“That’s fine, then just have a conversation here where I can hear it.”
Rolling her eyes, Charlee stomps toward me, grabs me by the arm, takes me to her room and quickly shuts the door.
At least I thought it was her bedroom until I get a good look at it. Boxes upon boxes are stacked on top of each other and in the far corner is a sad, half-inflated air mattress that seems to be only a few inches off the ground. Next to it is a side lamp, a charger, and . . . her Kindle.
I spin around to her. “Is this where you’ve been sleeping?”
She tightens her grip on her blanket and says, “That’s neither here nor there. Why are you here, Rath? Do you make house calls to all your employees?”
Ignoring her, I go to the air mattress and poke it. “Why is this deflated?”
“I’m having a hard time inflating it. The machine thing doesn’t work well and it’s too loud. I don’t want my grandma knowing I’m sleeping on an air mattress.”
“And why are you sleeping on an air mattress and for how long?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She sticks her chin in the air. “Why are you here?” She takes me in and her facial features soften. “You’re wearing green.”
I look at my shirt and then at her. “It’s Thursday,” I say with a shrug, and that right there is the icebreaker, or at least I thought it was an icebreaker until Charlee sinks to the floor and starts crying into her blanket.
What the hell is going on?
I instantly squat in front of her and tilt her chin up. Tears cascade down her face and into the threads of her blanket.
“Charlee, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Does it look like”—she hiccups—“like I’m okay?” She reaches for the tissues but misses them so I quickly snag one and hand it to her.
“What’s happening? Does this have to do with Saturday? Because if it does, I’m really fucking sorry, Charlee. I never should have said anything. I know I was a dick, and I don’t ever want to be a dick to you, ever. You’ve done nothing wrong. This is all on me.” The apology spirals out of me in one quick unload, and I’m not even sure it makes sense.
She looks up, her eyes bloodshot. “You’re just going to apologize like that? Not put up a fight about who’s right and who’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “No. You did nothing wrong but be yourself. I was the one who was an asshole and I’m sorry. Please don’t be upset—”
She shakes her head and a new wave of tears start to fall. “It’s not about Saturday . . . but thank you for apologizing and for . . . and for”—she sobs—“finding me attractive. But this is . . . so much bigger than that.” And before I can stop her, she launches into my arms and tips me back on the floor until I’m on my back and she’s holding on to me tightly.
Her chest presses against mine and through the thin fabric of our shirts, I can feel her pebbled nipples against my skin, making me extremely aware that she’s lying on top of me, while I’m in my business attire, a stark contradiction to her nighttime wear.
This was a good idea. This was a good idea.
With hard nipples pressing against me, my dick is thinking it’s a good idea.
Stiff as a board, I lie here as she cries into my shirt, full-on wracking sobs. Unsure what to do, I awkwardly and robotically tap her shoulder as if to tell her “there, there.”
But she doesn’t move—imagine that, my pat was so comforting—and instead she buries her head into my shoulder and grips my shirt. She wiggles around, and the more she shifts over my crotch, the more excited I get.
Fucking teenage boy shit. Shut it down, Westin.
Gripping her sides, I still her so there’s no more friction and on a steady breath, I say, “Charlee, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I’m”—hiccup—“sorry.” She lifts and stares at me. Her eyes are puffy, snot glistens below her nose, and her cheeks are stained with tears. From the sight of her, my heart weakens, and I feel myself wanting to fix whatever problem she’s having, taking it on as my own and making sure it never comes back to hurt her again. “It’s been”—hiccup—“a hard week.”
We both sit up and she scoots off my lap but stays close enough that our shoulders are touching.
She’s curled up and resembles nothing of the spontaneous, outgoing girl I know. She’s reserved, sad, and is lacking the usual spark in her eyes that lights me up inside. Reaching out, I tip her chin up and softly say, “Well, tell me what’s going on, and maybe I can help.”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing you can help with. But I do appreciate your concern.”
Her dismissal is surprising since she’s been an open book ever since I met her. Getting to the bottom of this is going to be harder than I thought. I glance around the room and ask, “Does it have to do with you sleeping on this pathetic air mattress and your grandma being here?”
She nods. Okay, there’s something.
“Did your grandma get kicked out of her senior center?”
She shakes her head. “I wish.”
“Okay . . . uh, is your grandma staying here with you?”
She nods and then bites her lip, looking me dead in the eyes. “Rath, she’s sick.”
And just like that, my heart slams against my ribcage and seizes, my breath stilling in my lungs, catching in my throat, as a wave of worry drapes over me. Holy shit, she’s sick? No wonder Charlee isn’t herself right now.
She’s sick and Charlee is hurting, and all I can think about is comforting her, making it better, wiping her tears away, and erasing all the hurt from her eyes. I hate seeing her like this. I hate knowing she’s stricken with grief and hurting. It’s overwhelming—this consuming need to protect her—so before I can stop myself, I do the last thing I expected to do today . . . or ever for that matter. I reach out and pull her onto my lap. She doesn’t balk, or try to get off, so I take it one step further and wrap my arms around her body, tightly, and I let her cry on my shoulder.
I’m not sure how long we sit there, wrapped up in each other, but all I know is what I’m doing is so incredibly wrong and crosses every boundary I’ve ever set as a boss. And even though it’s so wrong, it feels so incredibly right, like this is where Charlee was meant to be her entire life, in the protection of my arms. Deep down I know we both need this. She needs the comfort and ability to let it all out, while I need to feel useful to her, like she’s been to me, protective, and someone she can rely on.
Finally, Charlee lifts up from my shoulder and wipes at her eyes but she doesn’t get off my lap. Thank God, because I want her to stay. I want more time like this, where we’ve forgotten our roles and are just living in the moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was going on and made you worry about what happened on Saturday. As you can see, I’ve been a wreck.”
I push stray hairs behind her ear, the silky strand floating over my fingertip, tempting me to find another strand so I can recreate that feeling all over again.
The touch is way too intimate for a boss/assistant relationship, I know this, but with her sitting on my lap, her eyes searching mine, looking for comfort, there’s no way I can stop myself from touching her. I can’t hold back, not after all this pent-up energy I’ve had when it comes to Charlee Cox.