Chapter 12
Five o’clock has never, ever felt as welcome as it does right now.
When the clock on the wall strikes the hour, I hop out of my seat and grab my purse. I’ve already packed everything into it—my water bottle, my planner, my cell, the dreaded pink cell, and the evil executive assistant tablet, as I’ve started calling it.
Within seconds, I’m out the door, sucking in a gulp of fresh air.
Today was confusing.
It’s not over yet, but at least I can leave the Epic Elevate building.
I need to put some space between Brock and me.
I made a fool of myself in the podcast studio, getting all mushy around him. There I was, acting like his friends were my friends. I probably seemed like some gushy fan, and I’m sure they laughed about it the minute I departed.
Then there was the way I cozied up to Brock as if we were besties. I stood close to him, made eye contact, and basically acted like anything except his hired help.
Which is what I am.
He’s paying me to be at his beck and call.
This is my job, yet I’m acting like his requests have personal meaning. Like he’s texting me and summoning me because he likes me.
Ha.
Not possible.
I’m stupid to let these fantasies and daydreams get the best of me.
My trip to his house during lunch did not put the brakes on my growing—no, skyrocketing—crush.
In fact, being in his home only made the feelings worse. It felt wonderful to twist the house key in the front door. It was almost like the house was mine and Brock’s together, and I belonged there somehow. When I was in the entryway greeting the dogs, I thought about Brock’s smile and those perfect dimples.
I had to fight off thoughts about him the entire time I walked the dogs.
Right now, as I weave through the desks and tables in the shipping department, heading for the door, the battle continues.
Outwardly, I’m saying a cheerful goodnight to my colleagues.
But inside my head…
I’m lost in daydreams about my boss.
How his muscles flexed when he did those chin-ups.
How good it sounds when he says my name. And how sometimes, when he speaks to me, everything else fades.
That happened in the podcast studio. I forgot his friends were even in the room until one of them threw a wad of paper at his head.
And then, this afternoon, when I was online ordering a onesie for Leo, I had a totally inappropriate daydream—one I will never breathe a word of to anyone, including Lizzy. It was a daydream about what Brock would be like as a father.
Well, I can’t blame myself for thinking about babies. I was on a baby clothing website, for Pete’s sake, ordering a freaking onesie.
When I looked at that tiny garment, I just couldn’t help it.
I pictured a teeny, tiny, mini-Brock filling it out—teeny, tiny fingers, teeny, tiny Brock dimples, a cute Brock baby. And then, I pictured Brock holding the child.
He’d be an amazing dad, I think now as I push the office doors open and step out into the day’s fading sunshine.
Lizzy is right.
He’s a hard worker. Funny. Smart. He’d take the responsibility seriously, and he’d do his best to knock it out of the park like he does with everything else in his life.
Somehow, my feet carry me to my car even though my head’s lost in daydreams. I turn my keys in my ignition. The rattling whine doesn’t sound very good.
This day has to be over.
I need space.
Maybe, if I drive away from this building, I will also drive away from thoughts about Brock—thoughts about what he’d be like as a father, holding an adorable baby. Thoughts about what he’d be like as a husband: attentive, protective, fun.
Probably the type of dad who would split baby duties, too. Half the time, I’d wake up in the night to tend to our child’s needs. The other half of the time, I’d roll over and place a hand on Brock’s chest. ‘Can you go this time, honey?’ I’d whisper.
His voice would be a deep, intimate, sleepy croak. ‘Yeah, I’ve got this. You get back to sleep, baby.’
No! Don’t think about any of that, Gwen.
I turn the key again.
“Get me away from here,” I whisper aloud.
Brock is my boss, and this daydreaming is pointless.
Pointless and dangerous. I have to work for him, so fantasizing about sharing a bed with him…? Not a good idea.
It is so hot in my car.
The electric window on the driver’s side stopped working years ago, so it’s permanently up. Though I have all the other windows down, it’s not enough. Golden sunlight pours through, and I feel like I’m a slice of old pizza stuck under a heat lamp.
I push my bangs back, then twist the key again. Fear rattles through me as the engine whines, high-pitched.
Something under the hood coughs.
The car shakes.
I realize, with dread, that this vehicle is not going to carry me away from Epic Elevate headquarters.
Even more frustrating is the fact that now I am being haunted by a persistent, very pesky train of thought.
Brock’s bedroom, with the wall-to-wall carpeting he mentioned.
I shouldn’t know how he sounds when he wakes up before his first cup of coffee.
But I do.
I know how he smells, fresh out of the shower. I know what it feels like to have him standing, shirtless, mere feet away from me, drilling those intense eyes into me.
