Chapter 6
Make. It. Stop.
It is now very late at night, and I have had a very long day. And yet, this phone keeps right on beeping. Chiming. Pinging. And even ringing.
Right now, a new text has apparently come in.
Do I dare open it?
Is it going to be some fire that I have to put out?
Will it be Tate yet again, or Vanessa… or that accountant who kept pestering me for all sorts of information that took me way too long to find?
I don’t know if I can handle another deep dive into the sea of apps on that executive assistant tablet. I really don’t.
Clay looks across the table at me. “Is that your work phone again?”
I pat my lips with a napkin and sigh. “Yep.”
We just finished a late dinner. Lizzy’s chicken noodle soup was delicious. Total comfort food, which was much-needed given my hectic day.
I reach for the phone and open the text. “Shoot. It’s from my boss.” I tilt my head to the side and examine the photo Brock has mysteriously decided to send me at half past eight in the evening. “Is this… is this a—what is this?—a dog bone?” I slide the phone over so that Clay can take a look.
“Yep. Looks it to me. Why’s he sending you a picture of a dog bone?”
“I have no idea. He doesn’t have a dog.”
I take the phone back and quickly scan the message that follows: “I have a bone to pick with you.”
Uh oh.
Is this his weird, quirky, rich-entrepreneur way of telling me I’m in trouble? Brock is constantly telling us employees to think outside the box. He wants us to be creative. Well, this is a creative text message, I guess.
What am I supposed to say back?
Before I can come up with a response, another text comes in. “There is currently a disaster in my entryway. I need you to clean it up.”
Anger heats my cheeks.
He needs me to clean his entryway… at eight-thirty at night?
No way.
No freaking way.
Clay gets up. “You done with this?” he asks, his hand on my soup bowl.
“Yeah. Thanks.” I tuck my knee up and gaze down at the phone, a frown tugging at my lips.
I want to text a refusal…
But for some reason, I can’t make myself do it.
After all, he is my boss. I did accept the executive assistant responsibilities until the replacement is hired. I mean, this must be what he expects of his assistant.
“Is he giving you a hard time?” Clay asks as he runs a soapy sponge over a soup bowl at the sink
“Er… sort of?”
“That jerk,” Clay says.
Just then, another message comes in.
Brock: “This is urgent, Gwen. If I don’t answer the door, let yourself in. Please walk both dogs. Clean. And then line up dog care for seven days, starting tonight.”
So, there are actual dogs at his house. That must have something to do with the mess in his entryway.
But that’s ridiculous to think I could set up care for them at this late notice. Who is he kidding? I won’t be able to line up dog care for the next seven days tonight. It might not be possible to do at all, given how packed those places get. Why does he even think that’s possible?
Oh.
Right.
He’s Brock Benson.
‘Impossible’ is not in his vocabulary.
Clay places a bowl onto the dish towel serving as a temporary drying rack. He glances over his shoulder at me. “It’s way past work hours. Can’t you just ignore him?”
“I… I don’t know.”
A heavy weight settles on my shoulders.
My boss is giving me an order… to leave my home. To leave my brother, who was so sweet, and stopped over with a half-gallon of homemade ice cream.
I don’t want to go to Brock’s house. Why are there dogs there, anyway? When I was there today, I saw no evidence of pets.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Clay asks. “It’s not like he can make you do anything this late. You can say no once in a while, Gwen.”
How ironic, to hear my brother tell me to draw the line.
I’m terrible at setting boundaries with him. I should have said ‘no’ when he asked me if I was cool spending money on the construction supplies we needed back in July. That was the month when I took out the personal loan and maxed out my credit lines.
He asked me a few times if the budget was okay with me. Things like, ‘You sure you’re good with this?’
And every time, I swallowed my fears…
For his sake.
Every time, I nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s no problem. I have the money.’
I didn’t have the money, but I didn’t want him to worry.
He’s my Little Clay. I remember when he used to call me “Sissy.” I remember pulling him around the house in a wagon. Camping out in the backyard in that old tent my Aunt Lacey used to let us borrow. We used to feel like two little adventurers out on our own in the wilderness, even though we were mere feet from the house. I’d read him Goodnight Moon over and over and over because it was his favorite.
