Beautiful Boss (Beautiful #9) - Christina Lauren Page 0,28

Because Hanna was self-possessed in so many ways, it was easy for me to forget that she was only twenty-five and on the cusp of choosing which prestigious university to join, in a faculty role. Talking to Jensen today helped remind me that Hanna had blown through college in three years, graduate school in another three, and then had a post-doctoral fellowship that was only a year—she was still learning how to manage career choices that many of us didn’t have to worry about until much later.

“So how was the rest of your day?” I asked my wife.

I settled back into bed as she took a deep breath and launched into a detailed description of her interview: what she was asked during her job talk, the meetings with other faculty members afterward, and, later, dinner with the chair of the department at a small but apparently amazing sushi restaurant in San Francisco.

She talked about what they ate, the mild gossip they shared, and the strange small-world coincidences sprinkled throughout the day, which, frankly, were prevalent in research circles.

The entire time she gushed about it, I listened, trying to imagine us there.

I tried to imagine living there.

Having grown up in the Pacific Northwest, I could see a transition to the Bay Area. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to move to California. I liked our seasons. I liked our urban cluster. I didn’t want to have to drive everywhere.

I didn’t really want to leave the East Coast, and it wasn’t until this moment that I knew I felt strongly.

Fuck.

“But, I don’t know,” she said, rousing me from my thoughts. “I can’t imagine us here.” She paused and I briefly wondered if I’d accidentally said any of that out loud. “I can’t imagine you here,” she added.

I swallowed, trying to put the right string of words together—one where I wouldn’t agree too immediately, wouldn’t make her feel she couldn’t choose a school in California. I’d meant what I said—I would follow her anywhere—but there was no denying that a big part of me was suddenly hoping I wouldn’t have to follow her there.

“You can’t?” I asked, hedging.

“No,” she said, and it sounded like she rolled over. “You need to be in a big city. Bigger than Berkeley.”

“You still have a lot of choices in cities,” I reminded her.

“I do.”

“So, Berkeley is out?” I asked carefully.

She breathed in, finally whispering, “Yeah. I think so. I liked it, but not enough.”

We fell silent, and I grew immediately sleepy with the sound of her quiet breaths in my ear. It rocked me from time to time to realize how easily I’d grown dependent on the sounds of her falling asleep next to me.

“I love you so much,” she mumbled.

“I love you, too,” I told her. “Come home to me.”

We fell asleep, neither of us bothering to hang up.

I surreptitiously canceled the car Hanna had scheduled to meet her at the airport and went there myself, on a wild tear deciding to drive the old Subaru from Manhattan to JFK.

The reality of this terrible fucking idea—the traffic, the sheer logistics of parking at the airport—reaffirmed my desire to not have to drive every day.

But when she came down the escalators looking exhausted and sweetly rumpled—fuck it, I would have navigated any cluster of cars to get to her. Surprised, she ran straight into my arms, smelling all warm and sweet and fuckable.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice muffled by my jacket.

“I’m stealing you away.”

“To home?” she said.

I shook my head. “We’re headed upstate for the weekend.”

Jerking back to look at me, she asked, “Why?”

Grabbing her bag, I led her outside. “When we got off the phone—this morning,” I added, laughing, “I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted you home so we could talk and relax and get back to baseline. It was this weird antsy thing, and I realized . . . our life is going to change. And I need to know that we can talk about all of this somewhere other than the only place we’ve lived together. I need to know we can be us no matter where we are.”

She turned, stretching to kiss me beside the car, and I struggled against the temptation to open the backseat and fuck her in the sketchy parking garage.

The drive upstate was torture, with her hand working my jeans open, playing at jerking me off—but never actually getting down to it. Instead I got teasing fingers, her mouth on my neck, and