Chapter Fifteen

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 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.

“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.

“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.”

“Why should you have asked me?”

“Because, this is your place, Rath. I’m sure you weren’t expecting to have an elderly tenant. There are liabilities and—”

I place my fingers on her lips to stop her from going any further with that ridiculous thought. “I don’t care who lives here. What I care about is your grandma getting better, you not sleeping on a partially inflated air mattress, and seeing that smile on your face again.”

She glances at her bed. “The air mattress is fine.”

“The air mattress is unacceptable,” I say with a stern voice. “I’ll have someone bring you a bed today.”

“No,” she says quickly. “No, please don’t. I told my grandma my room was just like hers, and she’d be devastated to know how I’ve been sleeping the past few days.”

“Charlee, I’m devastated to see how you’ve been sleeping the past few days. You’re going through a lot, and you shouldn’t be sleeping on the goddamn floor.”

“It’s the least of my worries.”

“You need a bed. I’m not budging on this.”

She sighs in resignation. “At least do it when my grandma is at an appointment. That way she doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“Fine.” I capitulate and rest my hand on her leg. We both stare at the connection for a few heart beats and then our gazes meet. Right there, in that moment, something passes between us. I can’t quite describe it, the feelings it sprouts, but this moment, this day, it alters everything moving forward. We’ve crossed a line. I’ve crossed a line and despite my strong promise to myself, of never falling for another assistant again, I know I’ve broken it. I know there are more than friendly feelings blooming inside of me for Charlee Cox.

What’s even more scary though, as I stare at Charlee, our eyes never wavering, I think there’s a slight possibility that she might be harboring the same feelings. Before I can tell for sure, she looks away, breaking our connection.

Desperate for her to come back to the office, but knowing she might need more time, I say, “Take tomorrow off too. As much time as you need. I’ll be able to hold the fort down until you return.”

She barely smiles and says, “Thank you, Rath. I really appreciate it.”

Little does she know, I’d do anything for her at this point.

She doesn’t come in Friday, leaving me lonely and quite aware of how much I depend on her. I knew she wasn’t going to make it in, but still the thought of going through another workday without her smiling face popping into my office made it hard for me to concentrate.

And that thought terrifies me, because when did I become so dependent on this girl? At what point in time did I switch from being an independent CEO to a dependent puddle of a mess?

I miss her dancing.

I miss her razzing.

I miss her late-afternoon conversations where she asks weird questions to give my mind a mental break.

Fuck . . . I miss her.

Now that it’s Saturday, I’m tempted to ask how she’s doing, to see if she needs anything, to go to her apartment and check up on her.

No, that would be ridiculous.

And I’m sure as hell not going to show up with flowers either.

Nor am I going to knock on her door holding two bags of Chinese food . . . because I’m not sure what she likes.

And I’m sure as shit not going to have a pastry box under one arm full of lemon curd and cheese Danishes.

Nope.

Not going to happen.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

That’s exactly what I’m doing. Standing at her door, arms full, unsure of how to knock with a nervous jitter in my stomach from seeing her again.

Lifting one knuckle to the door while juggling everything in my arms, I tap the wood loud enough to draw some attention and then step back.

It takes her a few seconds but Charlee finally answers the door and her eyes widen with surprise when she sees me, and then they soften quickly while a smile pulls at the corner of her mouth as her eyes take in everything in my arms.

Fucking gorgeous.

“Rath, what are you doing here?”

“Checking on you and your grandma. I wanted to make sure you’re doing all right.” Her smile grows even bigger and my heart trips in my chest. I’m absolutely fucking screwed.

“Come in, come in,” she says, taking the bags of food from me. “Grandma is taking a nap. She had an early lunch and decided to rest.”

“Oh okay, I can just drop these things off then and be on my way.”

She shakes her head. “No, eat with me. Stay, tell me all the things I missed this past week.”

