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I put my bag on the side and rub my temples. Who would’ve thought going to that dinner party would be so eventful? That I'd end up here, of all places, worried about Dad? And that I'd make out with my boss?
A thread of awareness travels through me, loosening some of the knots of anxious concern in my stomach. “Made out” doesn't begin to cover how I felt in his arms.
I've written so much about kissing him, fantasized about what it'd be like, and reality surpassed any naughty thoughts.
Now, I'll have to live with it.
Work for him, knowing what it felt like to have his hands all over me.
"Can I sit next to you?" asks the man menacing my mind—the devil himself.
As usual, he doesn't wait for my response and takes the chair next to me. Surprise spikes my pulse. What's he doing here? He already asked if he wronged me in the car—which was code for, you're not going to sue me for sexual harassment, are you? A super douche move.
Archer is a complex individual. Whenever I think he's got a better side to him, he shows me I’m being too optimistic. Though I guess if I were in his position, I'd also worry about making out with an employee.
"Why are you here?" I ask him, confused. Does he need more validation that he’s off the hook? Maybe he wants something in writing? At this point, I don't care. I don't need the added stress. I'll sign whatever he asks.
He looks around and says, "I hate hospitals."
I nod. "Don't most people?"
"My mom developed an autoimmune disease. I visited hospitals more than any child should," he says, staring ahead, a muscle flicking in his jaw.
His mom. I know very little about his family life, except that his mother is deceased and his father isn't in the picture. He’s never said much about anyone besides a few trips to visit his grandmother at her luxury retirement home in Florida.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
Archer lifts his hand in denial as if he wants to change the subject. "What did they tell you about your dad?"
"Hopefully, not heart stuff. Possibly a gallbladder attack. They're doing some imaging now."
"He'll be fine," he says, reaching for my hand.
Before I can disengage, he gives it a squeeze. That tug unlocks the desperation lurking inside me, and sadness wells up. Tears brim my eyes, and I blink them back but still have that salty aftertaste in my palate. I close my eyes and take deep breaths.
I don't know if letting go of his hand will make it easier or more complicated, but I can't bring myself to do it. I sit, eyes closed, focusing on my breathing, and he's next to me. He squeezes my hand again, and another notch of comfort threatens to undo me.
Strangely, this feels more intimate than the way he kissed me. This type of warm yet gentle support. Almost erases all the months of built-up resentment toward him.
"Hazel," he says softly.
I open my eyes and stare at him. He's watching me, specks of silver flickering in his dark blue irises. "Yeah?"
"Do you need anything? I realized we never ate. Can I grab you something to eat or drink?"
"You mean you know how to order food?" I ask before I can think. Shit. I don't like how it sounded. It should have been teasing and playful, but I sounded resentful due to my current state of nerves.
"I've built a company. Going to the vending machine or making a call isn't rocket science," he says.
"You're right. I'm sorry," I say, glancing down at my hands.
He touches my shoulder. "It's okay. Let me figure out what I can do. And if you want, you can time me," he says, flashing a smile.
As I watch him walk away, I realize the complexity of my feelings for him is ever-evolving. As my boss, it's a mix of hate, desire, resentment, and a dash of admiration for all he's built. As my date, I add surprise and disappointment. He certainly said some things tonight that frustrated me, but now he's offering support…
My heart melts. Shit. This isn't good.
Wanting my boss in my fantasies is one thing—wanting him as my boyfriend is an ambition I can't afford. He never applied for the position, anyway.
