Pinching them between two fingers, I swung around, hunting for a hamper or a basket or anywhere to put them. But before I could find a place to deposit the underwear, something else on the dresser caught my eye—a wallet. An open wallet lying face up, with the driver’s license exposed.
Now, yes, at any point since I found out the author I was about to start working for was named M.C. Bradford, I could’ve searched for a picture of him. But I didn’t, because it never occurred to me. As my daughter liked to say, I was the most low-tech person she knew. Googling wasn’t a natural response for me. My seventy-something father texted with more proficiency than I did. I still read books in paper form. Ten years ago, my high school best friend sent me a message to join Facebook. I got scared that somehow her request meant Facebook already knew who I was, so I ditched that email address and never looked back.
But taking a little peek at a driver’s license? That I could do.
I picked up the wallet and held it at arm’s length, since I’d left my reading glasses down in the kitchen with my purse. I blinked twice and focused on the face. The familiar face.
Matt.
And there it was in black and white on his Indiana driver’s license—Matthew Christopher Bradford.
I let out an inadvertent squeal as I walked right into the bed and banged my big toe—hard—on the bed post. “Yeeowww!” I hopped on one foot, biting my lip, trying to wait out the pain. Shit. Shit shit shit.
A few seconds later, I sensed someone at the door, and I turned and found myself face-to-face with Matt. His eyes went to his boxers, still dangling from my hand. Somehow I’d managed to hang on to those despite the commotion.
Oh my god. I was standing in his bedroom, holding his underwear. “I wasn’t going to try them on,” I blurted.
He rushed over, grabbed his dirty laundry, crumpled it into a ball, opened the closet door, and tossed the underwear inside. He shut the door and leaned against it, as if locking his dirty underpants inside. He glared at me. “What the hell is going on?”
“What’s going on? You tell me what’s going on.” I reached down, picked up his wallet, and handed it to him. “You’re M.C. Bradford.”
He snatched the wallet from my grip and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Yeah. And how long have you known that?”
“For about a minute,” I said. “I found out when I saw your driver’s license on the dresser.”
“How am I supposed to believe that?” His eyes flashed with anger. “How am I supposed to trust that you didn’t take this job just to get to me?”
“For what? Why would I do that?” I had to prove to him that I wasn’t like the last person he’d hired. I was here to do my job, full stop. I pulled my ancient iPhone with the cracked screen out of my pocket. “Here.” I frantically sent a text and then handed him the phone.
He read it. “Who’s Kelsie?”
“My daughter.”
He glanced down at the phone again. “You asked her, ‘How big an M.C. Bradford fan was I before I took this job?’” He glanced up. “How’s that supposed to prove anything. You two could’ve planned this whole—” He paused. “She wrote back. It’s a crying laughing emoji, and then she added a gif of Mariah Carey saying, ‘I don’t know her.’”
“I don’t know what any of that means,” I said. “I mean, I know who Mariah Carey is, but the rest of it…?”
Matt handed me my phone back. “I’m not sure what it means, either. Is she crying laughing because of course you’d never heard of me or because you’re my biggest fan?”
“The former,” I said. “I promise. I swear. I had no idea who you were—I still have no idea, honestly. I only took the job because it seemed like a good opportunity, and I really, really needed the money. I need the money.”
He stayed at the closet door, one hand on the doorknob, like a tether. “And last night?” He pressed his lips together.
“Last night,” I said, “I thought you were some random cute guy named Matt. If I’d known you were my boss, I never would’ve…” I shook my head, my skin burning from embarrassment; saying the words out loud would’ve been too mortifying.
He stayed at the door.
“Please don’t fire me,” I said quietly.
“I’m not going to fire you.”
“Thank you.”
Sighing, he ran a hand through his not-at-all thinning sandy brown hair streaked with gray. “You’re an amazing cook,” he said. “It’d be ludicrous of me to let you go.”
A blush crept up my neck.
“That oatmeal you made this morning. And those cookies last night.” He rubbed his tummy.
“Wait until you try the bibimbap I’m making for lunch,” I said with a small smile.
“Can’t wait.” He finally let go of the doorknob and stepped toward me. My mind flashed back to last night, how I’d breached the chasm of space between us and launched myself into his arms. We stood close like that now, but the circumstances had changed, even if the energy between us hadn’t. We were boss and employee now, not two random adults out for a late stroll. And I knew deep down he still wasn’t sure he could trust me.
“How about if I vow to put all my dirty clothes in the hamper right away,” he said, “so you don’t have to worry about picking them up off my floor?”
I shook my head. “It’s fine. It’s my job.” Not sure how to end this conversation, I got back to work, fluffing the pillows on his bed.
“Hey, Dani.”
I spun around and found him standing in the doorway, looking serious. His brows formed a vee on his forehead. “That kiss last night?” he said, like it pained him. “It was really fucking good.”
My face couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “It really was,” I choked out.
He retreated to the quiet of his office, and I kept making the bed, our first and final kiss playing over and over in my mind.
…
Matt
December 8th, twelve days before deadline
Someone knocked on my office door.
I shoved my Kindle, upon which I’d been playing SimCity for the past twenty-five minutes, into the bottom drawer of my desk. I opened up the manuscript on my laptop and folded my hands in front of me, like a first grader trying desperately to prove he was well-behaved.
The knock sounded again.
“Come in.”
The door opened slowly, and for a second, my heart sped up, hoping it might be Dani coming to tell me forget it all, forget work, forget my trust issues, let’s make out again.