I stand, chuck the phone in my purse, and then add the tablet. “I have to go.”
“You’re seriously letting him pull your strings like this?”
“I have to, Clay. This is my job we’re talking about. My boss asked me if I was up for this extra role, and I said yes. I said I could do it if I worked overtime. And now, he’s asking me to work overtime. I can’t be upset about that.”
And we need the money if we’re ever going to finish this house and sell it, I think, as I glance at the stack of bills on the kitchen table.
The three grand I owe the roofer flickers through my weary mind.
“What about ice cream?” Clay asks.
“I’ll have to take a rain check.”
I pull my cardigan off the back of the chair and shrug it on. Then I shoulder my purse.
There’s a long list of tasks that need to get done around here. I could ask Clay to tackle a few, but the effort feels like more than I can manage at the moment.
I don’t know if I could handle it if he came up with some excuse…
And that’s his specialty.
Excuses.
Clay is sensitive and thoughtful and incredibly caring. He’s also a master procrastinator—the best at finding reasons not to do work.
So, instead of trying to manipulate him into tearing up the remains of the old kitchen flooring, I head for the door.
He walks out onto the porch with me in nothing but his faded jeans and threadbare T-shirt. He never liked wearing a jacket in cold temperatures, even as a kid. His hair’s long these days, and he has it pulled back in a low ponytail.
“Hope you can have some ice cream when you get home,” he says as he walks with me down the front steps. They creak under our weight. “It’s the caramel swirl kind you like. Mom and I got heavy cream from the Simpsons Farm. It’s real fresh. And Mom made the caramel from scratch.”
“Wow. That’s incredible. Thank you.”
The fact that he has time to whip up homemade ice cream from scratch, but he can’t manage to do even one thing around this house makes my blood pressure rise.
I give him a half-smile in an effort to hide my frustration. “Thanks for stopping in. We’ll hang out another time.”
“Cool.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Hey… are you leaving because you’re mad at me or something?”
“No! No. Why would you say that?”
“It’s just…” He scuffs the bottom stair with his shoe. Paint flicks off. “I know I haven’t been the best construction guy. I just—I don’t know how to do this stuff, Gwen.”
You could learn.
I’ve been learning.
He hangs his head. “Maybe if Dad had been around more… Maybe if I… you know, like knew how to use a power saw and all that stuff.” He shrugs, then looks up, but not at me. He gazes out at the street. “Man, I’m useless. I can’t do anything.”
“Hey.” I clap him on the shoulder and wait until he meets my eye. “You are not useless. You hear me? You can do lots of things. So what if you fumbled with the saw that one time? It was no big deal.”
“I’m a screw-up, Gwen. I can’t even get my life together enough to move out of Mom’s basement.”
“You are not a screw-up. Don’t say that. You will get out of the house. Your whole future is ahead of you. You’re creative, kind… crazy good at so many things. Maybe not at running power tools, but so what? It’s my fault I got us both into this.”
I look over his shoulder to the single-story ranch-style house we’re supposed to be fixing up. The chimney poking up out of the roof is a total disaster of crumbling brick. The siding is a patchwork of exposed plywood and peeling, pink siding. The porch is cluttered with lumber, sawhorses, and stacks of tile that will hopefully one day go into the bathroom.
“And that doesn’t even matter,” I tell Clay. “All this house stuff is a big experiment for both of us. I won’t let you get down about it. Besides, I really am not dodging this visit. What I want more than anything right now is to hang out and eat ice cream with you. My boss is a monster. That’s all that’s going on here.”
“You sure?” He scuffs his shoe along the stairs. “You seemed sorta mad for a minute there.”
“I’m sure.”
The phone beeps again.
When I head down the walkway to the curb, where my car’s parked, he follows.
“I’m glad it’s only a temporary thing, you acting as his mop-up crew,” he says as we walk. “Or butler. Or whatever the job title is.”
I laugh. “Assistant. And yeah, I’m glad it’s only temporary, too. Give Mom a hug for me when you see her, ‘kay? I love you guys.”
Once I’m settled in my car, I check the latest text. It’s another photo. Brock has his head close to a pale, cornsilk blond Golden Retriever. The dog is giving a big, goofy grin to the camera.
