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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.