She doesn’t have to ask me twice. Quietly we put the flowers in some water, fill up some plates with food, and then we head to her room so we don’t make too much noise. I had someone deliver a bed yesterday while Charlee and her grandma were out of the apartment. I also had someone help with the boxes, because I didn’t like that she was partially moved in, as if she wasn’t going to stay long.

With the boxes cleared out and things put away, the room is much larger than before. I wish it was bigger for her but I commend her for giving her grandma the better room so she can be more comfortable.

I go to sit on the floor with my plate and drink when she asks, “What are you doing?”

“Sitting.”

“Not on the floor. Sit on my bed. It’s super comfortable.” She winks and hops up on the large bed.

“I don’t want to get food on your blankets.”

“That’s why washer and dryers were invented.” She pats the bed. “Sit, Rath.”

Oh, just sit on my bed with me, it’s no problem.

It’s a huge problem. Being on a bed with Charlee, with this attraction eating me alive, I can’t trust myself. But from the determination in her eyes, I’m not going to win, so I give in, once again.

I took my shoes off at the door when I first got here, so I sit on the edge of her bed as far away as I can be, practically at the foot of the bed, and set my drink on one of the nightstands. I bend my leg flat on the soft mattress and rest my plate on top of it.

“You can sit at the head of the bed so you have something to lean against. Don’t be shy, Rath.”

Shy isn’t what I’m feeling right now. Lying on Charlee’s bed, next to her, is a bad idea but when she looks at me with those large emotive eyes, highlighted by her red glasses today, I can’t possibly deny her. I shift on the bed and lean against a puffy pillow.

“General Tso’s is my absolute favorite chicken of all the Chinese food chickens.” She takes a bite and moans.

Okay . . . we don’t need sound effects.

“Yeah, mine too. Occasionally, I’ll dabble in cashew chicken as well.”

“Gah, my second favorite.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “We are Chinese food partners, which means next late-night session, I know what we’ll be getting.”

Next late-night session? That means . . .

“So . . .” I swallow. “You plan on coming back to work?”

“Of course.” She rests her hand on my thigh for a second, the touch sending a bolt of lust straight to my cock. Fuck, she has no idea what she’s doing to me, how her light touch has me launching into a tailspin of inappropriate yearning. “I love my job. I just needed a moment.”

Deep, steady breaths.

“I can understand that. Your grandma surprised you, and if she’s not saying anything to you about her health, I can imagine the emotional toll it’s taking on you.”

“Yeah.” She pushes her food around and is silent for a moment. I can sense her wanting to confess something. It’s in the way she bites her bottom lip, the jittery way she can’t seem to sit still. I hold my breath, wishing and hoping she tells me what’s on her mind, so I can fix it. I always want to fix things for her . . . like she fixes things for me.

Finally, she glances up, nibbles on that lip a few more times, and then turns toward me, setting her plate on the bed. She crosses her legs, places her hands in the well of her lap, and says, “Remember that time I mentioned an ex-fiancé?”

“Vaguely,” I answer, lying, because I remember that comment as if she said it this morning, where she was joking about not having to worry about crazy boyfriends or ex-fiancés bending her over her desk and fucking her. Yeah, I remember that a whole lot.

“Well, I said that because I have an ex-fiancé.”

I set my food on the nightstand as well and turn my upper half to face her. “What happened?”

“Just probably the worst possible thing ever.”

“Did the motherfucker cheat on you?” My anger spikes immediately.

She shakes her head. “No, he didn’t cheat on me. It was worse. He left me at the altar.”

He left her at the altar? Who in their right fucking mind would leave Charlee at the altar? Her grief-stricken face, tearing in a white wedding dress, it cuts me deep, tensing my jaw to the point that my teeth grind on each other and I just about lose it. “What?”

Speaking softly, she answers, “He didn’t show up, said he wasn’t in love with me, and didn’t want to go through with the marriage.”

