Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance

by Wylder, Penny

  A familiar figure is striding toward the building just as I’m exiting. My stomach clenches, any sense of relaxation or unburdening I felt inside the therapist’s office flying out the window.

  “Cassidy!” Sheryl’s eyes light up the moment she spots me, and she changes direction to hurry toward me.

  That only makes my guilt churn worse in my gut. “Hey, Sheryl,” I reply, and hope she doesn’t notice the tightness in my voice.

  “Long time, no see. I’ve been meaning to call to tell you, you did a great job on that TV interview last week.” She grins, bright and open and apparently oblivious to the fact that immediately after that interview, I did exactly what I promised myself—and what I promised her—I wouldn’t do. I hooked up with her ex-husband.

  Or current husband?

  I don’t even know, and that only makes it worse. I grimace. “Um, yeah. Thanks.”

  “I didn’t realize you go here too.” Sheryl jerks a thumb toward the building, and my whole face turns bright red. That, at least, she notices. She waves a hand. “Oh, I didn’t mean…” She steps closer and glances around the parking lot. “You know there’s nothing to be ashamed of, Cassidy. Going to therapy is great, a really important step. Everyone should have a therapist, honestly. It just helps to have someone to unload on about it all, you know?” She smiles again, and I can’t help but smile back, despite my riot of nerves.

  “It is really helpful, yeah,” I agree.

  “I know, it’s done wonders for me and Lark,” she says, and there goes the feeling of guilt again, worse than ever. “I swear, I don’t even know where I’d be without my counselor to talk to.”

  Her counselor? Or theirs? I can’t exactly ask for clarification right now, so I just keep smiling like an idiot.

  “Anyway.” Sheryl reaches out to catch my shoulder and gives it a tight squeeze. The whole time, her smile remains friendly, almost maternal. “Like I said, you did a fantastic job in that interview. I’ve been talking to Lark about how we should get you on more shows like that. The numbers really jumped sky-high afterward, you know. We had so many people searching for the brand, and so many orders pouring in too.”

  I know. I’ve kept close track of the numbers myself. It’s been the only thing distracting me from the mess I’ve turned my romantic life into. At least I still have work to fall back on, and work that’s blooming like it never has before. “I’d love that,” I tell her, meaning it, and her smile widens even more.

  “Great.” She glances past me at the building, and surreptitiously checks her watch—a watch encrusted with diamonds, that looked like silver to me at first, but which I now guess must be platinum. “I’ve got to run right now, but I’ll have Lark get in touch with you about what media outlets you think would be ideal to have our publicist pitch you to, all right?”

  “Oh, I—” I start to say that I’d rather talk to her about it than Lark, but she cuts me off.

  “Perfect!” Then, before I can stop her, she grabs my shoulder once more and squeezes tightly, before she breezes past me toward the building. “Have a great one, Cass,” she calls over her shoulder.

  Long after the door swing shut behind her, swallowing her up, I continue to stand there frozen in the middle of the parking lot, unable to quell the guilt surging in my gut, trickling through my body like slow poison. Lark told you they’re over, I remind myself. But it doesn’t help.

  After everything I’ve been doing to work on my own past here at therapy, I can’t help but relate to the situation Sheryl must be in. She is clearly struggling to improve herself too, despite an ex who she hasn’t gotten over yet. An ex who refuses to even talk about what they went through.

  It’s a little too familiar for comfort.

  16

  Cassidy

  The next few days are a blur of work. I get to bury myself in my favorite activity—experimenting in the studio on new color palettes, new formulas to use to add to the growing line of beauty supplies we’ve already launched. Thanks to all the orders and income flooding in, we have more than enough capital to start to reinvest in more products and additional spinoffs of our first line.

  Whenever I talk to Becky, she’s quick to warn me about expanding too soon, stretching myself too thin, trying to accomplish everything at once. She’s also constantly trying to convince me to come out with her again, go for another club night. “How will you get over this guy until you get under the next?” is her usual motto.

