Page 53 of Lying to the Boss

“With what?” I say, getting a little flustered. None of this makes sense to me. He wants to come over, but he won’t come over because he’s worried he… what? Won’t ever leave?

Would that be so bad?

“Getting too comfortable,” he admits. And I realize I wasn’t too far off base. He shifts in the seat. “Look, I need you to not only respect this but help me with it. Please. I… I want to do this with you. I enjoy being with you. I just don’t want to rush into things. I have a lot of personal stuff going on, things I need to work on, alone, and I can’t do that if I’m with you 24/7.”

“Why not? I can help.”

“Exactly.” He nods. “That’s exactly the problem. I need to do this myself.”

“Why?”

“Because I just do,” he huffs. “Please, just listen to what I’m saying.”

“I’m listening. Fully listening. I just don’t understand it.”

“Well, you don’t have to. You only have to respect it.”

I can sense he’s getting frustrated, so I drop it. It’s not worth arguing over, and I can see there is no budging on this. He’s made up his mind. And he’s right—I need to respect it. That was never a question. I’m just trying to understand, but it seems that maybe he doesn’t understand it either. At least, not yet.

“What’s the limit then?” I ask.

“On?”

“When I get to see you outside of work.”

“We don’t need a schedule.”

“I disagree. It seems, according to you, we do. You know, so we don’t go over the imaginary number of nights spent together that are too much that you’ve made up in your head.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“I’m just saying what you said.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and gets to his feet. “I have work to do.”

I watch him go, and don’t say a word. He closes my door, and I’m left to work.

The moment I hear a second, unrecognizable voice outside my office door, I can’t tear the smile from my face. I eagerly wait until the second voice leaves. A second later, my door opens.

“Seriously?” he groans.

“I’m sorry?” I look up, pretending I don’t know what’s going on.

“Was this necessary?” He holds up the bouquet of a dozen roses.

“Oh, do you have an admirer?” I say sweetly.

He frowns, but I’m holding back my smile. It’s not easy. What is easy is poking the bear.

Tage being the bear.

“I know you sent these,” he says.

“There’s nothing on the card.” I feign innocence, as if I didn’t get on my computer the moment he walked out my door this morning and order them.

“Lane—”

“Yes, Tage?”