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“Hey.” I clap him on the shoulder and wait until he meets my eye. “You are not useless. You hear me? You can do lots of things. So what if you fumbled with the saw that one time? It was no big deal.”
“I’m a screw-up, Gwen. I can’t even get my life together enough to move out of Mom’s basement.”
“You are not a screw-up. Don’t say that. You will get out of the house. Your whole future is ahead of you. You’re creative, kind… crazy good at so many things. Maybe not at running power tools, but so what? It’s my fault I got us both into this.”
I look over his shoulder to the single-story ranch-style house we’re supposed to be fixing up. The chimney poking up out of the roof is a total disaster of crumbling brick. The siding is a patchwork of exposed plywood and peeling, pink siding. The porch is cluttered with lumber, sawhorses, and stacks of tile that will hopefully one day go into the bathroom.
“And that doesn’t even matter,” I tell Clay. “All this house stuff is a big experiment for both of us. I won’t let you get down about it. Besides, I really am not dodging this visit. What I want more than anything right now is to hang out and eat ice cream with you. My boss is a monster. That’s all that’s going on here.”
“You sure?” He scuffs his shoe along the stairs. “You seemed sorta mad for a minute there.”
“I’m sure.”
The phone beeps again.
When I head down the walkway to the curb, where my car’s parked, he follows.
“I’m glad it’s only a temporary thing, you acting as his mop-up crew,” he says as we walk. “Or butler. Or whatever the job title is.”
I laugh. “Assistant. And yeah, I’m glad it’s only temporary, too. Give Mom a hug for me when you see her, ‘kay? I love you guys.”
Once I’m settled in my car, I check the latest text. It’s another photo. Brock has his head close to a pale, cornsilk blond Golden Retriever. The dog is giving a big, goofy grin to the camera.
Brock’s smiling, too. It’s not that dazzling, public-image smile he uses when he poses for pictures. It’s slightly crooked, like it happened last minute as he snapped the selfie, maybe out of habit.
The way that it’s a little lopsided makes me feel like it’s a smile meant only for me.
In the background, a grizzled-looking senior dog is mid-stride, with a teddy bear hanging from his mouth.
Brock: The happy one is Zoey. The old guy photo-bombing in the back is Mr. Brown. I figured you should know their names when you get here. I’ll be in my home office from nine to ten on a call.
I bite my lip, fighting off a wave of unexpected attraction.
For some reason, seeing my intimidating boss cheek-to-cheek with a goofy, grinning dog makes me actually like Brock… a teeny, tiny bit.
It’s odd, looking at the photo of him and feeling this warmth. Isn’t he supposed to be my mean boss? I didn’t expect to come out here to my car and feel anything but resentment toward him.
Yet here I am, zooming in on his face and the dogs, almost giggling at how cute the photo is.
Maybe the problem is that I love animals.
Always have. Apparently, all a guy has to do to pull my heartstrings is pose with a pup.
But… no. That’s not the only thing going on here. There’s also the fact that the stars are out, along with a quarter moon. It’s late, and I’m on my way to his house.
Not the office.
Not my desk.
His home. The place where he sleeps at night.
This feels strangely intimate.
It’s like, out of habit, my brain’s gearing up for some romantic interaction. In the past, a late-evening trip across town to a man’s home would involve romance. A glass of wine. Candlelight. A cozy conversation, and at least a kiss.
My fingers hesitate over the phone because suddenly, I feel weird about texting him back. This is how I’d get if he were a guy I was interested in. Whenever I’m dating a guy, I over-analyze every single text, every phone call, every facial expression.
Then, I realize that I’m stressing about what should be a simple text to my boss. I force myself to tap out some words and do my best not to overthink the tone. ‘On my way.’
