Page 47 of Dirty Boss

“You can’t just come here and fix my leak,” I protested, planting my hands on my hips as I kicked a mound of laundry under my bed to hide it. It was wet, and I grimaced. I’d have to wash it all again, which would probably end up in me ruining everything I owned and burning the building down as well. I picked up a couple of pot lids and a bottle of multipurpose cleaning spray and let them clatter onto the countertop. The smear of egg yolk on my dirty plate stared back at me like an eldritch smile, cackling at my predicament.

Vaughn glanced over his shoulder and arched a brow at me. “I can, and I did.” He stood up, holding a tool in one hand. I had no idea what it did, nor did I care. I was overwrought and overwhelmed. On the one hand, it was sweet that Vaughn had rushed here to save me from whatever he thought was attacking me. But on the other, his presence was making me feel things.

Like the sweet, mournful yearning of wanting him to come to my rescue all the time, forever. And the hope that now that he was here, everything would be okay. And the mortification of him seeing my cramped, filthy living space.

And, as he crossed the distance between us and stood before me, eyes steady on mine, cologne temporarily banishing the musty smell of my apartment, I became keenly aware that I wasn’t wearing any underwear.

I gulped. “I, um, was in the middle of cleaning,” I said, waving at the spray bottle on the counter.

His lips twitched. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m usually very tidy,” I lied.

The twitch turned into a curve. “Oh?”

“You caught me on laundry day, is all,” I finally said, huffing.

Vaughn shifted, bringing his chest almost to mine. His free hand lifted up and pushed a strand of wet hair off my temple, which sent a zing of heat arrowing down my stomach. “I’m going to take a look at your sink,” he said.

My heart—traitorous, silly thing—sank when he didn’t lean down and kiss me again. Even though it was a good thing. A very good thing. Kissing him was bad. I couldn’t quite rememberwhy, but I was sure it was.

I busied myself tidying up the rest of the tiny apartment while he hunched under the cabinets of my kitchenette, but his presence was impossible to ignore. Anywhere I stood, I could see him from the corner of my eye. I caught hints of his cologne if Igot too close. The sound of his breathing made my heart thump harder.

I’d just started folding some of the clean clothes on my sofa where there was a loud bang, and then a tearing sound. I jumped, then turned to see Vaughn crawling out from under the counters, holding a big piece of my cabinet.

“Oh my God, what are you doing? Put it back!” I said, flapping my hands.

Vaughn held up the piece of melamine to display a disgusting black patina crawling up the face of it. “Put it back?” he asked.

“I’ll never get my deposit back!”

“Alba. This is mold.” He held up the piece of cabinet.

I blinked at it. Then at him. Despair yawned open in the pit of my stomach, and I felt the mortifying urge to cry. Mold meant I’ddefinitelynever get my deposit back. How did I deal with mold? How much would it cost?

Problems that would have previously been fixed with a phone call now seemed insurmountable. My chest began to feel tight. Breaths came faster. The landlord would blame me. I’d have to pay to fix it, and it would drain my savings and then some. I’d be kicked out. I’d be homeless. I’d have to?—

Suddenly, Vaughn was there, a wall of warmth and safety. His hands clamped around me, enveloping me in their warmth. “Alba. Breathe.”

“I can’t.”

“Breathe,” he commanded, leaning his face right up into mine, his big palms coming to cup my jaw on either side, his bulk shielding me from the view of my horrible, dank home. I inhaled and exhaled with him, and the tightness in my chest began to ease. The warmth of his hands soaked through me, and before I could stop myself, I was burying my head in his chest, sighing as his arms wrapped around me once more.

Nowhere had felt safe for almost a year and a half—longer. Nowhere except Vaughn’s arms. Tears prickled at my eyes, and as Vaughn’s hand stroked my back, I let them soak into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” I said, my voice muffled in his bulk.

“Don’t be,” he replied. Once I’d gathered myself, Vaughn pulled away slightly, but he didn’t let me go. He guided me to the bed and sat down, pulling me down onto his lap. His thumb stroked the tears from under my eye. His gaze was utterly serious as he said, “Pack a bag, Alba. You’re not staying here tonight.”

I stiffened on top of him, my forearms resting on his shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a health hazard,” he said, tipping his head toward the kitchenette, where the moldy cabinet stared at us from on top of the counter.

“I don’t—I haven’t—” I shook my head.I don’t have anywhere else to go. Straightening, I shook my head. “This is inappropriate. You’re my boss. You shouldn’t even be here, and I can take care of myself.”

“Alba—”

I screamed as another loud bang went through the apartment. I jerked. Vaughn caught me, and we slid off the end of the bed and tumbled onto the floor. One deep breath later, I looked over to see one of the feet of my bed had snapped, and the whole thing had collapsed.