Brock’s smiling, too. It’s not that dazzling, public-image smile he uses when he poses for pictures. It’s slightly crooked, like it happened last minute as he snapped the selfie, maybe out of habit.
The way that it’s a little lopsided makes me feel like it’s a smile meant only for me.
In the background, a grizzled-looking senior dog is mid-stride, with a teddy bear hanging from his mouth.
Brock: The happy one is Zoey. The old guy photo-bombing in the back is Mr. Brown. I figured you should know their names when you get here. I’ll be in my home office from nine to ten on a call.
I bite my lip, fighting off a wave of unexpected attraction.
For some reason, seeing my intimidating boss cheek-to-cheek with a goofy, grinning dog makes me actually like Brock… a teeny, tiny bit.
It’s odd, looking at the photo of him and feeling this warmth. Isn’t he supposed to be my mean boss? I didn’t expect to come out here to my car and feel anything but resentment toward him.
Yet here I am, zooming in on his face and the dogs, almost giggling at how cute the photo is.
Maybe the problem is that I love animals.
Always have. Apparently, all a guy has to do to pull my heartstrings is pose with a pup.
But… no. That’s not the only thing going on here. There’s also the fact that the stars are out, along with a quarter moon. It’s late, and I’m on my way to his house.
Not the office.
Not my desk.
His home. The place where he sleeps at night.
This feels strangely intimate.
It’s like, out of habit, my brain’s gearing up for some romantic interaction. In the past, a late-evening trip across town to a man’s home would involve romance. A glass of wine. Candlelight. A cozy conversation, and at least a kiss.
My fingers hesitate over the phone because suddenly, I feel weird about texting him back. This is how I’d get if he were a guy I was interested in. Whenever I’m dating a guy, I over-analyze every single text, every phone call, every facial expression.
Then, I realize that I’m stressing about what should be a simple text to my boss. I force myself to tap out some words and do my best not to overthink the tone. ‘On my way.’
His lack of response reminds me that this late-evening communication between us is very far from romantic.
Sure, he summoned me to his house, but this is not for personal reasons. This is purely professional.
What is up with these dogs?I wonder as I pull away from the curb.
The names jog my memory, and as I drive, I realize why: Kate Benson mentioned Zoey and Mr. Brown earlier today when I was on the phone with her. Are they her dogs? Are they at Brock’s now?
Why does he need dog care for seven days?
That particular request sets my teeth on edge. Finding care for two dogs, especially at this late notice, is a tall order—one I don’t think I’ll be able to check off the to-do list. Brock would call this attitude of mine ‘negative,’ but I prefer ‘realistic.’ I honestly doubt that any of the dog boarding places will have openings.
Fall is a busy time of year here in Windsor. The leaf-peepers are crowded into hotel rooms in hoards, which means local doggy hotels are also maxed out.
I’ll make some calls once I get more info about the situation,I decide.
Eight minutes later, I cruise up his long, sweeping driveway. Brock’s mansion looks even more massive at night. Impressive outdoor lighting casts an elegant glow over the shrubbery and the columns that line the front portico.
A muffled barking rings out behind the front door.
I don’t bother ringing the bell this time. I know Leena isn’t around to answer this late at night, and Brock has already told me he’ll be in his office.
I push the door open gently and greet the ball of fur that hurdles into me.
This must be Zoey, I think, as my hands sweep over her silky coat.
Zoey is, apparently, incredibly happy to see a human. She showers me in wet puppy-kisses, wags her tail a mile a minute, and whines with need.
When Mr. Brown hobbles my way and gives a low wine, too, I know what my first chore of this unexpected visit will be: These two need to go out. I quickly spot two harnesses and leashes, and then kneel by the dogs to get them ready for the outing.
For the next hour, I stay with the two furbabies. I walk them, feed them, and most of all, love on them. Zoey seems to need constant attention. And once I’ve given Mr. Brown a bacon-flavored treat from a stash I find, he seems to want lots of attention, too.
“So, that’s all it takes to win you over, hm?” I tease the elderly dog once post-walk treats have been doled out.
I’m on the floor now, sitting cross-legged with Zoe’s head on my lap.
