is that I’m walking as swiftly as I can around the peeling plaster animals to the parking lot, doing the best I can to keep myself upright. Should I drive a car? Probably not. But do I pretty much peel out of the lot anyway? Yes. Yes, I do.
Chapter Eight
Zoey
I watch Gavin practically stumble away from what was categorically the most disappointing date I’ve ever been on. Not the worst, because he didn’t call me babe and lick the side of my face. Yes. That actually happened on a date.
But I wanted a real date. Maybe one that ended with a kiss. Instead, I got a double date with the jerkiest brother ever born and had to watch the man I’ve liked for two solid years sprint away from me like I’m a prairie dog carrying the bubonic plague.
Abby is already yelling at Zane, but that doesn’t stop me from marching over and smacking him on the back of his head. Abby gives me an approving nod. This is an Agent Gibbs’s move from NCIS, one of her favorite shows. And it’s well-deserved.
“What were you thinking?”
Zane backs up a bit, eyeing us both warily. Yeah, he’s right to be scared.
“What were you thinking? Just about his six-pack? Because the guy is Dad’s age.”
“Eight-pack,” Abby mutters, shrugging when Zane glares. “I wasn’t trying to look. It was all right out there. For the record, I prefer your abs.”
“No, not his abs. Which I’d never seen before tonight, thank you very much.” And probably never will see again. Taps, one of Dad’s favorite melancholy military songs, plays in my head. “Plus, Dad is forty-nine.”
Zane looks smug. “That makes them six years apart. Not almost twenty years apart.”
My stomach feels like it’s being shredded into ribbons. The thing is, Zane isn’t wrong. Not with his math. Not with his concerns. I have the same ones. And more. Zane hasn’t even brought up the whole boss thing.
Why can’t I find a guy my age? Someone with the qualities I admire about Gavin, but not almost twenty years older. Not my boss.
Guys my age, and even a lot of guys I’ve met who are a little older, don’t have the steadiness I admire so much in Gavin. He’s like a firm boulder. Unmoving. Faithful and secure. He knows himself. He knows life. There aren’t any games to play.
And yet, with Gavin, I still feel like an equal. Even though I’m younger and his executive assistant. He has never treated me like an underling. I admire him. I look up to him. But he doesn’t make me feel like some kid right out of college. The fact that he asked for my opinion on one of the marketing directors’ proposals tells me that he respects me too. Maybe it should feel weird, but it doesn’t. Not until I do the math.
But my mind goes back to the reality of it. When I was getting my first kiss at sixteen, Gavin was in his thirties. It still would have been a felony for him to kiss me. According to most state laws anyway.
That’s not now, part of me argues. He didn’t try picking up teenage girls then. I think he was married then, based on what I know of his history.
He was married.
Ugh. My stomach is in tatters, and I press a hand to it, like I can hold back the ache. That’s when I realize I’m holding the twenty-dollar bill Gavin shoved at me while fleeing the scene of what would have been a crime less than ten years ago. That makes me feel worse.
Zane tosses his hands in the air. “He’s a totally different generation. It was weird having him here.”
Gavin was being weird. I chalked it up to nerves and the fact that dating at all is forbidden, with him being my boss and all. But I’ve never seen him so unhinged. He was like a different person. At times, in control and serious, like when he was lining up his shots. The flirting was new, but still felt like him. It was the sweating and the panic and the inability to add numbers on a scorecard that weren’t Gavin.
“Maybe he’s not feeling well. His assistant is sick and he visited her. Because he’s a nice guy.” I want to cling to this hope. I want to knock aside all the doubts, to crush them under the bottom of my flip-flop. But they’re never ending, popping up like a game of whack-a-mole in my