Chapter 8
I enter Lizzy’s office without knocking. “I have questions for you, missy,” I announce as I set her cleaned soup pot over near her computer.
She doesn’t stop typing. She won’t look up at me.
That’s how I know she’s guilty.
I perch on the side of her desk. “For starters, do you think I’m dumb or something? You thought I’d buy your little act?”
She keeps her eyes pinned to her computer, poker face in place. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Gwen.”
“Ohhhh ho, ho. Yes, you do.” I swivel my finger at her face. “This is your poker face. You use it all the time, whenever you’re fibbing. You really thought you could get away with this.”
“Get away with what?” She’s keeping her voice perky. Innocent-sounding.
“This stunt you’re trying to pull.”
“I’m not pulling any stunts.”
“Yes, you are! Admit it, Lizzy. I can tell by the way you’re typing away a mile a minute and the way you won’t look at me. You are so guilty, it’s not funny.”
Tap-tap-tap.Her fingers fly across the keyboard.
Oh, so guilty.
I cross my arms over my chest. “So, you’re not up to any mischief, hm? Really?”
“Really.” Her face glows in the blue light of the computer.
“Really…” I repeat. “So, you’re sticking to the story that you posted the assistant job, and no one’s interested. You’ve heard crickets. Isn’t that what you told me on the phone this morning? Crickets?”
She nods.
“So, let me get the story straight. Twenty-four hours have passed since Brock asked you to post the executive assistant job with that sweet salary. Brock says the last time, it was filled within hours. And now that I think about it, I can rattle off a handful of workers in my own department who would fall all over themselves racing to fill out the application. And yet, you’re saying you posted that job and have had zero applicants.”
She finally leans back against her chair and throws both hands up. “Fine! I’m pulling a stunt.”
“You didn’t even post the job!” I cry.
“I can’t, Gwen. Not yet. The minute I post that job, I’ll be flooded with applications.”
“Perfect. Get flooded.”
“Is that really what you want me to do, Gwen? Just sit back and watch this huge opportunity fly straight past you?”
“Yes! That is exactly what I want you to do. This ‘huge opportunity’ is more like a major pain in the butt. I don’t want to run around after Brock, tending to his every need. I have my own work to do, plus the house project in my off-time.”
“As your friend, I refuse to let this pass you by. You have been doing the same thing, year after year, and it’s not getting you anywhere. You are so wonderful, Gwen. You are the best, nicest person I know. But it’s like you don’t see how great you are. You settle for mediocre when you could have amazing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your life!” she cries, with another big hand gesture. Then she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Men!” she hisses. “Relationships! Obviously.”
“My life is fine,” I whisper back. “And this has nothing to do with relationships.”
“Your life is not fine. You’re working yourself to the bone. You’re exhausted. And you’re lonely. You need to make changes.”
As she gestures, I can’t help but notice the sparkling engagement ring and wedding band set she wears. Sunlight catches all those little diamonds.
Lizzy, I’m well aware, is happily married with two little Rixons running around her feet when she’s home.
I’ve always wanted kids. The stars have simply never aligned.
But this isn’t about the family I want one day.
This is about work and how running around after Brock is the last thing I need to add to my already overfilled plate. And now, thanks to my stupid inability to set boundaries, I have the dogs to worry about in addition to everything else.
This is a mess.
A major, disastrous mess.
“Adding another job is not the change I need to make,” I say. “Believe me.”
“This is not about the assistant responsibilities, and you know it.” She hops out of her seat, marches to the door, and closes it. When she turns to face me, it’s with kindness written on her features. She returns to the desk and perches on it by my side. “It’s about Brock. You and Brock.”
I gulp.
She grins. Her eyebrows hitch up, and she peers at me. “He’s a great guy, Gwen. He is smart, hard-working, funny… He’s confident. He’s friendly. He has a big heart, even though he keeps it locked up beneath the tough-boss act.”
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter as I slide off the desk.
It feels good to pace the length of her office.
Maybe if I pace, I won’t have to think about what she’s saying.
I face the window and look out at the green patch of lawn and the orange and red leaves of a nearby oak. It’s another sunny, crisp fall day out there.
She goes on, addressing my back. “I know people, Gwen. That’s why I do the work I do. I see Brock—the real Brock. And I see you. And you two would be a fantastic couple. You’d balance each other out. You’d have fun. You need him, and he needs someone exactly like you.”