“Start,” I say under my breath.
I need to get away from here.
My car refuses to cooperate.
Then, I see him. Brock is heading toward me.
His big, new, black Land Cruiser is across the lot—nowhere near mine. And yet, he keeps walking this way. Then, he’s at my window.
The window that won’t go down.
He waits.
I am trapped, like a helpless animal. Too hot, too wobbly-kneed, too flustered.
If my heart would stop pounding, that would be great.
I wait for it to obey. But, like the car, it’s feeling uncooperative.
I nudge the door open with my hammering heart, giddy tummy, and all.
He scrunches his brow.
“Busted window,” I explain as I look up at him from my seat. I won’t get up out of this seat. If I do, I’ll be standing too close to him again. I’ve had too many baby fantasies in the past few hours for that.
Who am I kidding? Even one baby fantasy about the man in the head office is too many.
“Starter-related problems, too, sounds like,” he says. “Either that or a weak battery.”
“I think it’s my battery. It’s done this before, and the last time, it barely charged even when Clay jumpstarted it.”
“Clay?” his lively eyes search mine. “Guy friend?”
A warm glow stirs in my belly at his prodding question. He wants to know about my male friends. He’s judging his competition. “My little brother,” I answer.
The charge between us is sparking, dancing, becoming the familiar fire.
“You wanna pop the hood?” he offers in that delicious, deep, smooth voice of his. “I’ll take a look.”
He’s not talking into a mic. These words will not be heard by thousands. He’s speaking to me—only me. I can’t stand how happy that makes me feel.
Other Epic Elevate employees cross the lot. I see a few heads turn our way. They might be wondering why the Head Honcho is bothering with me—a Shipping Minion.
I know I’d be wondering that same thing if I saw Brock talking like this to someone in my department.
Offering help.
Brock doesn’t owe me any help.
But I don’t have to wonder why the CEO of this company is here, at my car, offering to look under the hood.
I know what is going on between us.
I don’t want to know, but I do.
We’ve been playing a game. It started last night, and today, it blossomed like wildfire on a windy day.
The only way to put out the flames is to get away from him.
I’ve been plotting all afternoon, trying to come up with a way to do my dog-care duties tonight without bumping into him. I counted on sneaking in that trip to the dog park I promised. Then, a few hours later, slipping in and out of his home unseen for that last walk of the night.
I figured if I could make it through the evening without any more contact with him, I would be able to clear my head.
So much for that plan,I think, as I fumble around under the steering wheel and finally locate the lever for the hood. I release it, and seconds later, Brock leans over my engine.
I start to feel bad, sitting like a lump in my seat, so I finally get out.
Bad idea.
Now he’s in full view. All six-plus feet of him.
His arms flex and bulge as he reaches under the hood and touches various parts that are not visible from where I sit.
His chiseled jawline is set in a firm line as he examines the old and rusty parts of my car.
His T-shirt-clad torso is bathed in golden evening sunlight. When a bit of the fabric pulls up, I can see his stomach’s a hard washboard. He’s in khakis that rest on his hips, no belt. He reaches up to place a hand on the edge of the popped hood. That might be the very top of his briefs, that hint of white and red fabric.
Don’t look.
He closes the lid.
When he steps my way, the gap between us becomes nothing but a magnetic field, begging to be collapsed.
I suddenly want to move closer to him, and I can feel how much he wants that, too.
This has to end.
I can’t take a minute more of this.
“Your battery is pretty corroded,” he says. “How old do you think it is?”
He may as well be whispering lovey-dovey promises of a hot night together for the way my body heats up. I feel my lashes flutter.
Impossible. It is impossible to look at him here in this golden sunlight and not feel a tsunami of attraction.
“Um… way old? Years old? Uh—five, six.”
Now it’s not only my heart and my car that are not cooperating, but my mouth has joined the rebellion. My brain’s acting out, too. Nothing is working the way I need it to.
“Way old,” he repeats with a quick, dimple-making half smile. “Okay, then, what you need is a new battery, Gwen. You want me to have one delivered?”
“You—you can do that? Like, having a pizza delivered or something?”
“Not exactly like a pizza. But, yeah. I’ve got a great mechanic who helps me out when I need a hand. He’ll swing by and get you set up if I say the word.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes out his phone.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this. I’m supposed to be helping you, not the other way around.”
“Yeah, well…” His fingers fly over his phone as he composes a text. When he looks up, it’s with incredible warmth in those brown irises. “You’ve done a lot of that today, and I’m about to ask for more. Figure doing a favor for you first will set me up for success.”
