and it has nothing to do with the way his broad chest looks in his button-down shirt now that he’s removed his jacket.
When did he take off his jacket? And why can’t I breathe?
“What would you like to discuss?” I sound professional. Good for me. Can’t let my ridiculous thoughts hang out like an untucked shirt.
But my mind has already raced away, wondering if I overstepped in the meeting with Roxana. Was I too harsh? Or did he notice how I silently judged her overt flirtations? Did he think I was jealous? Oh, please don’t tell me that he thinks I’m jealous.
What if he knows about my feelings? What if I only think I hide them well and he really knows everything?
Stay down, I demand of the flush I can feel starting in my chest and rising up my neck. Don’t you dare—!
Of course, my body doesn’t listen, and blood rushes to my face. I’m sure I look like a doll now, with two perfect circles of red on my cheeks. Zane always used to make fun of me for it, like I can help how my body chooses to display my embarrassment.
“Is your five-year plan still the same?”
Gavin’s serious look dissolves into a grin that’s just a little lopsided. Almost boyish. I smile right back, despite telling myself to play it cool. My body seems intent on mutiny.
The question brings to mind the day Gavin started working here.
My work history is something like a Cinderella story. Juliet, who didn’t care for me that much, left without telling the temp agency that I wasn’t needed anymore. She probably forgot I worked here. Desperate, I kept showing up, hoping no one would notice there was a temporary personal assistant to a woman who no longer worked in the office.
And then Gavin was striding through the door, looking like some kind of Hollywood actor. Harrison Ford in his prime. When he introduced Nancy as his personal assistant, I literally started packing my things, planning to make a quiet exit and head back to the temp agency to try for another job in marketing.
And then a shadow fell over my desk. I looked up to see the man who is far more handsome up close. “What’s your five-year plan?” he asked.
The next thing I knew, the most attractive and intimidating man I’d ever seen had created a new position just for me.
To thank him, I bought him a succulent for his office. I found it in the trash a month later, shriveled and brown, and tried not to take it personally. But it only gave me more resolve to work hard and be totally professional. I thought my crush would dry up and die like that poor plant. Apparently, my feelings can exist on less than a little water once a week.
It takes constant reminders to convince myself that Gavin is out of my league. He is out of my age bracket. And he is my boss.
Until you hand him your resignation. Now is a good time. Or now. Any second, really. Just reach into your bag, slide it out, and put it in his hand.
His big, handsome, perfect hand.
“Zoey?”
I take a sip of water. “My five-year plan? Yes. I want to be a marketing director.”
That plan used to be specific. I wanted to be the youngest director ever at Morgan-Beckwith, but I don’t say that part. I learned at an early age that, as sexist as it is, downplaying my ambition is a smart move. Strong women, driven women—we get labeled with words that would never be used to describe a man doing or wanting the same things. I work hard, but the full extent of my drive is kept close to my heart, guarded like a tiny photo tucked inside a locket.
Gavin smiles, and I wonder briefly if he would be an exception. Maybe he would appreciate my ambition rather than be threatened by it. But I’m not going to test that theory today. I still want to work my way up in marketing, but not here.
“You were pretty brilliant in there with Roxana.”
I resist the urge to preen under his praise. But I tuck away the compliment so I can pull it out later and examine it from all angles.
Brilliant. Gavin thinks I’m brilliant.
“Thank you,” I say in a clipped tone. Because if I don’t swing myself hard in the opposite direction of my feelings, I’ll be a giggling puddle on the floor. Decidedly not brilliant.