Mr. Brown plops the teddy bear he’s been carting around onto my lap.
“Oh, you think if you give me your favorite toy, I’ll give you more yummies, hm? You silly old geezer.” I move my fingers so they’re under his chin. “Look at you… all this silver fur. Handsome fella, aren’t you?”
He licks my face.
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a big goof like your sister. Underneath the tough guy act… And now you’re giving me your teddy weddy. How nice of you to share.”
“Ah hem…” The deep sound surprises me.
I cringe.
Brock…
Where is he?
I stop ruffling Mr. Brown’s fur, and twist so I can see more of the room.
My boss stands at the edge of the massive entryway. His hands are in the pockets of his Epic Elevate sweatpants. His T-shirt sleeves hug his massive biceps. A tattoo ripples down one arm. More tattoos decorate the underside of his forearm.
I realize suddenly I’m camped out on his floor, sitting cross-legged. Zoey’s head, resting on my lap, tugs at one side of my cardigan so that my whole sweater is stretched and off-kilter. My hair’s falling over one eye. I kicked my clogs off, and they’re strewn haphazardly not far away.
While I scramble to my feet and straighten my cardigan, he watches as if he’s puzzled.
“Are you always like this?” he asks as I pull the elastic off my wrist and use it to pull my hair back.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Flustered.”
“Only when I get surprised.”
“Which seems to be often.”
“You’re the one sneaking up on me.”
He chuckles. “No. You’re the one not paying attention to what’s going on around you.”
“I was busy talking to the dogs.”
“Ah. Yes. I heard some of that.” His tone gets a touch lighter, like he’s amused.
Don’t smile at me, I think, as a bolt of fear—or something else, like attraction—dips through my core.
But then, he does. He smiles at me. “Teddy weddy? Must be a technical term. I’ve never heard of it.”
The smile creates a dimple in his cheek. The amused expression travels up to his eyes and pinches the corners. The scar on his temple makes him look rugged and interesting.
I wonder, for the hundredth time, how he got the scar. He’s always so tight-lipped about it on podcasts. Which is weird, since he seems to be an open book about so many other topics, like business, his worldview, and his dating life.
Now I’m just gazing at him. Thinking how hot he is. Wondering about his dating life.
Not good.
He’s so gorgeous that as I look at him, I nearly hyperventilate. No wonder he has hundreds of thousands of fans.
Nope.
I can’t just quit breathing right here in his entryway. I refuse to let this buzzed, giddy feeling get the best of me.
I fight the fangirl feeling off. Keep breathing. And say something to him. Anything.
“Teddy weddy is a highly technical term,” I manage with a mock-serious nod.
“Well, Mr. Brown seemed to know just what you were talking about.”
I reach down and scratch Mr. Brown beneath his chin again. “He knows the jargon. He shared his teddy, I told him he was a good boy.” Then I glance back up at Brock. “Glad I could amuse you.”
“How do you know I got a kick out of it?”
“Your voice. Your eyes, too. They got smiley.”
“Smiley eyes, hm? That another technical term?”
I nod. “Sure is. And you heard it here first.”
“I like it. Can I use it?”
“I haven’t copyrighted it or anything. It’s up for grabs.”
“If I use it, I’ll give you credit.”
“Oh… no. No thanks. I’m a shipping minion. No desire for fame or glory.”
“Shipping minion.” He chuckles. “Hopefully, you’re serving a worthy cause.”
“We serve one master and one master only.”
He raises his eyebrow and waits.
I crack a smile. “Coffee is king in our department. The roast rules the roost. We bow down. If there’s none in the pot in the break room… total anarchy.”
He gets the smiley-eyed look again. “I see.”
“Oh, and there’s a guy up on the fourth floor who’s sort of a big deal, too.” Where is this coming from? I’m acting like Brock and I are two singles at a bar, chit-chatting over beers.
“I hear he’s a real monster,” Brock teases.
“So said a shipping minion, but I bet she felt bad about that after.”
“Did she?”
I nod. “She did.”
“Well, no need. The guy up on the fourth floor has pretty tough skin.”
His statement makes a warm glow stir inside me. He’s not mad about me calling him a monster. Whew.
