Breaking up with My Boss: An Enemies to Lovers, Office Romance (Love You Forever Book 4)

by Alexis Winter

  She makes it home at 3 p.m. on the dot and goes straight to her room to pack her bags with her new wardrobe. A little while later, she steps out and sets her bag on the floor in the living room. “I’m all packed up,” she says with a small smile, handing over my credit card.

  I walk over to her, placing my hands on her elbows. “How was tea?”

  She shrugs. “It was fine. Weird.”

  “What was weird about it?”

  “Your grandmother really likes me. She just kept thanking me for turning you into the man you are, who’s nothing like your father, by the way.” She sits on the couch and I move to sit beside her.

  I let out a nervous chuckle.

  “It was all good though. She seems to have high hopes for us, so this little act we’re putting on must be pretty convincing.”

  What she says washes over me like a bucket of ice-cold water. This little act we’re putting on? It hasn’t been an act for me for a long time. Every day, I find myself falling more and more in love with her. I no longer want her as my fake fiancée. Now, I want her to be my wife—to share my home, my life. But I don’t want to speak about it yet, so I ignore it altogether by looking at my watch. “We’d better get moving.”

  The two of us stand and I take our bags, leading the way to the door.

  “Brazil? We’re in Brazil?” she asks, eyes wide as she looks all around us as we’re loading up in a cab.

  “We are, but we’re not staying in the big city. Just passing through,” I tell her, taking her hand in mine.

  If this were just an act, you’d think she’d pull away, given that no one we know is watching, but she doesn’t. Her fingers wrap around mine as she continues to take in the sights.

  We eventually make it to the boat, and I load up our bags before holding out my hand to help her down. She steps into the boat and takes her seat. I climb behind the wheel and start the engine. She looks beautiful in the early morning light. The sun is just starting to peek up over the horizon, but the stars are still lingering in the sky, holding on to every minute they have left. I get how they feel. I feel quite similar with Poppy. I’m the stars clinging to the sky as the sun threatens to push me away.

  The air around us is warm and thick with moisture as we speed across the water in the direction of the island. By the time we reach it, the sun is fully out and the stars are completely gone. I shut off the boat and climb out to tie it to the dock. Then I grab our bags and her hand, pulling her up to the wooden platform.

  “This is where we’re staying?” she asks, looking up at the house.

  “This is it. What do you think?” I ask, looking between her excited expression and the one-story house. Even though the place is old—my grandfather built it long ago—it gets minor and major renovations every year due to weather and storms that pass through.

  “This is amazing. Did you rent this?”

  “It belongs to my grandmother,” I reply, stepping up to her side and taking her hand in mine. “My grandfather built it many, many years ago. They would come here for a month once a year. Usually the month of their anniversary. He was a real romantic—I have no idea who my father inherited his attitude from,” I joke, leading her toward the house.

  She stops at the end of the dock and removes her shoes, walking barefoot across the soft, pale sand. I lead her up the two steps of the porch, then we open the double glass doors.

  She steps into the entryway and spins in a circle, taking it all in.

  “The kitchen is to the right, obviously,” I say, pointing. “This is the living room.” It’s big and open—nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows that show the ocean to the side of us and the green forest behind. “The bedroom and bathroom are through there,” I say, pointing toward the two doors on the other side of the living room wall.

  She smiles and heads for the bedroom. I follow her in, setting down our bags.

  “This is amazing,” she says, throwing herself back on the king-size bed.

  “I’m glad you like it,” I say, moving toward the bed.

  I crawl up and lie by her side. She curls into me, placing one hand on my chest while her thigh rests over my hips.

  “Let’s just take a little nap, then we can explore,” she says in a soft whisper.

  I can’t help but turn my head and watch as sleep takes her away. It’s been a long night (and day) of traveling and it was impossible to sleep on the flight. Even though I feel tired and weak from no sleep and constant travel, I don’t want to miss a minute of this. Watching her sleep in my arms feels better than heaven. It reminds me that my time with her could be limited. She could tell me “no” at the end of the week, and if she does that, I’m sure this arrangement will be over. I mean, who would want to stay with a guy who loves you when you can’t stand him?

  But right now, we’re lost to the rest of the world and it’s easy to pretend our engagement is real—that I’ll get to spend the rest of my life holding her in my arms like this. I prefer the dream to real life right now. Her breathing is deep and blowing across my face. Her lips are pooched into a pout with her long lashes fanning out across the tops of her cheeks. She’s beautiful and breathtaking. I only pray this isn’t the end.

  I feel her stir in my arms as I wake later in the day than I thought I would. I open my eyes after a couple more minutes and find her sitting on the edge of the bed. She stretches and stands up, walking to the bathroom. I lie in bed, waiting for her to return, but then I hear the sound of the shower kicking on and I get up to join her. The shower glass is already steamed up, but I can see her faint outline as she dips her head back and lets the water rush over it.

  I quickly undress and step inside. Her eyes open and land on me. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she says, running her fingers through her long, wet hair.