“So why fucking propose?” I ask, feeling like I’m having an out-of-body experience as blood pumps feverishly through my veins. Of all the ball-less things a man can do, leaving someone at the altar is high up there on the “you’re a piece of shit” list.

“That’s the million-dollar question.” She shrugs and sadly links her fingers together and brings her knees up to her chest where she rests her chin. “It was a very miserable day for me. The third anniversary of that day was the Saturday of the office supply convention.”

Fuck. I remember the exact hour I ran into Charlee, how I thought she was breathtaking, had joy radiating off her. I remember being an ass to her, peeing all over her parade. Knowing she was suffering inside makes me want to punch myself in the face. “Where I was a dick to you about taking a picture?” I ask, my anger boiling over.

She softly smiles and must notice how upset I’m getting, because she reaches out and quickly squeezes my hand. It’s a small gesture, but one that surprisingly calms me. “Yes, but you know, even though it started off rough, it was as if you helped me turn a new page in my life. You turned a sad day into a happy day without knowing it.”

“I wish I wasn’t such a dick in the first place,” I admit. “I was irritated with my temporary assistant for poorly scheduling a brief meeting at a ridiculous time. I took it out on you.”

“It’s water under the bridge at this point,” she says with a half-smile. She takes a few seconds to gather herself and then says, “Growing up, my grandma always let me play dress up in her wedding dress. I told her one day she would see me walk down the aisle in it.”

“Fuck.” I shake my head and lean against the headboard, unsure if I can listen to this story without my heart being torn out of my chest. “You were wearing her dress, weren’t you?”

She nods. “We had it dry-cleaned and carefully altered. It was a simple, pretty gown, no extra pizzazz. Just a silk gown with a neckline cut low for her generation—she was always a rule breaker—and the back is lined with buttons with a moderate train. It’s stunning, and I couldn’t envision myself in anything else but that dress. When my grandma saw me in it, she lit up with tears of joy. I’ve never seen such a look on her face. It meant everything to me.”

“And then you didn’t get to walk down the aisle.”

She nods. “I didn’t. It was devastating to say the least. I pushed the day to the back of my mind, not really accessing those feelings until this week, when my grandma talked about how she doesn’t think she’ll get to see me walk down the aisle in her dress now. Listening to the sorrow in her voice”—Charlee’s lip quivers and tears form in her eyes—“it tore me apart.” Her voice chokes up as she wipes away her tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cry in front of you.”

“Don’t apologize,” I say, wanting to reach out to her, hold her again, rub my hand up and down her back, but I don’t move. I stay in place, knowing my boundaries. “Just hearing you talk about it hurts my heart, I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“It hasn’t been easy. It’s like putting to rest an idea we’ve had ever since I can remember and possibly saying goodbye to that moment we’ll never cherish. The last time she saw me in her dress . . . I was sobbing uncontrollably. She believes that’s the only memory she’ll ever have.”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Charlee.”

She wipes at her eyes again. “Thank you.” She takes a deep breath and tries to smile, but it’s lackluster at best. “It’s why I just needed a little bit of time away, you know? And I’m truly sorry I left you in the lurch, Rath. It won’t happen again. Her untold sickness, her comments . . . I needed some time to grieve the idea, which might sound stupid to some people, but it was a dream, a dream that according to my grandma won’t come true.”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door and it partly opens. Her grandma pokes her head inside and when she sees me sitting on Charlee’s bed, her face lights up. “Rath, I didn’t know you came to visit.”

“Grandma, you should be resting,” Charlee says, unfolding herself from the bed and walking over to her.

Her grandma waves her hand at her. “Stop fussing over me. We have company.” She gives me a smile and says, “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“Just eating some Chinese food. How are you feeling?” I ask, standing as well.

“Oh fine, fine. Why don’t you bring your food out to the dining room table and we can all nibble together? I think I saw some pastries out there as well.”

We grab our plates and drinks and walk out to the kitchen where Grandma puts together a small plate for herself.