  While I see her point, I just can’t bring myself to do it. Any time I think about it, something always stops me. I tell myself it’s just work.

  But really, it’s memories of his hands tracing the lines of my curves, his lips on mine, the white hot look in his eyes whenever he drinks me in, like I’m the only one for him.

  So the whole clubbing to get over him thing is out. Which leaves working as the only thing that keeps my mind off of Lark. I throw myself into it with abandon, all too happy to be able to force him to the back of my mind, if only for a little while in the heat of the workday, while I’m buried in projects.

  After work, I have to contend with a deluge of messages from him, because Sheryl, true to her word, assigned Lark the job of narrowing down which of the many media outlets we’d like to pitch ourselves to next, where another appearance from me to talk about our makeup would have the biggest impact on sales and word-of-mouth outreach.

  I really think you’d do an amazing job presenting on this show, he’ll text, and I’ll ignore his message an hour before I reply with something curt like If you think so. I’m not unprofessional enough to ignore him completely, but I don’t want him reading anything more than a professional business interaction into my replies.

  I don’t want him to know how much I’m still thinking about him. Dreaming about him, every night, my traitorous body working up images of him wrapping those thick, strong arms around me. Holding me close.

  It doesn’t miss my attention, either, how hard he’s working for my career, in spite of the fact that I’ve basically told him to screw off as many ways as I can count. I have to admit, as much as I believe he’s a bad idea for me personally, he’s there for me when it comes to work.

  I can’t count the number of sellers who have popped up with bulk orders, mentioning that Lark hand-sold the products to them in passing. Or the number of requests I’ve gotten for smaller, blog-style interviews or features with Insta influencers, all because Lark took the time to write them personal messages, gushing about how hard I work, how much I believe in my products, and how long I’ve dreamt of getting these out into the world.

  Every time one of those Insta influencers forwards a screenshot of Lark’s message to me, or says they’ve got to get their hands on the product “if it’s anywhere near as good as Lark claims,” my heartbeat picks up a little, and the nauseous tension that’s been in my stomach all week eases just a bit.

  He’s the perfect business partner, I’ll grant him that.

  Then I remind myself that that’s probably what Sheryl thought, too, when they first decided to start their investment company together, and I kick myself mentally for even going there.

  But my anxious thought spiral gets harder than ever to avoid one night when I’m doing some much-needed cleaning up around my apartment. After all the work and the hecticness of the past month, things have gotten a bit out of control on the home front.

  I decide to take a whole Saturday off and dedicate it solely to tidying up, getting my home back into working order. I’m digging around under my bed, fishing out tossed-aside pieces of clothing that I didn’t even realize got kicked under there, when my fingers graze against an unfamiliar piece of fabric.

  I draw it out from beneath the bed, and my breath hitches. It’s a silk tie, expensive-looking, a little wrinkled from lying under my bed all this time. But I recognize it instantly.

  It’s the one Lark was wearing, the second time we hooked up. Holding it in my hands brings the memories flooding back. The way we’d sat side
by side on my old, ratty couch, so careful not to touch. Me, because I was afraid he’d set me on fire. Him, because he was clearly trying to respect my boundaries, despite the flirty smile he wore whenever he caught me stealing glances at him.

  I recall the slow slide, as my stupid ancient couch cushions gave way, like the universe trying to force us toward one another. I remember my thigh brushing his, then my leg, from knee all the way to hip. I remember how I tried to ignore the heat burning through me from the inside out.

  How I reached for the makeup palette he was holding, only to fumble it, have it spill next to us on the sofa as he drew me into his lap, his hands warm and strong around my waist, and already familiar, even though it was only the second time we’d ever let ourselves touch.

  The way his lips tasted that day, his scent enveloping me…

  And the way I felt the next day when the replacement sofa arrived. My stomach both sinking and sailing at once, because no guy had ever done something like that for me. He took care of me, even before he knew me at all. Even before he knew how hard I’d push him away.