As we look at one another, the glowing feeling grows stronger. Butterflies stir to life in my core.
I can’t let this—being here, flirting with Brock—I can’t let it give me butterflies.
We are flirting, though.
And the best part is, he started it.
But then, abruptly, his mood shifts.
His smile fades as he glances around the room. Then he nods. “Good. I see you tidied up. I had to wipe up urine earlier, and that’s as far as I got before I had to take that coaching call with Bailey Marks.”
It’s wild how casual he manages to sound about the fact he was just on a call with a world-famous professional fighter. I’ve only seen Bailey Marks on television—and Brock was just coaching him.
That’s Brock.
So elite, he’s in charge of instructing the upper-crust celebrities and athletes of this world. Me? I’m his shoeless, starry-eyed assistant.
And, speaking of shoes…
I wish I had never kicked mine off.
Now, when I look down at my feet—it’s easier than looking at his handsome face—I see that I’m still in those darn mismatched socks.
Brock must catch me looking at my toes because he says, “Pink. Green. Quite a statement you’re making…” He glances at my left hand, “Miss Temple.”
For lack of something better to do, I wiggle my toes. “The colors are kinda compliments. Warm and cold. Sort of like a pink rose blossom and a green stem.”
I don’t know why I do things like this. I mean, I say dumb things. The fact is, I’m nervous under his gaze.
I’m so far from hiding from Brock, it’s not funny. My old run-and-hide ways will not save me, and I find myself woefully short on other strategies.
Well, besides flirting and babbling, that is. Those seem to be brimming in me. “Pink and green go nicely together, and they’re both cheerful colors. Also, really, not Miss Temple. It’s just Gwen.”
“Ah. Right. You said that at your desk.”
“I did.” I feel his gaze on me now. He’s judging me. How am I shaping up?
Maybe it would help if I spoke less about the emotional qualities of colors. It would also help if I put on my shoes. I flip one upturned clog with my toes, then jam my foot in. Then, I go to work on the other.
“You could use your hands,” Brock notes.
“I bought these so I could slip them on and off. Clogs used to be made of wood, you know. My mom has a pair of wooden ones. Willow wood. They’re painted, too. With flowers.”
The clog flips too far one way, then tips the other. “Cooperate!” I say under my breath.
“Did you just tell your clog to cooperate?”
The clog finally lands upright and aligned, and I slip my foot in. “I did. There.”
Zoey’s warm body presses into one side of me. On the other, Mr. Brown is busily trying to fit a wet tennis ball into my palm.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Brock asks.
“I am. I walked them, fed them… water bowl is full.” I wave around the space. “The room is all cleaned up. They should be cozy on those beds for the night. I’ll work on lining up care again in the morning. I tried a few places, but no one’s picking up.”
“You mean, you haven’t arranged boarding yet? They’re staying here?” His voice takes on a harder edge. “That won’t work.”
“Well… um… I’m really sorry. I tried calling places. I… er… I really don’t know what else to tell you.”
“They can’t stay here. Not tonight, not any night.”
“Brock,” I begin. The name sounds all wrong on my tongue. I bite my lip and fight down a wave of anxiety. “Er, Mr. Benson?—”
He waves this off. “Brock is fine.”
“Okay… Well, it’s too late at night to get them to a dog boarding place. There are only two in Windsor, another few in Riley, and no one takes appointment-making calls overnight. In the morning, I’ll?—”
“No,” he says again.
No?
I’m terrible at saying that word to people. I really am. That particular weakness has haunted me for my entire life. It’s like having a chronic illness—the inability to set boundaries—and I’m constantly paying for it.
But Brock… he seems to have no problem uttering the word. Quite the opposite, actually. He seems to like saying no. It’s like it feels good to him.
“No,” he says again while looking around him and running his hand through his hair again.
Mm mm. His muscular arms sure do look good when he does that.
“No, they can’t stay here,” he repeats.
“I’m sorry.”
Ugh. I said it again. ‘I’m sorry.’ When did this become something I should apologize for?
My throat goes dry with pent-up nervousness. “I mean, I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this. But I can’t exactly think of anything else to… um… to do.”
I have never been a quick thinker.
Apparently, Brock’s stunning good looks make it even harder for me to come up with responses.