“Uh oh. A favor?”
“A favor. What do you think?”
“I can’t agree or disagree ‘til I know what it is I’m signing up for.”
“Smarty,” he says. When he gives me a quick, winning smile, the darn dimple flashes again. My knees go weak. “I need some fresh air after the day we had in there. You know how you said you had extra energy? I’m feeling that, too. Thinking it would help to get out for a while.”
“Out… um… where?” It is so hard to speak when he looks at me like this.
“I’m thinking the dog park. With you. When you take the dogs. I think I’d like to see the place. And I like a good challenge, too. I know I’m no dog expert, but I’m gonna try to win that old Mr. Brown over, get him to stop growling at me. Maybe if I chuck a ball or two for him, he’ll call me a friend.”
“You want to go to the dog park with me?” I squeak.
There go my plans for sneaking in dog care.
He nods. “It’ll be an adventure. You’ll be the guide. Show me the ropes, Gwen.”
“Have you met me?” I retort. “I am the opposite of an adventure guide. I am an office worker.”
His eyes dance over mine. “You’re a lot more than that.”
“No, really, I’m not.”
“You’re selling yourself short again.”
“I’m telling the truth. The very unglamorous truth.” I think again of the type of women he goes for: stiletto heels, Barbie bodies, hair so shiny and long, I can’t help but wonder just how many hours they spend with hot irons, curlers, and treatments of one sort or another.
Those women are more than well-dressed and beautiful. They lead exciting lives. At least, that’s what it looks like in the articles and social media posts I’ve consumed over the years.
“You’re quite a singer and guitarist, I hear,” he says.
“Who told you that?”
He hooks his thumb into his pocket. “You’re good at gardening, too. I hear you can bake a mean apple pie. You make friends in line at the grocery store and when you’re waiting to get your hair cut.”
“Who told you all these things?”
“Had a meeting with Elizabeth Rixon this afternoon. For some reason, she talked my ear off about how great you are.”
Lizzy!I narrow my eyes and make a mental note to chide her the next time I see her.
Brock’s attention pours over me, a spotlight I’m not built for. “Also, Kate said you were a treasure. My friends liked you.”
“Well, Kate’s the best. And I like your friends, too. That probably sounds weird since I don’t know them, but I’ve listened to the podcast for years… I’ve heard you three talk about everything from trips to the Amazonian rainforest to how to make pizza crust out of cauliflower.”
He chuckles. “So, you know us. You know me…”
“Maybe. Sort of. Not all the way.”
Not all the way…?!
Eek!
Did I just say that… to my boss?
Oh my gosh. I want to dig a hole and crawl into it. Right this second.
No, thirty seconds ago—whenever those blush-inducing words slipped out of my mouth.
Brock seems to be enjoying the heat that sweeps over my face. He leans into me. His lips are now closer than ever before. His whisper sends a delightful shiver through me. “Can I tell you something? Not a work-ish thing.”
He’s using my word.
That word I used in the studio. Stupid me.
“If it’s not a work-ish thing, maybe we shouldn’t talk about it in the work parking lot.”
“If you’d be my adventure guide, I wouldn’t have to tell you this here. I’d tell you while we were on our adventure.”
“I told you, I’m not cut out for adventures.” Or for hearing this non-workish thing, whatever it is. “Definitely not qualified to guide them. I sit behind a desk, nine-to-five.”
“I think I’m going to tell you anyway. I want to.”
“I might faint.”
He laughs, a low, rumbly laugh that sends a jolt of warm, honey-sweet energy coursing through me. “If you faint, I’ll catch you. You ready?”
No.
I nod.
“Okay. Gwen, I like it when you get flustered. I think it’s charming.”
A warm, happy feeling drips down my limbs.
I’m losing control.
“That isn’t very work-ish, is it?” he says.
“Not really,” I manage, somehow.
He thinks I’m charming? How am I supposed to handle knowing that?
He doesn’t give me time to think. Instead, he gestures to his car. “So, we’ll grab the dogs first, head to the park together…? I could give you a lift since your car is out of commission until the new battery is in place. We’ll kill an hour at the park, then I’ll bring you back here.”
Yep, an hour with Brock just might kill me.
This honey feeling, sweet and warm and gooey, won’t leave me alone. I feel myself nodding. “I—I think that would work.”
“Good.”
We fall into step, side by side, as we head for his car.
Brock opens the passenger door for me. I can’t help but notice more heads turning. My coworkers want to know why I’m getting into the CEO’s car.
Heck—I want to know, myself.
This is not the escape I had planned.
Far from it.