  “It’s okay. I don’t want to miss a minute of our time here together,” I reply, reaching for her. I pull her to my chest and cup her cheek. Staring into her dark eyes, I lean in and kiss her gently, softly. She kisses me back and pulls away with a smile.

  “What’s the plan for the day? Is there anything specific you want to do?”

  I shrug. “We can do whatever you want. We could go back to the mainland and see the sights. We could spend the day on the beach—listening to music and drinking. We could just take it easy today, have dinner, and get a good night’s sleep to prepare for tomorrow. It’s up to you. There’s no agenda on this trip.”

  She begins washing off. “I think a beach day sounds good. Do we have the stuff to make those cute frozen drinks?”

  “I’m sure we have some tequila and mix. A margarita beach day it is.”

  “Don’t make them too strong though. You know how well I hold my liquor.”

  I laugh. “Virgin margaritas for you then.”

  “No, I would like to just chill and relax, so a little tequila.”

  I nod in agreement. “Okay. I’ll go make a pitcher. You get that bikini on.”

  I step out of the shower without washing off, because if we’re going to spend the day all sweaty and lying in the sun, then what’s the point in showering? I wrap my towel around my waist and go to the bedroom to pull on some swim shorts. I head into the kitchen, make our margaritas, then look through the fully stocked fridge to assemble a snack tray.

  I hear the back door open, and when I carry everything out, she’s already outside, setting up the lounge chairs. My eyes find her bikini body and I nearly trip over my own two feet.

  She looks up at me and laughs. “Been walking long?”

  “I suddenly forget how to do a lot of things when I see this much of your skin,” I reply, setting everything down on the table between us.

  We each take our seats and I hand her a frozen margarita. I watch as she takes a sip. She seems pleasantly surprised and takes another.

  “This is good. I can’t even taste the alcohol. Dangerous.” She winks.

  “I’m glad you like it,” I say, sitting back in my seat. I pull out my phone and get some
music playing, but turn it down so it’s more background noise than anything else. I turn my head to see her place her drink on the table. Then she scoots down in her lounge chair until she’s lying back, relaxed. Her eyes close as she absorbs the sun. I can’t stop myself from taking her in—from her white painted toes to her long legs to her flat stomach and full, perky tits. I’ve already memorized the curve of her hips, the dip in her spine, and the swell of her breasts. I know her body better than I know my own, and that gives me a little bit of solace when I consider how this could all end up.

  The two of us sunbathe for an hour while we listen to music and have our drinks. With the sun still so high in the sky, my body is hot and sweaty. “Want to take a swim?” I ask.

  Her smile lights up her face. “Yes, I’m burning up.” She stands and sways on her feet, but I quickly reach out and steady her.

  I laugh. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to stand after drinking and sitting down for so long?”

  “I wasn’t sitting down; I was lying down. I’m fine.” She pushes my hands away and rushes toward the water. She runs until it’s deep enough, then she sails through the air and dives in deeper. I wade in, watching her swim underwater until she pops up.

  “This is perfect. It’s almost like bathwater.” She pushes her wet hair away from her face.

  “It does feel pretty good,” I agree, swimming over to her and pulling her against my chest. She wraps her arms and legs around me.

  “It’s beautiful here. Thank you for bringing me. I never could’ve imagined a place like this. This is my first time leaving the country. Glad I finally got to use my passport!”

  “You deserve it,” I say, leaning in and kissing her jaw.

  “I wish I could stay here forever.”

  I laugh. “What would you do?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, if real life weren’t a thing and I didn’t have to work and pay bills and all that, I’d just read, learn piano, swim, and maybe take up painting or something. Just enjoy life instead of always worrying how I’ll be able to pay for this or manage that, you know?”

  “Wouldn’t you miss real life though? I mean, wouldn’t you eventually want to get married, have children?”

  “I can do that here. Raise children on the island. I could homeschool them and keep them shielded from the real world,” she says around a laugh.

  “If you never leave the island, then how are you going to find someone to have those kids with?”

  “Oh. Good point.” Her eyes move up as she thinks it over. “Would you mind donating some sperm?” She laughs.

  “You want my children?” I ask as a flash flood of emotion fills my body.

  “Are we having the ‘future kids’ talk?” she asks, drawing her brows together.

  I shrug. “I guess we are. You know, hypothetically.”

  She nods. “Well then, yes. I would love to have your children one day.”

  “How many?”

  “In an ideal world, two. A boy and a girl. Who needs more than one of each?”

  I laugh. “I like the sound of that,” I agree, moving back in to press my lips to hers.

  Twenty-Three

  Poppy

  This place is magical and amazing. Even though I know I shouldn’t allow myself to think this way, I can’t help but pretend that Matthew and I are actually an engaged-to-be-married couple. I like to think about how our lives could play out . . . getting married, having children, growing old together, and coming here every year for some time away sounds perfect and romantic. Being here alone with him makes those dreams feel as if they’re almost possible. There’s no one to put on a show for in Brazil, but there’s no reason to pump the brakes either—not when he’s pulling me against him, kissing me, touching me, loving me—even if it isn’t real love.

