He narrowed his eyes at me, and I narrowed mine right back. We’ve been doing that a lot lately—these silent staring matches that are way more titillating than I want to admit.
“I'm not a tyrant,” he said eventually. “I just like things how I like them.”
“Said no laid back person ever,” I quipped. He smirked. “There’s a difference between running a tight ship and suffocating your crew.”
Rolling his eyes, he insisted he was a good boss . . . then said I could “come and find out.”
Sputtering on my coffee, I set my mug down. I wasn’t prepared for his strange proposal, nor was I prepared for Grandma to roast me to ash. She said I wouldn’t last a minute as his assistant because I’m too stubborn, and Brandon likes to micromanage his assistants out of work. When I made the mistake of laughing, she turned on me again and said, “Oh, but why are you laughing, Evie? You make ten dollars an hour, and your resume could fit on a note card.”
I think my jaw actually dropped. Like, DANG, GRANDMA. Brutal, much?
Then she made some cryptic comment about how life is too short not to be blunt. Or to not tell people how you really feel about them. All while shifting her dark, meddling gaze between me and Brandon—as if she actually expected me to confess how badly I was into him right there at the table.
Brandon looked at me, then arched a conspiratorial brow. But I could hardly look at him after getting hung out to dry like that. Turning his attention on Grandma, he joked that it’s unwise of her to pick on the person who manages her medication.
Snorting, Grandma rose from her seat. When I asked where she was going, she said, “The restroom. Think I can make it there and back without keeling over?”
Brandon and I ducked our heads to hide our laughter.
The second Grandma was gone, the atmosphere shifted. Unnerved by the sudden silence, I hopped up and booked it toward the coffee pot. It was empty again, so I set another one to brew. When I turned around to sit back down, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Brandon was right there behind me, crowding my space. Breathing my air.
My eyes traveled up to his as he leaned against the counter next to me. My stomach did that thing it always does when he’s giving me his undivided attention—cartwheels and backflips galore.
Then he asked if it was true that I only make ten dollars an hour. When I shrugged, he insisted that I should be earning much more than that. Something I already know, of course. But there’s not much around here as far as job opportunities go. I mean, sure, I could move somewhere else where the pay is better, but I live here. With Grandma.
Of course, I told him all of this, but he was adamant that I should be making more money as if he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Men . . .
I appreciate his concern, but I've exhausted all my options. I did confide though that I’d maybe like to go back to school and get my nursing degree one day . . . but that I need to save up the money first. But even if I did have that money right now, I wouldn’t be able to go back to school right this second.
“Because of Maggie,” Brandon concluded.
Ashamed, I explained that it’s a joy to be living with Grandma, to be taking care of her. But that it’s also . . .
“Exhausting?” he finished. “It sounds like you never get a break, Spitfire. That’s no good.”
I insisted I didn’t want a break, but that’s not true. I am desperate for a week-long vacation where I do nothing but lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and sleep. But Grandma won’t accept help from anyone but me. And she never stops trying to do what she shouldn’t—like today, with the laundry. The deal with my parents was that she wouldn’t have to move to Sunny Days if I took care of things like that, but she’s . . . defiant, to say the least.
I was caught off guard when Brandon lifted my chin. His voice was softer than velvet. “I know you love what you do, baby, but rest is important. You can’t do it all, nor should you have to.”
When we heard the bathroom door open, I jumped.
Unphased, Brandon continued to try and persuade me to come and work for him so I can “catch a break,” but I shushed him violently. Grandma might be old, but she has the ears of a bat. He chuckled at that, swiping my hair off the back of my neck. That simple, tender gesture soothed all my aching muscles far better than an entire week’s worth of rest might have. Then he tried to sweeten the deal by insisting that we’d get to see each other every day if I worked for him.
I turned him down in the end—mostly because he’s interested in me. He has to be. I can feel it in the way he looks at me, the way he flirts, the intimate way he touches and speaks to me. He wants me.
And I want him.
So, working together? No, thanks. Grandma was right; I don’t like being micromanaged, and Brandon sounds like a taskmaster.
Besides, I’ve got other plans for us.
Chapter 11
Evie
Ihavedonealotof thinking in the past week. It turns out there’s not much else to do when you’re bedbound. So, in addition to binge watching Gilmore Girls and eating every ounce of junk food that Grandma bought me, I thought about my most recent interaction with Brandon for an unhealthy amount of the time.
I eventually concluded that threatening to tattle on him was wrong of me. I knew that, of course, but the guilt became almost unbearable while I festered in bed. At the end of the day, it takes two to tango. Ichoseto have sex with him, despite knowing he has a long—and I meanlong—history of womanizing. Sure, Brandon should have put a stop to it, seeing as he was the quote-unquote adultier adult in the situation. But still—the decision was mine and mine alone.