  Without realizing it, I tighten my grip on the tie, savoring the smooth silken feeling between my fingers, tears stinging at the backs of my eyes.

  Then I remember something from therapy. In our last session, we talked about how things ended with Norman. I didn’t break up with him, something I’ll forever be embarrassed by. I just wasn’t strong enough. Even though I wanted to, anytime I tried, he’d lure me back in with promises that he’d change, he’d be better this time.

  That, or he’d flat out stop me from leaving by barring the door, trapping me in with him.

  But one day, he told me he’d met someone else. She was younger than me, prettier. I didn’t care. I was so relieved. Now, I regret not warning her. Or at the very least, being the one to walk out the door on my own two feet.

  My therapist tells me it’s not my fault. That this is a normal reaction to what I went through.

  But afterward, I hoarded pieces of my relationship with him. It was like, even though I knew things had been terrible with Norman, I wasn’t ready to let go, because letting go meant I was alone again. And that terrified me.

  She told me it was important to stop clinging to the past. To learn how to move on and let go—of people, of possessions, of memories… And of objects, too.

  I look down at the tie clenched in my fist.

  She’s right. I need to work on letting go. On being able to release things that aren’t serving me anymore.

  Like this tie. Like the man who wore it.

  I look for my phone, buried under a pile of cleaning material, since I’m still only halfway through the apartment. As I should have expected, there’s a new unread message from Lark already waiting. Photoshoot tomorrow, he says, with your favorite photographer, so I know you’ll enjoy it. Say you’ll come?

  I stare at the message, a knot of confusion in my stomach. Actually, I type out, looking from my phone to the tie and back again. Are you free tonight? I was hoping to talk.

  Of course. I’m just at mine, working on some proposals. Come by anytime.

  The speed with which he replies, and the eagerness in his answer, sends off guilty alarm bells throughout me. He might think this means I’m having second thoughts about what I told him last time.

  But I need to do this. I need to let go in order to move on. So I tell him I’ll be over in an hour, purposefully not even giving myself enough time to do my makeup properly or go all out. I just throw on a cute top (I’m not a saint), dust on some mascara and go.

  Lark’s building looks as shiny and new as ever when I park outside. I climb the steps up to the glass front door with my heart in my throat. Tucked safely inside my purse is the tie that I ironed and rolled up in a neat little ball to return. My plan is to say my piece, hand it over, and head home hopefully feeling lighter and more ready to let go and move forward with my life.

  It’s what my therapist would want me to do. Or so I tell myself, anyway.

  The doorman at the desk lets me in with a smile and a nod, and pushes the button on the elevator to let me up to Lark’s floor. I try to smile back at him, and spend the whole elevator ride checking in the mirrors against the back wall to make sure that my hair isn’t a complete disaster. My smile looks wooden, tense.

  Probably because I feel like a ball of nervous energy.

  But when I step off the elevator, all of that melts away at the sight of Lark. He’s leaning against his kitchen counter with a book open, reading it with a little crease on his forehead, like he’s concentrating hard. It’s not until I knock gently, stepping through the doors to allow the elevator to close behind me, that he jumps and sets the book face-down on the counter.

  When he does, I catch a glimpse of the title. Marketing Beauty Brands. A small smile touches my face. “Work research?” I ask.

  He smiles back. “I want to make sure I’m doing everything I can for you, that’s all.”

  Something flutters in my stomach. I force myself to ignore it. “Do you do this much homework for all your investments?” I side-eye him.

  He lifts one shoulder in an easy shrug. “The ones I truly believe in, yeah.”

  There’s that flutter again. Oh. I clear my throat and force myself to remember why I’m here. “Listen, I—”

  “I just wanted to let you know, Cassidy, before you say anything else. I’ve gotten the message.”

  I stop talking, blinking in confusion. For a split second, I try to remember if I drank enough any one night this week to have left a drunk voice message for him or something and then forgotten about it.

