Boss Man Bridegroom

by Quinn, Meghan

  “What?” I ask, growing concerned.

  She levels with me, her eyes intent on mine. “How you were left at the altar.” I wasn’t expecting that. I’m pretty sure I might need more than tea in this cup. “It just breaks my heart knowing how wrong you were treated. I was waiting to see you walk down the aisle, but instead I watched you cry in my wedding dress. No grandmother ever wants to see that, Charlee. None.”

  “Grandma.” I choke down a sob. “It’s not something anyone could have controlled. Chris had his own agenda, something we never saw coming.”

  “I know.” She wipes away one single tear. “But still, that was my only shot.”

  “You’re only shot at what?”

  She looks up at me, her blue eyes, the same blue I share with her, full of tears. “My only shot at being at your wedding.”

  “Wh-what are you saying?” I ask, my hands starting to shake, my heart in my throat.

  “Just that . . . the future is so uncertain and my dream of watching you wear my wedding dress, marrying the man of your dreams, it’s . . . it won’t happen. Instead, I’ll have the image of you sobbing in my wedding dress, your heart cracked and broken rather than full of love.”

  “Grandma . . .” My lip quivers, my eyes fill with tears, and before I can stop myself, I fall into my grandma’s arms and sob some more. Because, yes, it hurt me. I thought I’d found the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with. And that vanished with his phone call telling me he’d never truly loved me.

  However, I know that’s not what’s breaking my heart at this moment. I survived that day because of the woman beside me. I survived and got back up on my feet because of the strength of her arms. I moved forward because of her belief in me, that I could and would do anything I wanted in life. But without her . . . without her, I’m not sure of anything. And so I sob.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RATH

  It’s fucking Thursday.

  THURSDAY.

  I’m wearing green, I’m ready to make the money, as Charlee likes to say and once again, she’s not here.

  Another personal day is all the text said.

  Actually, if you really want to know, this is what it said:

  Charlee: Personal say.

  She couldn’t even spell day. It was personal say.

  To say I’m irritated is an understatement. To say I’m worried, is far more accurate.

  Why am I worried? Well, because the last time I spoke to her, we didn’t acknowledge my attraction toward her, as in, it was implied, never denied, and therefore it’s out there.

  To sum it up, I made her uncomfortable, and now she’s trying to figure out how to work with me. Apparently nothing has come to mind, because for the last four days, I’ve walked into a terribly quiet office with no bright welcome or quick-witted sass. I’ve had to remember to water and whistle to the plants. And I know they’re aware that my efforts have been lackluster at best.

  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 pa
rt 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.

  “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 hurtin
g. 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.

  “Don’t apologize.” The hard exterior I usually wear around her has collapsed and I can feel myself soften, weaken to make sure she knows I’m here for her. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through. Do you know what’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head. “That’s the worst part, she won’t tell anyone. All she asked was if she could stay here so she was closer to her doctor. I said yes without even thinking about it, but now that I truly give it some thought, I guess I should have asked you first.”