“Rath is a sucker for pastries,” Charlee says, so familiar with me. “Lemon curd Danish is his favorite.”

“Oh, I do love a lemon flavor,” Grandma says, taking a seat at the table. “It’s an older flavor. I don’t see many young people loving it as much.”

“My mom got me into loving lemon.” I shrug. “I’ll pretty much eat anything with lemon in it but Danishes are my favorite.”

“A man who loves sweets and has a smile like yours, that’s deadly.”

Charlee rolls her eyes and pokes her grandma. “Can you stop hitting on Rath?”

“Don’t tell her to stop,” I say. “I like the compliments.”

“Of course, you do.” And then she smiles her beautiful smile and forgive me for sounding like Bram—a sap—but my heart feels full. Not seeing her all week and then seeing her so sad . . . was just so wrong. But her smile . . . nothing compares.

“Yahtzee,” I say, tossing my hands in the air when the die rolls to a five.

Charlee groans while Grandma tosses her pen. “How is that possible? You have four Yahtzees; that’s unheard of.”

I blow on the tips of my fingers and say, “It’s all in the roll, ladies.”

“You’re cheating.” Charlee points at me. “And when I find out how you’re doing it, you’re going down, Westin.”

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do?” I ask, enjoying my very unexpected and entertaining afternoon. When I tried to leave after we ate, Grandma grabbed me by the arm and brought me to the board games where she told me to pick out a few. So far, we’ve played Life, which I won, Scattergories, which I also dominated, and now Yahtzee, which has proven to be another winner for me.

“You know those smoothies I make for you? I’ll put extra kale in them so it’s one thick chunk of kale that you have to slurp up.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” Charlee says animatedly. “I will pile kale into that smoothie, like it’s salt, and then sprinkle some dried kale on top just for the hell of it.”

Grandma looks between the two of us. “Wow, that’s a lot of kale.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to worry about, because I’m not cheating.”

“You have trick dice, some kind of magnetic device that turns the dice at the right time, like in Ocean’s 11.”

“Is it Ocean’s 11?” Grandma asks. “Or is it one of the other ones?”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I will find you out . . . son,” Charlee says with a deep voice, causing me to laugh.

“Pry all you want, I’m not cheating.”

“You know”—Grandma taps her chin—“it might help if he lifts his shirt and pulls his pants down so we can examine for any kind of magnetic device. Strip down, Rath.”

“Grandma, my God, he’s not going to—”

I stand with no intention to strip down, but the look on Charlee’s face is priceless. I start to lift my shirt to the waistline of my jeans and Charlee closes her hand over her eyes while Grandma claps and makes a poor techno beat.

“Take it off. Take it off.”

“Oh my God, Grandma. Stop.”

“Please, as if you haven’t dingled his dingy yet.”

I pause, recount what she just said as Charlee does the same. Dingled his dingy . . . the term plays on repeat in my head until I can’t take it anymore, and I fall into my chair and burst out laughing. Charlee’s face is red with embarrassment.

Through clenched teeth, Charlee says, “I have not even noticed he has a dingy, Grandma.”

“You haven’t noticed the bulge in his pants? That’s hard to believe.”

Charlee slinks in her chair, mortified.

I keep on laughing.

Leaning forward, Grandma whispers, “Are you circumcised, Rath? My husband wasn’t and even though I was fine with that, it still makes things difficult on my end. Are you”—she makes a scissor motion with her fingers—“snipped?”

“Don’t answer that,” Charlee says, shaking her head.

But just to curb Grandma’s interest, I say, “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, you see that?” Grandma nudges Charlee with her elbow. “Easy access when doing the blowies.”

“And . . . I’m dead.” Charlee slinks under the table, and that’s where she stays while Grandma and I continue to play Yahtzee.

I just hope she’s not under there staring at my “bulge” because right about now, my cock is pressing against my jeans from the thought of Charlee giving me a “blowie.”

