Page 8 of Rent a Mob Boss

And then he sees me.

On all fours on the bed. Wearing nothing but a bra and panties. With no blanket, because his daughter is currently on the other side of the room using it as a cape.

I grab the nearest pillow and clutch it in front of me so fast I’m pretty sure I pull a muscle. Is my entire body flushing? It feels that way. “Hi. Good morning. Hello.”

“Quinn.” It sounds like he’s choking. He’s very carefully looking at my face, only my face, in the way a person looks only at your face when they are determined not to look at anything else. “I’m sorry. She got past Ms. Beaumont.”

“It’s fine!” Do I sound crazy? It feels like I sound crazy. “It’s totally—I mean, she’s excited. There’s a pony. It’s a whole… it’s fine.”

“Lillie.” He doesn’t raise his voice. I’ve never heard him raise his voice at her, or, in fact, at anyone. “Give Quinn her blanket back and wait for us downstairs.”

“But—”

“Now, please.”

Lillie huffs the huff of the deeply wronged, drops the blanket in a heap two feet short of the bed, and stomps out. For a second, it’s just me and him and the ridiculous pillow I’m holding in front of me like a lifeline.

For one second, maybe less, I would swear something crosses his face that is not embarrassment and is not apology. His jaw does this weird tightening thing. His eyes drop just barely, just once, and come back up.

My stomach flips, but then I catch myself. This is exactly the problem with crushing on someone. You start seeing things. You build a whole cathedral out of a single flick of a man’s eyes, when the truth is he’s a grown adult who walked in on his kid’s nanny and is understandably trying to get out of the room. That’s not interest. That’s basic human mortification.

He probably wants to disappear into the floor as much as I do, though I can’t really see how that’s possible, because I would love to dissolve into nothing here and now.

He clears his throat and looks down at the floor. “I’ll wait downstairs.” He finally pulls the door shut, and I flop backward onto the bed with its ironed sheets, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding since roughly the second he showed up.

“Cool,” I tell the ceiling before squeezing my eyes shut and wishing I could turn the clock back a minute or two. “Cool, totally cool, everything’s fine.”

I have no choice but to get dressed in yesterday’s clothes and practically dump my whole purse out on the guest bathroom vanity to find the lip balm inside. It’s a shame I don’t carry makeup around with me—not that I usually wear much of it. I could use a little something for the bags under my eyes. Calling them bags is generous. They’re more like enormous suitcases.

Everything is so nice! Even the mouthwash is some fancy brand I’ve never heard of, because of course it is. I almost feel like I should apologize to the room for even being in it. Once I’m something reasonably close to presentable, I force myself to go downstairs. The plan is: go home, feed my sad toaster, and spend my one day off not thinking about my boss’s eyes, and the way they very pointedly avoided looking at the pillow I was holding in front of myself.

Then I walk into the kitchen, and Lillie is vibrating. She’s kneeling on a stool at the island, elbows on the counter, and the second she sees me she gasps like I’m the last piece of a puzzle she’s been struggling with all morning. “Quinn’s coming to get the pony!” she chirps before clapping her hands. The kid literally claps her hands.

Meanwhile, here I stand, mouth hanging open, feeling like I just walked in on a conversation I was no part of. Wait, what am I saying? That’s exactly what just happened.

I look at Dorian, who’s standing by the coffee machine. “I don’t think…” I start, feeling a little reluctant.

“It’s Saturday,” Dorian points out.

“Right.”

“It’s your day off.” He says it to Lillie more than he does to me, gentle but firm. “Quinn works very hard all week. Saturdays are hers. We talked about this.”

I watch it happen in real time. The excitement drains out of her entire body. She’s not even bouncing anymore. She doesn’t cry, because she’s not a crier. She just goes quiet, which is so much worse. She looks down at her hands and says, in the smallest voice I’ve ever heard from her or any other living person, “Oh. Okay. That’s fine.”

I have an idea. Why not take one of those knives out of the block on the counter and slide it straight into my chest?

There are very few things in this world with the power to stop me dead in my tracks. Quiet, defeated, disappointed Lillie is right there at the top of the list. It would be easier if she threw a tantrum and thrashed around and begged. That’s the kind of behavior you can’t reinforce by giving in and giving the kid what they want.

But I genuinely believe she’s deeply disappointed and willing to accept Dorian’s decision, even if it breaks her heart.

Which is why I break, like the weak, spineless person I am. “You know what,” I say, “I actually don’t have anything going on today.”

Lillie’s head pops up.

“I mean, my big plan was to take a nap and probably burn a bagel. I would much rather go meet a pony.” I look at Dorian. “If that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude on the family⁠—”

“It’s not intruding.” He says it faster than I expected. Then, more level, “You’re welcome to come. But it’s your day off, Quinn. I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”