“This is not even worth talking about. That’s not even on the table.”
“I knew you guys would hit it off!” she squeals, rubbing her hands together. “You cannot imagine how psyched I was when you called this morning, all frazzled and frantic ‘cause of your crush.”
“But—what we’re talking about is a job. A job I don’t want to do, which someone else should be doing. Please post it to the recruitment sites. He has to hire someone else.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Un uh. You asked me to take off my HR hat this morning. You told me about your feelings for him. You know what a crush is, right? It’s your heart screaming out, sending chemical signals through your whole body. Begging you to stop and take notice of what’s really going on.”
I stare out at the leaves and nibble at the edge of my nail for a minute.
She’s wrong.
She has to be wrong.
“No, a crush is like an illness,” I argue. “It’s like when you ride a boat and get seasick. It’s a physical problem that I can solve if I put some space between me and him. I want out of this job as his assistant—as soon as possible.”
I’ll still have to deal with the dogs, but maybe, if I’m careful, I can manage to make those visits without bumping into him. Under the radar. My old ways…
That sounds heavenly.
I don’t want to get stuck in another flirtatious conversation with him.
I can’t endure that again.
This morning, I felt like I was losing my mind when he stood so close to me that we were nearly touching.
He never even put a shirt on that whole time. He acted like we were friends, chilling by that pool of his or something. Or worse, two singles doing some peacock-like mating dance. And the worst part is the boy-crazy part of me delighted in his bare torso. All those muscles…
And that smile he kept giving me. Dreamy.
His deep voice…
His jokes and teasing.
Part of me wanted breakfast to last forever, and part of me wanted to run home, hide under the covers, and never brave another encounter with my smoking hot boss ever again.
He’s dangerous.
Being around him is dangerous.
He makes me want things I shouldn’t want.
“Oh… I get it…” Lizzy says. “You’re afraid of love.”
“Excuse me?” I swivel around to give her what I hope is a stern look. It doesn’t work. I feel my eyes fly open wide like I’m a bunny caught in twin high beams.
She giggles. “Called it! You are. That’s why you never get into relationships that last. You settle for boring, broken guys, and something in you knows that you’re settling. You go for tame and passionless, but you deserve amazing. Your heart knows it.”
“You’ve been watching too many of Brock’s inspirational Wednesday videos.”
“Heck yes, I have. I work here because I like his message. I like positive people and go-getters. He shoots for the stars, Gwen. Maybe you should try that, too.”
“My life is fine. My work in the shipping department gets me a paycheck. I’ll make it through the house thing and this seasick feeling about Brock. The dog-sitting, the awkwardness, whatever. I’ll muddle through. You’ll post that job already. Soon, everything can go back to normal.”
“Because normal is familiar. Normal is comfortable.”
“Right.”
“That’s called a comfort zone. You’ve heard of that, right? It’s a rut you get into when you’re too scared of taking a risk or failing. It’s a zone people get into and stay in while all the amazing and joyful things in life pass by, just beyond their comfy, swaddled-up cocoon.”
“I like my cocoon.”
She sighs. “Look. I’m your friend, right? I’m telling you—it’s time for you to bet on yourself. To let yourself shine a little. It won’t be bad. It’ll be fun.”
“Please post the job. I want you to put your HR hat back on. I’m asking you now as a Shipping Minion. I’d put it up on the recruitment sites myself if you gave me the passwords.”
“Aaagh.” The sound makes her utter frustration with me abundantly clear. “You’re killing me, Gwen.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Okay—how’s this? A compromise. Stick with Brock for the rest of the week and just see what happens. Come Monday, I’ll post the job. You’re right about it getting filled within hours. It will be. So, all you have to do is make it through the week.”
“You promise you’ll post it on Monday?”
She sticks out her pinky.
I eye it. “We’re too old for this.”
“Pinky swear,” she says, wiggling the digit. “Pinky swear with me, to seal the deal. You’ll see the week through with Brock, and you’ll be open-minded about him. Try to see him like he really is, not the guy you think he is. Try to see his soft side, ‘kay? Stop being so afraid of him. And I’ll keep up my end of the deal, too.”
I hook my pinky into hers. It’s a gesture that reminds me of being a kid on the playground.
