And I don’t want her back because she feeds me and completes my check-off list, like no other EA. I want her back because she brings energy to my day. She brightens the office with her smile. She eases the tension I feel daily, trying to make sure I take care of the hundreds of employees that work below me. She makes my job easier by listening, teasing me, and reminding me to breathe.
I toss my green pen on my desk and stare at my computer screen. Unanswered emails have piled up, emails I have no desire to even look at. Instead, I pick up my phone and text Roark.
Rath: She’s not here . . . again.
Thankfully he texts back immediately.
Roark: Uh oh, trouble in paradise.
Rath: That’s not helpful. Not even a little.
Roark: Well, maybe if you actually defined what you did on the balcony instead of let me wonder, I would be of more assistance.
Rath: You know what happened.
Roark: I really don’t. You just alluded to something. Are you thinking her absence has to do with the balcony incident?
Rath: Isn’t it obvious? The girl loves work, is here every morning before me with a smile on her face, and then one night she learns I pee in hampers and I’m attracted to her and she bolts.
Roark: *scratches chin* yeah, I would bolt too if I knew my boss pees in hampers.
Rath: Why do I even bother?
Roark: What did you expect from me? Thoughtful insight? You get that mental stimulation from Bram, not me.
Rath: You know we’re not speaking at the moment.
Roark: Which is annoying to me because that means I have to deal with your stupid drama.
Rath: This isn’t stupid.
Roark: Sure as shit is.
Rath: I recall you sending “stupid drama” texts to me when you were trying to figure out what to do about Sutton and your feelings for her.
Roark: This is different.
Rath: How is this different?
Roark: You’re the one with the issues, not me.
Rath: Why are we friends?
Roark: A mystery I’ve been trying to solve for years. But if you’re going to make me say something full of wisdom, I don’t have much for you other than the fact that you should call her out.
Rath: That’s terrible advice.
Roark: Not like, call her out, call her out, but more in a subtle way. Go to her apartment. You know where she lives. Act like you’re checking up on her to make sure she’s okay and when she answers the door all normal and shit, that’s when you tell her to stop being weird and come back to work.
Rath: That’s aggressive.
Roark: Good thing you’re a take-no-prisoners businessman then. Don’t disappoint me, Rath.
Rath: Heaven forbid.
Sighing, I set my phone down and consider his idea. I don’t make house calls, ever. But then again, I normally don’t tell assistants I think they’re attractive, so maybe I can bend the rules this time.
Or . . . I can stop acting like a hung-up moron and get some actual work done.
The latter feels more like me, but then again, ever since Charlee stumbled into my life and ignored my dismissal, I haven’t felt the same, more like this new version of me that has no idea what’s going to happen on a daily basis.
If I decide to go see Charlee, it’s not like I wouldn’t be acting like myself. It would be me trying to connect with my new self, which is way more—
Jesus Christ.
I drag my hand over my face. Am I really trying to justify this?
Fed up with my inner dialogue and wishy-washy self, I stand from my chair, leave the suit jacket, pocket my phone and wallet, and head toward the elevator.
Whether she likes it or not . . . whether I like it or not, I’m going to see Charlee and get to the bottom of this.
This was a good idea.
This was a good idea.
I repeat the words over and over in my head as I stand at her apartment door, hands stuffed into my pants pockets, rocking back and forth on my feet like a nervous asshole.
There’s nothing wrong with a boss making a house call. Just trying to make sure my employee is okay. I would do this for anyone who took four personal days off in a row.
And if we’re getting technical about this, really needing a reason for me to be here, then technically, I am the landlord to this apartment and I’m allowed to make random house calls to ensure there’s no drug use going on.
Not that I would ever think Charlee would do drugs. The only thing this girl gets high on is life.
And if I’m going to be completely frank, 100 percent honesty . . . I’m fucking terrified I scared off the best EA I’ve ever had by telling her I find her attractive. I’m terrified she’s not going to come back to work. I’m terrified I won’t see her face again, or see her dancing joyfully on Fridays, or never click pens together right before a meeting. I’m terrified this beautiful, spunky girl I’ve started to have feelings for is going to exit my life before I even got a good feel for her.
The worst part about all of this is I’m fucked either way. I’m fucked if she stays. I’m fucked if she goes.
On a resigned sigh, I lift my hand to knock when the door unlocks and opens, revealing Charlee’s grandma.
What’s she doing here? Oh shit, is something wrong with Charlee? There has to be something wrong if she’s here, right? My stomach twists into knots as I try to keep my pulse even.
“Rath.” She smiles, her cheeriness doing nothing to ease the ache beating through me. “It’s so lovely to see you. How are you?”
“Good.” I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Is Charlee here?”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Come in. She just went to get some more tissues from the other room.”
I step in and quickly do a scan of the apartment, searching for any kind of clue that will help me prepare for whatever reason Charlee’s grandma is here and why. But the apartment is spotless besides a few dishes by the sink . . . and why did Charlee need more tissues?
“Would you like anything to drink?” she asks, walking to the kitchen.
“I’m good. I’m just here—”
“Was that the pad thai?” Charlee’s voice sounds off as she steps into the living room. I turn to find her in a pair of short boxer shorts and a tank top with a box of tissues in one hand and a tissue in the other. Her eyes are puffy as if she’s been crying for hours, her nose is red and chapped, and her hair is a tied-up mess on the top of her head and yet, she’s beautiful.
“No, it was your boss,” her grandma says just as Charlee makes eye contact with me.
She stops and her eyes widen as she covers up her braless chest. “Jesus, Grandma, a warning.” She spins around, takes a throw off the back of the couch, and drapes it over her back and covers her chest . . . and hard nipples.
This was a good idea. This was a good idea.
She wipes at her eyes and then stiffens her shoulders. “Mr. Westin, what can I do for you?”
Jesus . . . fuck. Back to Mr. Westin.
“Charlee, can I talk to you please?” I peer at her grandma and add, “Alone.”
“Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just going to do these dishes. You two can talk in Charlee’s room.” She winks and turns on the faucet.
Great. What the fuck did Charlee tell her?
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Charlee says.