Page 20 of Bossed By The Boggart

“Sick?”

The word feels foreign on my tongue. In the ten months that Wyn has worked at my company, not once has she ever called in sick.

Hell, there was a time when she came in looking like death warmed over, and I had to send her home myself.

“Did she say what’s wrong?” I try to mask the concern pounding through me, but it’s difficult.

“No, but it’s probably just a cold. It’s going around the office.”

Marcie returns to her desk as a gnawing sense of unease settles in my gut. I stare blankly at my computer screen, the cursor blinking while it waits for me to type.

What if Wyn’s really, really sick—what if her son is sick, too?!

I rub my temples, feeling the edges of my form blur like a shadow without definition. It’s a sign that my emotions are running rampant, a quirk of my Boggart nature.

When I assemble everyone for our weekly Monday round up, a pit forms in the bottom of my stomach when I remember Wyn isn’t here.

As the meeting drags on, my fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the tabletop, my gaze drawn to her empty chair. Finally, it’s over.

“Alright, great talk, everyone. Have a good week.”

My words lack their normal exuberance and warmth, and some of the men and women shoot me concerned looks.

Once everyone leaves, I get up and pace the length of the conference room. The space reminds me too much of everything that’s transpired between Wyn and me.

The bet.

My attraction.

Her disdain.

I storm out of the room, stomping back to my office. If I thought people were looking before—they sure are now.

Throwing myself into my chair, I begin working myself into a frenzy. The day drags on, and I miss Wyn more than I ever thought I would.

By three, I can’t take it anymore. I make a decision, one that might be crossing a line but they’re already blurred.

I need to see Wyn—to ensure she’s alright.

Unable to stop myself, I pull up HR’s files with a few clicks, guilt gnawing at me for breaching her privacy like this.

Her address memorized, I call out to Marcie to cancel anything for the rest of the day as I’m attending to something personal.

Striding through the parking building to my car, my keys jangle in my pocket like the nerves I refuse to acknowledge.

My billion dollar empire wasn’t built on second guessing myself.

With this in mind, I hop into my car and start driving to Wyn’s apartment. On instinct, I stop at a grocery to grab some soup, a bottle of ginger ale, and several different types of cold meds—just in case Wyn needs something.

When I reach her building, my heart thuds against my ribs. The lobby is quiet as I make my way to the third floor.

Outside of Wyn’s door, I pause, my fist hanging in mid-air before I knock three raps in quick succession.

It swings open to reveal a small boy with Wyn’s dark eyes and a mop of unruly hair. He’s clutching a toy dinosaur, its plastic jaws wide open as if captured mid-roar.

I crouch down until the two of us are eye-level. “Hey, little buddy, I hear your mom is sick. Is she feeling better?”

He stares at me with a frankness only children possess. “Mom’s not sick. She had the day off.”

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