Charlee walks me to the door. Grandma is getting ready for bed and has already given me a hug. Because I brought so much Chinese food, we had some for dinner and polished off the rest of the Danishes for dessert. Once Charlee felt she could rejoin the group, we played a few more rounds of Life, this time Charlee and Grandma taking the wins.

“I need to apologize.”

I hold up my hand as I step outside her door, the hallway empty and lit up by lights. “No need to apologize. It was a great night, and I had a lot of fun. You guys didn’t have to invite me to stay.”

She folds her arms over her chest and leans against the doorframe. “Technically, my grandma asked you to stay for games, not me.”

“Yeah, but you did the initial inviting in.”

“Are you really going to keep track of every last detail?”

“That’s part of my job.”

She shakes her head and presses her finger to my chest quickly before pulling it away. “No, that’s my job.”

“So, does this mean you’ll be back to work on Monday?”

“Miss me that much, boss man?”

Not wanting to hide it, I say, “Yes, I did. I missed you a lot.”

A grin of amusement passes over her lips. “Got you with the color coordination, didn’t I?”

“I have a hard time looking at the color green without wanting to start working my ass off.”

She laughs and rests her head against the doorframe and in a matter of seconds, my aching body has this uncontrollable urge to reach out and take her into my arms. I want to feel her warmth again, the softness of her body pressed against mine. I want to rub my hand up and down her back, going low enough that I almost touch the swell of her ass, causing her nipples to harden. I want to feel those pebbled nubs against my chest again, flick them with my thumbs, see how hard I can get them. And I want to cup her jaw in my large hand, pass my mouth over her cheek, her eyes, her nose, and then settle on her lips where I’d finally steal a kiss from her, a kiss I’ve wanted ever since I hired her.

My body pulses with the idea, with reaching out, closing the space between us and taking what I want. It’s so potent, so heavy in my veins that I have to mentally reprimand myself and tell my legs to take a step back before I make a colossal mistake like kiss the best assistant I’ve ever had.

“Thank you for tonight,” she says. “For listening to me and my stories.”

Steadying my breath, I say, “It was nothing, but I will tell you this, if I ever run into your ex, he’ll be making a grand introduction to my fists.”

“You’re going to beat him up for me?” she asks, humor in her voice.

“Yeah, I fucking am, for taking away a special moment from you and your grandma. The guy deserves a lot more than a conversation with my fists. So much more.”

“I like this protective side of you . . . Mr. Westin.” She presses her finger against my chest again and I have a strong urge to snatch that finger and pull her in closer. “Seriously though, thank you for listening. And I hope”—she pauses and looks me meaningfully in the eyes—“I hope you don’t think I’m still pining after him.”

“I sure as hell hope not,” I say, wondering why she wanted to make that a point. Why she keeps touching me. Why her body language is leaning into me, tempting me to think dirty, naughty things.

“I’m not. My love ended for him the day he left me at the altar.”

“Good, or else I would have to kick your ass too.”

She chuckles and taps me with her foot. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Watch it, Bag of Dicks, I could take you down.”

Her eyes round in amusement. “You did not just call me bag of dicks.”

“That’s what you call yourself all the time.” I smile and her face lights up even more. And before I do something I can never reverse, I say, “See you on Monday . . . Cox.”

Not giving her a chance to respond, I turn around and head to the elevator, feeling a little bit more pep in my step. Hanging out with Charlee will do that to you; it will give you energy and make you almost feel like you’re walking on a cloud.

If only I could return the favor to her.

Make things better.

Give her and her grandma the walk down the aisle they deserve.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Bram and Julia as I open the door to my apartment, finding them standing on the other side with a box of pastries. I’ve hit up the gym a lot more lately thanks to all my pastry consumption.

“Can we please talk to you?” Julia asks, looking very apologetic.

I push the door open and walk into my living room where I take a seat and lounge on my couch. They follow behind me and sit down on either side of me only to set the pastry box on my lap and pop it open.

