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She is an employee. And she doesn’t deserve a boss who gets a chubby every time he thinks about the raspberry smoothies she’s been making him.
Which I now undoubtedly will for the rest of my life.
Fuck my life.
“You said I should prepare your meals here.”
This time, when she speaks, I look at her, only then realizing how long it’s been since I said anything.
Because of course it has been. Because I’m doing this all wrong. This being a normal human thing. This thing I always seem to fuck up.
“Yes,” I say, because she paused like she was waiting for me to speak, but I’m not sure what else to say.
“Should I do that? Or have you changed your mind?”
“Yes.” Something I can’t read flickers across her face and I realize I answered the wrong question. “I mean no. I haven’t changed my mind. You should cook here. It’s only logical.”
I think back to the text conversation we had just yesterday. Before I knew the gentle slope of her shoulders in a tank top and the lavender scent of her hair. Back before I worried about her cat sneaking out and being eaten by a coyote. Back when it seemed foolish for her to prepare my meals in another building and then bring them here to reheat. Of course, that still seems foolish.
Having her cook here is still the logical decision. So logical, in fact, that I can’t believe I didn’t say something earlier.
Maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe if I had met her when she first came to work for me, I wouldn’t feel awkward now.
Yes. That must be it.
It’s less that she’s so stunningly beautiful and more that it took me by surprise.
Now that I know what she looks like and now that I expect her to be in my kitchen, it won’t be a problem. Familiarity and contempt and all that.
I give a terse nod and turn to leave, only stopping when she asks, “Don’t you want it?”
Her words send off a flood of images through my mind. All the things I want from her. All the ways I want her.
Which is ridiculous since I’ve spent less than ten minutes in her company so far.
I turn back around to see that she’s closed the distance between us. And is holding out the smoothie she made for me.
I clear my throat. “Yes. Of course.”
I take the smoothie and book it out of the kitchen as quickly as possible.
I make it to my office on the third floor before it occurs to me to wonder what the hell I’m going to do with this smoothie that I certainly won’t be able to drink.
Chapter Five
Savannah
* * *
After the great smoothie debacle, I panic.
Meeting my employer should not freak me out, but it does.
I run back to the cottage, hastily pack my belongings, and spend thirty minutes trying to coax Mr. Sniggles out from under the bed.
The problem is, Mr. Sniggles hates car rides. And he hates when I pack. The fact that he equates the two things and has realized that one will lead to the other is a sign of his pure feline genius. It is also the only thing that saves me from utter humiliation. By the time 8 AM rolls around, my back is twinging from lying on my belly. I have not yet coaxed Mr. Sniggles out from under the bed. I have, however, inhaled a great number of dust bunnies.
Eventually, I’m forced to acknowledge the truth. Unless I want to call my sister and have her drive all the way out here to help me corral Mr. Sniggles, I am not leaving today.