  But he catches my expression and shakes his head, still smiling. “I mean, I understand that you want to take time for yourself. I won’t pursue you anymore. I can take no for an answer, you know. Once you repeat it often enough.” His eyes twinkle as he says it, but behind them, I’m sure I can detect a note of sadness in his voice. “From here on out, it’s all business with me, okay?” he continues. “I don’t want you to worry, or to think I won’t put my all into helping you just because our relationship didn’t work out the way I’d hoped.

  My heart sinks, even though this should be exactly what I want to hear right now. He’s not going to pursue me anymore. That means I don’t have to fend off his advances, or constantly worry that I’m going to be weak and give into them.

  It’s a good thing, I tell myself.

  So why does it feel so bad? Looking at him now, all I want is for him to take it back. To tell me he’s not going to move on, that he can’t live without me. But those kinds of admissions only happen in movies, and anyway, would I want him to say that? Isn’t the healthiest type of relationships the one where both people are in it voluntarily, not because they’re afraid of what will happen if they’re alone?

  I remind myself of Norman. Of how hard I fought to free myself from that mess. Just like I need to move on from this one.

  So I clear my throat. Move toward him, just a step, to show that I’m cool with this. That I trust him to be the same. “Thank you. For saying that.”

  He leans against his counter again, one hip cocked, watching me over the rim of his reading glasses. And dear God, if I thought the man was attractive before, put a pair of glasses on him and a book in his hand, and I’m in danger. “Well?” he asks, and I almost blurt out an apology for checking him out. He tilts his head, looking bemused. “You said you wanted to talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I just, um…” I rub at my temple. Try to remember the speech I’ve been rehearsing ever since I made the decision to come over here. As I’m thinking, I can’t help it. I drift a little closer. Just so he can hear me better, I tell myself. “Something similar, actually,” I finally say, giving up and deciding to just wing it. “I’ve been seeing a therapist, working on myself—”

  “That’s great, Cassidy.” He looks genuinely happy for me. And he sets his book aside, turning to face me, so our bodies are just inches apart in the co
ol air of his apartment.

  I nod. I try to ignore those inches between us. “Anyway, I’m working on, uh, moving on and letting go of the past. So I just wanted to say… Yeah. I’m good with business only. Onward and upward from here, right?”

  Except there’s a pit in my stomach. A pit that’s only growing wider and sharper, the longer we gaze at one another. Our relationship didn’t work out the way I’d hoped, he said. Am I being crazy right now? Walking away from the best thing that’s ever happened to me, from a guy who genuinely wants to be with me, because I’m concerned about his past? If he doesn’t judge me for mine, shouldn’t I offer him the same benefit of the doubt?

  But then I remind myself of what I saw. Lark and Sheryl at couple’s counseling. And of what I’ve heard from Sheryl herself. All her hopeful looks and bright smiles when she talked about Lark. I cannot get between them. Not if there’s a chance their marriage could still be saved.

  If it were me in Sheryl’s shoes, I’d want me to walk away right now. So that’s what I need to do. Even if I’m pretty sure I’m breaking both of our hearts as I do.

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Lark is saying, and he’s not smiling anymore. Neither am I. I guess we’ve both given up on trying to hide it for the time being. He’s gazing into my eyes like he wants to memorize everything he sees there, every single inch of me.

  I know what he’s feeling, because I’m doing the exact same thing. Gazing at him like my last glimpse of land before I submerge at sea, with no hope of rescue in sight.

  I swallow hard, aware of the sudden lump tightening my throat. “Yeah. Me too.”

  He takes a slow, careful step forward.

  Every nerve ending in my body stands on end. His scent, so close now, envelops me, makes me dizzy with want. “Can I ask you for one last favor?” Lark asks, his voice lower now. So quiet that if I wasn’t holding my breath, I might have missed it.

  “Anything,” I breathe, before I can think better of it.