m not sure if I like it.
It’s almost as if she’s gauging me against every other guy she’s ever known.
Yet, at the same time, there’s a fire behind her gaze that tells me she likes what she’s looking at.
She likes what I’m telling her about myself.
There’s something deep within me that wants to achieve Whitney’s approval.
She was so attached to her old boss that I feel like I have some high expectations to live up to, which, in the business world, is something I’m no stranger to.
But in real life, struggling with feeling like I’m worthy has been something I’ve always had a hard time facing.
Aside from the workplace, I just want her to like me.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been this desperate for a woman’s attention. Yet, every day, I feel like I’m pining after her for even the simplest lingering glance or, if I’m lucky, a smile.
“That’s great, Theo,” she says, and by the tone of her voice, I can tell she really means it. “I love that.”
My chest puffs out a little at her praise, and my face morphs into a dopey smile. I can’t help it. In our short time together, she’s brought out a side of me that I had no idea existed.
I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to please her like this all the time. I could easily see myself becoming addicted to the way her eyes light up with pleasure after hearing what I’m saying to her or seeing the look of awe morph over her features.
As we finish our lunches and walk back to the office, I know I’m in deep shit.
Already, I’m in way too deep. With each second that goes by, I feel our connection deepening and strengthening into a friendship, a partnership.
Which, at face value, may be fine, but I know those lines can easily be blurred.
How easy would it be for one of us to cross over into territory from which we can never come back?
As Whitney takes her seat at her desk, my chest pangs with regret.
I shouldn’t have pushed her so hard to have lunch with me.
I should have accepted her excuses as a fact that she had no interest in getting to know me better.
I should’ve kept the line between us drawn. But I just couldn’t help myself.
The company policy is clear, and that fact lingers in the back of my mind, forcing self-doubt to rear its ugly head every so often as I go through the rest of the day.
I enjoyed my time with her. But we got the chance to know each other a little better now, differently from just boss and assistant roles.
But despite it all, when the day ends and she flashes me that pretty smile of hers before leaving, I know that even with the risks, I regret nothing.
I like her. I like Whitney Palmer, the woman, way more than I like Whitney Palmer, the assistant.
Which means I’m in trouble. We could both be in trouble.
Big time.