Business Gavin is back, and I wish that I didn’t like both versions of him so much.
“Nancy, hold my calls for the next twenty minutes or so. And, at the risk of being rude, are you feeling okay? You look flushed.”
“I am feeling a little hot,” she says, fanning herself with a magazine from her desk drawer.
“Why don’t you head home for the day? Put a call in to your doctor. I’ll stop by to check on you later.”
The tenderness in his voice only makes the flame of my crush burn brighter. Because who can resist a man who cares that much for his personal assistant? He treats her more like family than an employee, and it’s heart-squeezingly sweet.
“You don’t need to do that,” she says, smiling weakly.
“I know,” he says. “But I will. Zoey? Follow me.”
“I hope you feel better!” I tell Nancy.
And then, it’s time. No more stalling. No more putting this off. My letter of resignation is in my bag, and I’ve practiced the speech while looking in the mirror at home. I’ve already had a few interviews, with a follow-up next week at a company that seems perfect. It’s time.
But first, I need to survive being alone in a room with Gavin, pretending like his presence doesn’t make me want to spontaneously combust.
Chapter Two
Zoey
What is it about seeing a powerful man in his office that makes me all hot under my blouse? Not that I’ve ever felt this way about any other man in any other office. Just Gavin. I’d probably feel the same way if he was ringing up my frozen yogurt or bagging my groceries.
Gavin’s office overlooks South Austin. It’s gorgeous and very Spartan. Gone are the many potted plants Juliet kept and her framed Georgia O'Keeffe prints. Gavin’s furniture is all clean lines and a harsh modern aesthetic, as though a portal opened to some European furniture store and vomited up a high-end office set.
The walls are gray, and the paintings are those modern kind with just a few broad strokes of color. I always feel like this kind of art is a cosmic joke. There’s a preschooler in some basement with a paintbrush, while his parents laugh all the way to the bank.
The room screams money and power, but for reasons I can’t quite explain, it seems incongruous with Gavin.
Maybe he does have a flaw after all. His taste in decor. It still does nothing to dull my attraction. I am like a giant heart-eye emoji, hidden under a completely composed professional woman.
A woman who will not walk out of this office without quitting. Tomorrow is my birthday, and this is an early present to myself.
“Take a seat,” Gavin says, gesturing to the sleek gray sofa.
It’s as hard as a rock. Enough that I almost grimace when I sink down on it, expecting something that’s, oh—I don’t know. Soft like a couch is supposed to be.
I perch on the edge, smoothing a hand over my hair before I catch myself. Abby recently told me that it’s my tell, how she always knows when I’m stressed. Crossing my legs, I clasp my hands over my knees.
Gavin sets a water bottle on the glass table in front of me, unscrewing the cap first. I stare down at it, unsure whether the gesture is sweet, or if he thinks I’m like a toddler who can’t open her own bottle of water. Hopefully, the former.
Then again, Gavin is forty-three. I read that in one of the many articles about him I saved in a folder labeled Water Bills. I’m turning twenty-four tomorrow. Gavin could have been my babysitter. Or camp counselor. Or teacher.
He also could be my dad.
Ew.
Ick. Ick. Ick.
And yet, putting our age gap into perspective does nothing to lessen the draw to his chocolate eyes, his sharp jaw, and those broad shoulders. I know on paper he’s too old for me. But in actuality, in this room, it doesn’t seem that way. I don’t feel too young for him.
I’m sure he doesn’t see me the same way.
Gavin sits in the black leather chair across from me that looks only slightly less uncomfortable than the couch. I swear he winces as he scoots back.
Is he into punishing himself? Is that why he has such horribly torturous furniture?
“I wanted to speak to you about your position here,” Gavin says.