  We spend our first day lounging on the beach, drinking margaritas, and eating exotic local fruits and vegetables I’ve never even heard of. The sun is high and warm, the sky a cloudless blue. The smooth, calm water shimmers and dances like millions of tiny crystals. The sand is white and feels like baby powder beneath my feet, like I’m walking on a cloud in heaven. This place is that perfect. It could be heaven.

  When the sun starts to descend in the sky, we make our way inside to prepare dinner. The two of us seem to be perfectly in sync here. When he moves, I move, and when I reach, he walks into my arms without me having to say a word. It almost feels like this was meant to be—like this game we started was perfectly planned out. But who in the world could’ve seen this coming? I never thought I’d be so desperately in love with anyone—let alone him. It almost hurts to breathe, knowing that each breath with him is limited. I’m hyperaware of each heartbeat, knowing that with each one, that’s only another second of time with him I’ll never get back.

  I know I shouldn’t think this way, but I can’t help but feel like this is our last week together—that this is my big send-off. He’s giving me one final, perfect week with him. Next week, everything goes back to normal—like a dream fading away with the early morning light. I know it’s not fair to feel sad, because I’ve gotten more from him than I ever thought I would, but I want more. So much more.

  The two of us have dinner and I push my sadness away. I wish this were real, and I try to make myself believe it is, even if only to keep the sadness at bay until it’s time for it to be felt. We laugh and talk over dinner and it seems like he finds any excuse to touch me. That confuses me, because I don’t know if he’s trying to get in as many touches as he can before we end, or if it’s because he really is that drawn to me. It’s easier for me to believe that this is it—that he’s tired of our game but wants it to end nicely. Maybe he doesn’t think I could love him. Perhaps he feels I’m the one playing nice just to avoid a felony and possible jail time.

  After cleaning up following dinner, we shower together—again—and he’s always touching me. Then we fall into bed, completely wrapped up in each other, only to sleep and start another new day. I count the minutes we have left and pray for more.

  The week passes by quickly—too quickly. We’ve spent every second of our time together touring the mainland, hiking the rainforest behind the house, swimming in the ocean, and lounging on the beach. At night, we come together in the way we do best. But today is our last day here. Tomorrow we leave bright and early to make our 10 a.m. flight home, back to normal life.

  I haven’t brought up anything I found out at high tea, not waiting to ruin our time here. But all the questions are on the tip of my tongue and they’re burning to be released. Still, I refuse to go there until it’s time.

  We prepare dinner together. I pour us each a glass of wine and we take everything out to the patio table. The sound of the waves crashing is like music at this point—perfect and speaking a language few know and can understand. But I understand. It’s like all the secrets and questions inside of me: loud, unstoppable, dying to be heard.

  He sits across from me at the table with a candle burning between us. He cuts into his chicken and takes a bite while I have a sip of wine.

  “Have you enjoyed yourself?” he asks.

  “I’m kind of sad to leave, to be honest. I love this place.” I look around at all the beauty this little island has to offer and wish I could stay here forever.

  He chuckles. “I’ll have to bring you back sometime.”

  It’s easy to read into that statement. I wish it meant we’d spend our lives together and come back here every year like his grandparents did, but I’m sure it’s more of a polite statement than anything else.

  “I’d love that,” I reply, feeling my heart crack.

  “When we get back home, your piano lessons will start.”

  “When we get back home?” I ask, feeling my brow furrow.

  He looks up, confused. “You’re not really planning on staying on the island, are you?” he asks with an amused expression.

  I laugh. “No, but . . .” I let my words fall away. To me, they may as well have fal
len into the sand for the ocean to carry them away.

  “What is it?” he asks, taking my hand and looking at me with those dark brown eyes.

  I wet my lips, unsure if I should say anything. I don’t want to ruin our time here. “It’s just that I was thinking this was it.”

  “What’s it?” he asks, still not catching on.

  “I talked with your grandmother . . . I know she’s fine, Matthew. She’s not dying.” I didn’t want to spill everything like this, but now I feel like he’s just torturing me—dragging things out and giving me false hope. “I don’t know if you made all that up or if they’ve magically found a way to cure whatever illness she had, but there’s no point to the game anymore. If I’m being honest, I’ve just been going along with it because I’ve been enjoying it so much.”

  His face goes slack, understanding. “You talked to my grandmother?”

  I nod. “At tea. I know you said not to bring up her health, but she brought it up. And she made it seem like she plans on being here for a really long time—talking about helping with our wedding plans and watching our children grow up. Then I asked if she really thought all that was possible and she looked confused. She made it very clear that she’s as healthy as a horse.”

  He lets out a deep chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” I wait, but he continues to laugh. “This isn’t funny! My feelings, emotions, and wasted time aren’t funny! We either have to break up or really get married, Matthew. Your grandmother is fine.”

  “I know she’s fine,” he laughs out.

  I freeze. “What do you mean? Did she call you? When did you plan on telling me?”

  “Don’t be mad,” he says, holding up his hand as he gets control over his laughing.

  I sit, waiting patiently for his explanation.

  “I lied about my grandmother. She isn’t dying. I made it up. It was the only thing I could think of to get you to agree to our arrangement,” he confesses.