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"You're generous, Hazel. I knew I hired you for a reason."
Hired me for a reason. Asshole boss.
A lump of annoyance fills in my throat. He's reminding us about our positions in life. I get it. He has his own shit to deal with, and while he's been good enough to keep me company, it's time I take some space, too.
I can't keep listening to him and humanizing him. What if my feelings deepen, and I end up broken-hearted and fired? I can't lose this job—having my father in the hospital is the best reminder. "Look, thank you again for coming. I need to see my dad and hang out with him before surgery. You've been very kind tonight. Don't feel like you need to wait."
"I can't leave you here, Hazel. You may need something."
"I won't. I need some space, and I need to focus on my father," I say, determination lacing my voice. If he's around, I'll be distracted, and not necessarily good distracted.
"Are you sure you don't need anything else? I know it's not the best time, but we should talk at some point about what happened earlier."
"There's no need to talk. We're good, Mr. Cromwell. Now, if you’ll excuse me…" I grab my things, stand, and walk toward the patient rooms, feeling his gaze burning my back.
11
Ihate my boss. Mostly.
Ten days ago, we went to a dinner party. A work dinner party, of course.
And the bastard kissed me. No, not like the ones I fantasize about. It was far better. You know how dirty porn movies make you feel? That type of kiss. A rush of blood raced through my veins, and I'm not sure it's stopped since.
Then, because of a family emergency, things came to a halt. Fine. It happens.
But the worst was what he said afterward—"How will it look if you leave and I don't go with you?” Of course, optics are his number one concern—even when someone's father is in the ER. Why would I expect it to be different?
Oh, but it gets worse—in the car… in the car, he talked to me as if he was using words his lawyer carefully curated for him. And asked me if I felt wronged by him—meaning our make-out session.
I mean, really?
I feel fucking wronged that my pussy is in such an unfortunate state after you touched it. I've been soaking wet like never before, and I have a pulsing ache between my legs that won't go away—masturbating is useless. Not that I had much time for it, anyway.
But damn…
The man can kiss.
I wonder what else he can do.
"Hazel," Emma calls. “I'm glad you're back. Would you like me to get some coffee for you?"
I look at the clock.
Monday at 9 a.m., and Archer's still not here. Unusual. I even went to the coffee shop an hour ago because I always expect him in the office at 8:10 a.m.
Today's my first day back.
Dad's surgery went well, and we got home on that Sunday, but I had to keep an eye on him. I texted Archer and asked him for a few days off to sort things out, but he offered me the entire week off. I know, so uncharacteristically generous of him.
He also offered the services of an on-call nurse. Turns out my dad was back to his usual self sooner than expected, so we didn't need it, but Archer ensured we had that information handy if Dad ever did. He sent Dad a get-well basket, and the cynic in me wondered if he ordered it or asked the temp who replaced me for a week to do it.
These mixed messages from Archer confuse the hell out of me. Was he kind because he wanted to do damage control, or am I missing something? I want to trust him and believe he’s not as bad as I thought, but I need consistency to decide.
"I'll go with you," I say, shoving the journal into the drawer before I can finish the rest of my entry. For some odd reason, he's late. Waiting for him to come to work drives me into a state of anxiety I haven't felt since waiting for the season finale of my favorite TV series. This is the first time we'll face each other after that awkward exchange at the hospital.
Emma and I walk side by side to the breakroom.
The breakroom on this floor is unlike anything else—the reason Emma always comes up, even though, as the receptionist, she should stick to the one on the lower floor.