“He pees.” Brock gestures to Mr. Brown. Then he swivels his finger to sweet, big-eyed Zoey. “This one drools.”
“That may be, but…”
But what?
What can I say?
‘You’re stuck with them’sounds plain old rude.
The habitual desire to soften, sugarcoat, and be pleasing makes me pause. I want to make this better, but I’m finding that hard to do.
“This is unacceptable,” Brock barks as he paces across the room. He looks down at the water bowl, which has a few puddles around it. “Are dogs always this messy when they drink? Do they know my floors are Italian marble?”
“Um… yes, dogs drink with their tongues, so they’re messy. And no, I’m guessing these two have no clue what your floors are made of.”
“Expensive Italian marble,” he mutters. “At least the old one should get it. He’s been around a while.”
For some reason, that strikes me as funny. Maybe it’s because I’m still running on four hours of sleep, and at this point, my brain synapses are shooting blanks. I feel my lip twitch. “What, like the older a dog gets, the more people-stuff they should understand?”
He swivels on me. “Do you think this is funny?”
“Well, no. Not exactly.”
I’m nervous.
Butterflies flit and flutter inside me, deep in my belly, in a way I can’t control.
I’ve listened to Brock’s podcast for hours upon hours. I’ve stared at his image in various poses when filling orders thousands of times. I’ve sat at that desk in his company headquarters, day after day, for six whole years. Now, suddenly, I’m tossed into this situation where it’s just me and him, and it’s messing with my head.
He walks closer to me. “You do think this is funny. Your lips doing that twitchy thing, like when you told me about Vanessa’s text message.”
Oh, my goodness. He smells delicious. Manly in a way that makes my blood rush. “Right. Those kisses she sent.”
“Yes. The kisses. Three of them.”
Talking about kisses with Brock is not helping my state.
Plus, my tired brain keeps coming back to the idea of dogs understanding the value of Italian marble.
I try to fight off my smile, but I can’t. “Sorry. I’m just thinking about what that would be like if dogs started to understand our world better as they aged. You know, like they turn ten, and all of a sudden, they know how to read. Or thirteen, and they can drive cars. Fourteen, they can help us pay our taxes.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know.” I feel drunk. This is not good. “But wouldn’t it be funny? I’m glad it’s not that way, though. Dogs shouldn’t ever have to learn all the boring people stuff, like expensive Italian marble. They should get better at dog stuff as they get older. You know, like how to enjoy a great view. How to take in a whole story based on sniffing one patch of grass. They get better at napping, that’s for sure.”
I stroke Mr. Brown’s soft back. He leans against me, so now I’m a doggy-Gwen-doggy sandwich.
“They like you,” Brock says. “Why don’t you take them home?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. The house I’m living in is a disaster zone. Nails, wood, torn up flooring, the works.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Sounds worse than your desk.”
I’m not painting a good picture of myself tonight.
Maybe that’s okay, though. It’s not like I want a promotion. I’m just trying to survive this stint in Mandy’s shoes before someone more qualified steps in.
“Yeah, definitely more messy than my desk. At least it’s temporary. My brother and I are flipping a house.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Anyway, if I were you, I’d just keep an ear out for any barking or whining tonight. Better yet, leave your bedroom door open. They could come find you if they have to go out.”
“I don’t like this.”
Tough, I want to say.
But, like I so often do, I bite my tongue. “Sorry,” I say instead.
“I need you over here first thing in the morning,” he orders.
If I were a little more like him, I’d give a hard, firm, ‘no.’ If I were like my brother, I’d have an excuse ready.
But I’m me. And in true me fashion, I can’t come up with anything on the fly. “I… um… I’m not sure if…”
“I leave the house at five,” he says. “Mandy usually meets me at the office at six. I’ll give you until six-thirty so that you can come here and take them out first. And I expect full-time care to be lined up for them by tomorrow. You’re smart. I’m sure you can figure something out.” He thinks I’m smart?
How did he get that? From me, murmuring baby talk to the dogs? Me, babbling about the color of my socks? My ‘Fun Facts about Clogs’ segment?