No Danishes.

But . . . it’s full of my favorite lemon drop Italian cookies topped with sprinkles.

Wow, they’re really sorry if they brought me these, because that would mean they had to go to Brooklyn to buy them.

“Did you get these yourself or send someone to get them?” I ask.

Julia holds her phone out in front of me and shows me a picture of them at the small Italian bakery I wish I lived in, because all I would do would sit in a corner and pop these in my mouth over and over until I fell into a sugar coma.

“Fine.” I pick one up and shove the whole thing in my mouth, letting the lemony, buttery goodness soak into my taste buds. Fuck, these are amazing.

Bram reaches for one but I swat his hand away. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Sharing?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. These are mine.” Like a child, I wrap both my arms around the box and hold it close to me.

“Can you stop torturing me?” Bram asks, flopping back on the couch. “We haven’t talked in a week and I’m having a mental breakdown. You can’t be mad at us.”

“I can’t?” I ask, about to go on a tirade when Julia steps in.

“No, you can’t. Vanessa is my friend, Rath. You both messed up that relationship and you know it. You can’t act like the victim when you’re both to blame.”

I know she’s right, but I don’t really want to listen to what’s right at the current moment. I want to be mad, I want to hold this against them, I want to be able to make them feel as bad as I do, because that’s what mature men do.

“She’s the one who walked away.”

“You’re the one who pushed her away,” Julia counters while Bram just rocks back and forth next to me, hands clasped, most likely praying for this to end.

I didn’t enjoy fighting with Bram either. Not only was I missing Charlee, but I didn’t really have anyone to talk to about it other than Roark. And Roark is my buddy, but he’s also a sarcastic jackass most of the time and isn’t the most eloquent when it comes to advice.

I missed my friend. I missed my sister.

Hell, I missed these cookies.

“Can we please just make up already?” Bram asks. “I can’t take the uncertainty of all of this. I need to know I have my best friend back.”

Sighing, I drag my hand over my face and say, “I don’t want to see her.”

“Why?” Julia asks. “Are you still hung up on her?”

“No,” I say quickly, although, I’m wondering if that’s true. “No one wants to see their ex, especially if the other person is engaged. I don’t even have a girlfriend, for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s not our fault,” Julia counters, her strong-headedness coming out. “Just because you don’t have a girlfriend shouldn’t be a reason why I don’t invite my friend to our wedding. Did you hear that, Rath?” Her voice grows tight. “This is our wedding. When you get married you can invite whoever you want.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was just caught off guard and fuck, I really don’t want to see her, especially on my birthday.”

“Oh, now you bring up the birthday thing.” Julia chuckles and pulls me into a hug. “This means a lot to us, Rath, especially if you can keep it together for one day.”

I nod because when it comes down to it, I would do anything for my sister and Bram, even if it means spending my birthday with my ex, who I never want to talk about . . . ever.

My first real girlfriend. My first real assistant who didn’t let me down. My first love. My first heartbreak. Who wants to be slapped in the face by the past? Probably no one, but when it comes down to it, I will internally suffer for the good of Bram.

And Julia . . . I guess.

“You owe me a really nice birthday present. More than just a cake. I want something big and expensive.” I point to Bram. “Do you hear me? Really fucking expensive.”

“We have a wedding to pay for,” Julia reminds me.

“Please, the money you’re spending on it, we shit out in an hour. You’re not going to even notice a dent.”

“He’s right, babe,” Bram says, leaning over me and snagging a cookie from my box. I let him. “I’m filthy rich, you have nothing to worry about.” Sitting back, he says, “How about you go on the honeymoon with us?”

“Now there’s—”

“No.” Julia shakes her head. “I draw the line at my brother spending our honeymoon with us where all I’ll be packing are two pieces and lingerie.”

Bram’s face falls in shock and then he pats me on the back. “Sorry, dude. You’ve been uninvited.”

Saw that coming from a mile away.