That’s what this conversation feels like, too. Two grade-school girls holed up under a wooden platform on the playground, hatching plans about boys. Too bad we’re not school-aged kids, though. We’re adults, unfortunately. And this mess with my boss could have real consequences.
“If you weren’t Head of HR, I’d report you to Head of HR,” I say once the childish shake ends.
She grins, deviously. “This job comes with perks.” Then she pats my knee. “Seriously, though. I hate to add cheese to this already cheesy discussion, but our friendship is way more important than anything work-related. This is way bigger than office stuff. You’re like a sister to me. I want to see you happy.”
“Well, you have a weird way of showing it.”
“This is going to be good for you. I swear.”
“You’re mother-henning me.”
“To the max.”
“I already have a mother.”
“Yes, and when I see Allegra, I’ll fill her in on my genius plot to set you up with Mr. Amazing. She’s going to love it. How is she, anyway? I haven’t seen her in a few days.”
“Head in the clouds, hands in a garden bed. Dirt on her knees. Probably singing. The whole shebang.”
Lizzy laughs. “She’s so cute. Hey, when you see her next, tell her those geranium cuttings she gave me are growing roots. I have them in jars on my windowsill, like she said.”
“Sure.” Speaking about my family reminds me that I have to call my mom back. She left me a voicemail sometime this morning.
Ack.
Voicemails.
There are probably about twenty on that sparkly pink executive assistant cell phone, which I left back at my desk.
“And can you tell her I tried her apple pie recipe?” Lizzy adds. “Eric said it was the best pie he’s ever tasted. The kiddos loved it, too.”
“Maybe you should call her yourself,” I grumble.
Lizzy smiles, not catching on to my misery. “Yeah, you’re right. I will. I should thank her myself and tell her she’s the Queen of Pies. Oh! Speaking of queens…”
She rummages in the tote back, propped against her desk, and pulls out a rolled-up Windsor Gazette.
“Read the article about the castle,” she says as she hands it to me. “Page two.”
“Yeah, right. If I have time,” I moan, my mind still on all the messages that are surely waiting for me. Plus, I have my upcoming mid-morning meeting with Brock.
At ten o’clock, I am due in his office.
He told me not to be late.
It was an order. How is it possible that I’m attracted to a guy who orders me around like Brock does?
Lizzy is asking me to try to see his soft side, but I’m not sure that’s worth my time. I’d rather ignore the hints of softness, like that adorable cheek-to-cheek photo that he took with Zoey. Those signs of a gooey, sweet center might lure me into treacherous territory. Because the bottom line, as far as I can tell, is that he is demanding, selfish, and bossy.
This crush is an illness, I think, as I make my way back to my desk.
Lizzy thinks it’s going to be good for me.
But I know better.
My comfort zone isn’t the rut she made it out to be. It’s my safe, cozy, Brock-free baseline. I want to go back to it.
At my desk, I set the newspaper aside. The article on page two—whatever it is—will have to wait. With a heavy sigh, I consider the tasks of the day.
Shipping emails.
Customer questions and complaints.
Brock’s messages… It all has to get done, and what I have to decide now is where to start.
Lizzy’s words haunt me. Brock… and me… a fantastic couple?
No way.
He’s all wrong for me.
More importantly, I’m all wrong for him. He would never go for a woman like me. I saw those photos Vanessa sent of her in her bikini. She is probably a model, given how great she looks in the skimpy suit. And I know, thanks to Brock’s nearly celebrity status, that he dates flashy, worldly women.
I’ve seen photographs of him in Brazil, Costa Rica, Greece… Always with a different woman on his arm. I’ve read articles about him with wealthy debutants, models, actresses, and heirs to fortunes.
He goes for epic women. Women a cut above.
I am average. And I am fine with that. I don’t want to be the dazzling arm candy he poses for photos with.
My life is so different than his. I lose sleep over owing three thousand bucks to a roofer, while he could probably spend that on a new pair of sneakers without batting an eye.
Lizzy doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
I wriggle my mouse to rouse my desktop out of sleep mode. And, of course, the company webpage greets me—Brock crouched in an athletic pose in gym shorts and bright sneakers. He’s lunged over to one side, fingertips kissing the gym floor. Determination is written on his chiseled features.
Of course, he’s shirtless.
I close my eyes and bury my head in my hands. My life is like a bad joke right now.
And even though I can see the irony of my situation, I don’t feel like laughing.