His eyes flicker as he watches me. “You may not show it, but you are. I can tell. Oh, and my sister, she’s a fan of yours. I guess—I guess she really needed a listening ear today. Maybe I… Maybe I should’ve been there for her. Who knows. Things are complicated between me and her.”
His sudden honesty, on top of the unexpected compliment about my intelligence, stuns me.
I stay mute, while he paces to a thin black-stone and silver-steel table. The legs are formed in the shape of an X. Rich people and their weird furniture…
“She says I should give you a raise,” Brock says as he opens a nearly invisible drawer in the artsy table and plucks out a key. “I don’t know about that since you gave her questionable advice.”
He strides over to me and uses his hand to lift mine.
His touch is firm, strong, warm, and lovely. Goodness. It’s been too long since I’ve been touched by a man. The feel of Brock’s hand on mine should not make the darn butterflies flutter faster.
But it does. His touch feels delightful.
He turns my palm.
I look up into his eyes and see that they’re a deep, rich, mahogany brown with amber flecks radiating out from the pupils. So handsome. Lively, too. I feel as though I’m looking into the depths of a flickering fire, searching for the heart of all the heat.
I see his scar. Pale and squiggly. It reaches from his temple to the corner of his eyebrow. How did he get it?
His eyes search mine. His hand lingers on mine.
My skin tingles where he’s touching me. I can’t tear my eyes away from his. My heart pitter-patters at a fast pace, keeping up with all those pesky butterfly wings.
“Take this key,” he says.
His voice, so close, rumbles through my core.
My knees go weak.
The weirdest fantasy fills me in a rush: Brock and I, standing here, like this. No hierarchy. No roles. Just a man and a woman in an otherwise empty, hushed house. Stars twinkling just outside, night hugging in around us.
In my fleeting daydream, he’s pressing this key into my hand simply because he wants me to have it.
He wants me to have access to his home. To him. Whenever I want it.
Eek!
Not a good daydream.
Stop with the fantasies,I tell myself, as I curl my fist around the cool metal key and pull my hand away.
“Hmm…” he says thoughtfully.
“What?” I ask. My heart hasn’t yet gotten the memo that the romantic fantasy is over. It’s still racing.
“Nothing,” he murmurs.
“No, really. What?” I say again, like an idiot.
His eyes simmer as he stares at me. “When did you start with the company, Gwen?”
It’s really bad how much I like the sound of my name on his lips. I swallow hard, like I’m trying to gulp down the wave of attraction. “Uh… Six years ago.”
He keeps those gorgeous, brown eyes locked on me. “Is that right… six years?”
I break my eyes away from him. It is way too dangerous to look into those chocolate-brown pools.
I tuck the key into the side pocket of my quilted purse, then loop the long strap over my shoulder.
After giving each dog a hug goodnight, I head for the door.
When I reach it, I turn to face Brock. The silence between us feels awkward, and I itch to fill it. “I started in the shipping department a week after you opened the doors of the Windsor Epic Elevate headquarters. I’ve been at the same desk all that time. You pass by me every morning.”
He studies me.
He looks as though he’s deep in thought, but I have no idea what’s going through his mind. “Hunh. Is that right? Well… Okay then.”
I wait for him to thank me for coming over this late.
He doesn’t.
“Goodnight, Gwen,” he says.
And that’s it.
With a sigh, I open the door and step out into the brisk autumn night air.
As I walk to my car, I realize it was foolish of me to hope he’d end the visit with an expression of gratitude.
Mandy quit in tears because of his selfish ways. Why would he be any different with me?
Once in my car, I try to shake off the energy that coursed through me when he touched my hand.
Then I dig deeper and try to uproot the pesky, sneaky feelings of attraction that sprouted up with that first photo of him and the dogs and then kept growing bigger, like weeds.
He’s my monster of a boss, I remind myself for the hundredth time.
I pull out of my parking spot slowly, still lost in thought.
When I take one last peek at his house, I see his tall, strong, muscular form leaning against the doorway.
He’s watching me leave.
I’m glad about that, for some reason. It makes me feel good to be the object of his attention.
I want more time with him. More flirting. More touching.
That is so wrong, but that’s what I want. I’ll be back in the morning, the fangirl in me thinks happily as I hang a left and merge onto the street.