Please know, I’m not proud of this, but I’ve embarrassed myself enough in front of this woman; whatever awaits in that room needs to go untouched.
Gripping onto the hallway wall, I clang my foot against the baseboard—loudly—and say, “Oh shit, my toe.” She turns around just in time to see me fold like an accordion down to the floor.
“What on earth?” She steps away from my door and kneels down on the floor next to me. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Was I going for less embarrassing? Because as I pretend to grip my toe in pain and she hovers next to me, I’m quickly realizing that this was not a great choice to uphold my dignity.
“Uh . . . I, uh . . . I ran into the wall.”
Yup, didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of her anymore: doing that perfectly while curling up into a ball out of reaction to a “stubbed toe.” Real smooth, Ford.
“You ran into the wall?” she asks, a smile on her lips. “You realize they’re solid, right? If you want to get to the other room, you have to open a door.”
“Yeah, thought I would try something different.”
“Well, I see that’s going well for you.” She pats me on the shoulders, stands, and then walks toward my door again before I can make something else up, like a groin tear—because that’s the only thing my mind can come up with. She opens the door and then sighs in contentment. “Found your room.”
I hop up to my feet and say, “How do you know it’s mine?”
“Easy.” She glances down at my foot, and I pretend to limp. “Incredibly tidy, neat, and not a thing out of place. Forest-green walls, so you—one of your favorite colors. Navy-blue comforter with matching navy-blue sheets, just screams Ford Chance. This room looks like it was plucked from the army barracks. It’s obvious.”
She’s right. Not a poster on the walls.
Not a knickknack or trophy on display.
Not a thing out of place.
It’s just . . . boring.
Another wave of embarrassment hits me hard. What does she actually think of seeing such a lack of personalization from me? And why do I have this overwhelming need to earn her approval? It’s like . . . I want her to like me. Not as a boss, but as a person, and the more I dive deep into the man outside the suit, I realize I’m less and less charming when removed further and further from the office. If I don’t even really like myself, how could someone so positive, so . . . hell, so beautiful like Larkin find me likable?
As she walks deeper into the room, her eyes travel around and she asks, “If I open your dresser, is everything going to be organized in bins?”
“If you open the dresser drawer, you’re going to find nothing, but I know the closet is organized.” Shit, why did I just say that? “On second thought, I really think my mom is calling you . . .”
On a snort, she walks toward the closet, and panic swallows me whole. I can’t remember what the hell is organized in there, nor can I recall any of these green boxes. I swear if Mom just said that to freak me out, I’m going to . . . hell, do nothing. But I need to save face, so I rush in front of her and stop her from opening it. “I can handle the closet. You know, I really think my mom needs help with the scones. Or you can search under the bed.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “And I would do what? Take a magnifying glass to the floor, looking for a speck of dust that might bring back memories? Not sure if you’ve noticed, but there’s nothing in this room.”
I can’t help chuckling. “You know, you’ve become awfully lippy in the last couple of days.”
She smiles up at me. “Deal with it.” Then she moves past me, her shoulder brushing mine, and goes to the closet. She flings the door open, revealing stacked box after stacked box, everything labeled, everything neatly placed. Oh okay . . . yeah, not so bad after all. I take in the labels—astronomy, writing, awards—nothing damning. “Ugh, this is infuriating.”
“Why?” I ask with relief.
“Because I was kind of hoping for this to be a Monica Geller–type situation, where everything is clean besides this one closet and it’s her dirty little secret.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
And just as the tension in my shoulders leaves, Larkin scans up toward the top of the closet. “Aha, the good stuff. The green boxes.” Shit, really? She reaches up on her tiptoes for them but barely makes it up to the top shelf. “Damn.” She turns to me. “I’m going to need a boost so I can get these.”
“And you think you’re going to get that boost from me?”
“Uh, yeah. Be a good boss and lift me up.”
“You’ve lost your mind.” Knowing Larkin, she will find a way to reach these boxes with or without me, so I might as well be the one who touches them first so I can filter out anything she doesn’t need to see. I move her to the side and easily reach up to grab one of the boxes. Larkin claps her hands enthusiastically and reaches for it, but I block her instead, allowing myself a peek inside.
“Hey, I need to know the contents of that box.” She jumps behind me, attempting to look over my shoulder.
Ignoring her, I let my eyes adjust to what’s inside, and that’s when I spot a black spiral-bound notebook. That’s it, just one notebook. Nothing else. That’s odd. Why would I . . . ohhhhh shit.
And then it hits me like a freight train.
Oh hell no.
Nope.
No way is she going to see this.
I snap the box shut. “Nothing in here. Let’s, uh . . . let’s try another box.”
Larkin’s face lights up—she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Oh, there’s something good in there, isn’t there. I can tell from the blush on your cheeks. Let me see.” She reaches for the box, but I keep it out of reach. “Ford, stop, I want to see.”
“This is none of your concern.”
“With the way your upper lip is starting to perspire, this is most definitely my concern.”
“No, I really think we’re good leaving this one alone.”
She lunges for the box, but I hold it above my head where she can’t reach it.
She jumps.
She swats.
She even attempts to tickle me, but I hold strong.
“Give me that box!” Her voice is strained as she keeps jumping at my arm.
“Never.”
“Give . . . it . . . here.”
“Stop that.” I push her little jumping body away. “This is none of your concern.”
“Give it.”
“No.”
“Ford, hand it over, right this instant.”
“It’s cute that you think your barely authoritative voice is going to make me change my mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to discuss something with my mom.” Because why the hell would she keep something like this?
No one in their right mind should ever see this. Ever.
Especially Larkin.
Humiliation is already creeping up the back of my neck . . .
I take a step toward the door, but Larkin stands up on my bed and jumps midair onto my back, knocking me off balance. We both slam into the wall and slide down to the floor, the box flying out of my hands.
“What the actual hell,” I say as she scrambles off my back and across the floor to the green box.