Feeling a little bad, I say, “Do you want to come to brunch? I know you haven’t really eaten anything, and you must be hungry.”
He shakes his head.
“Is that a no to not eating or a no to the party?
He shakes his head again, his head buried in his phone.
“What on earth is so important that—?” I lean over and take a look at his phone. Plain as day, I can see that he’s reading the historical I gave him on his Kindle app. “Oh my God, Rath, you’re reading again.”
He closes his phone and stuffs it in his pocket. “Are you going to sit here all day and chastise me or are you going to go to your grandma’s brunch?”
“I was asking you a question but you were too rude to even acknowledge me. What were you reading, a sex scene?”
“No.” He looks out the window and I can’t help it, I glance at his crotch trying to detect if there are any boners. “What are you doing?” he asks, snapping my head up. Was I really just leaning close to his lap?
“Heh, fell asleep for a second.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, do you want to—”
The door whips open and the car fills with my grandma’s cheering.
“Chuckie, you made it. I’ve been worried you were going to miss the virgin mimosas.”
“Wouldn’t that just be orange juice then, Grandma?”
“Of course, but it’s fancier to think you’re sucking a mimosa from a virgin.” She leans her small and wrinkly body over mine and winks at Rath. “Am I right?”
“Uh . . .” he says, not quite sure how to respond.
“My oh my, is this your new boyfriend?” Grandma asks, giving Rath a once-over. “He is a looker. Those eyes, you’ve always been a sucker for blue eyes.”
Rath lifts a brow in my direction as my face heats from embarrassment.
“Grandma, this is—”
“Oh, and look at the way he so crisply rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. It’s like he used a ruler. So precise. And look at that, no chest hair, at least from what I can see. I don’t have my glasses on.” She horrifyingly pats Rath’s leg and asks, “Got any chest hair, son?”
“It’s trimmed,” he answers, his voice sounding incredibly deep.
For some reason, his answer sends a wave of heat through my body, causing a crash of sweat to hit my upper lip and forehead. Rath trims his chest hair; that’s information I didn’t want to know, because now I’ll picture it whenever his shirt buttons puff open, the short little strands barely dancing over his thick chest.
Yes, thick chest. I’m a woman, I’ve noticed. He has pecs, the kind of pecs that are noticeably defined in a button-up shirt when he takes his suit jacket off. The kind of pecs that pull and tug on his shirt fabric. The kind women beg to drag their nails over just like my grandma is doing right now.
Wait . . . what?
“Grandma, stop that.” I smack her hand away. “This is my boss, Mr. Westin.”
“Oh, that would explain why you’re sitting so far apart.” She speaks to Rath and doesn’t bother to apologize when she says, “Trust me when I say you are Charlee’s type to a T, so imagine my shock that she’s not hanging all over you. I get it, you’re the boss.”
Well, I’ll be turning in my resignation on Monday or dying from mortification.
Smiling like the cat who caught the canary, he holds his hand out to my grandma and says, “Happy birthday.”
“What a gentleman.” She tugs on his hand, pulling him so Rath’s chest is to my back now. Oh God, what is happening? “Come on, you’re coming with me.” She pulls on him some more until we’re both out of the car and I’m brushed to the side.
“Grandma, Mr. Westin has a lot of things to do. He can’t . . .” My voice trails off as they happily go hand in hand into the community center. “Well, isn’t that just rich,” I mutter, tossing my purse over my shoulder and stomping into the center closely behind them.
“You are positively a gas.” My grandma laughs while placing her hand on Rath’s knee.
He’s surrounded by the senior center women while the men are off watching some old TV rerun. Food has been eaten, virgin drinks have been served, and I’ve become the designated clean-up girl, with the soul responsibility to make sure no dentures are thrown out with plates. It’s common knowledge in these parts that the residents would rather walk around toothless than have to wear a super bond denture cream. So, when they eat, they take them out. Some are forgetful and neglect to put them back in their containers.
While I’m over here, looking out for dentures, Rath is having one hell of a time, chatting up everybody.
Glad he’s having fun.
Glad they get to see him smiling, chuckling here and there. Something I’m never privileged to witness.
I consider shouting to all of them with a megaphone that he likes to read smutty books but think better of it. I’m salty, but I don’t want to be fired.
Ha, not like he would fire me.
I’m too good to fire.
I’m too valuable.
I’m the teat that feeds him the nectar he needs.
“Need some help?” he asks, coming up next to me.
Irritated, I spin around and poke him in the chest—his trimmed chest. “I am your teat. You better not forget that.”
Caught off guard, he blinks a few times. “Am I missing something?”
“It’s been a week, but you’re already suckling, admit it. I’m your teat.”
He pulls on the back of his neck and looks at the ladies who seem to be whispering and staring at both of us. “Charlee, what the fuck are you talking about?”
Growing more irritated, I say, “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” I turn back around and finish cleaning up before taking off toward the serenity garden.
Taking calming breaths, I try to get my head on straight. Why am I so upset right now?
Maybe because I was looking forward to spending some time with my grandma, and she’s been fawning over Rath the entire time.
Well, that’s not true, not the entire time. I did get some good conversation in when we were sharing a cinnamon bun, but still, it seems like she likes Rath more than me.
That’s a stupid thought. Of course she doesn’t. He’s just new and shiny and she likes new and shiny things.
“You okay?” Rath’s voice asks from behind me.
I turn around to see him walking toward me, and my grandma’s words hit me hard as he makes his way across the pea gravel.
My type to a T.
She could not be more right about that. But I’ve made a valiant effort of not acknowledging his devastatingly mesmerizing blue eyes that catch the light in just the right way to remind me of the Caribbean Sea, or that his face is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in real life, overwhelmingly handsome with an edge of mystery that has me questioning what he could possibly be hiding. Then there’s his body, his tapered waist, his pecs—already mentioned those—his biceps and forearms. He’s all strength in a jacket and trousers, putting a new meaning to the term power suit.
But I’ve been able to ignore all of that until now, until my grandma ripped the veil right off my eyes and forced me to look at him in a different way. And maybe that’s the real reason I’m mad, because I shouldn’t be looking at my boss like this. I shouldn’t be having these butterfly-like feelings in my stomach as his eyes connect with mine, and I certainly shouldn’t be having a shortness of breath when he asks me if I’m okay.