Page 8 of Bossed By The Boggart

Every click of Mr. Ettin’s polished shoes across the wooden floor is a personal affront, a reminder of the pecking order and where I stand as a no one.

Jesus, Wyn, dramatic much?

“You’re not eating?”

A frown mars Mr. Ettin’s brow, as if he’s genuinely worried about whether I’ve taken a lunch break or not.

“I already ate.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it. His brilliant magenta stare narrows while he debates whether to call me out on it or not.

To my relief, he doesn’t. Instead, he does something far worse—he compliments me.

“Great work on the Henderson file, Wyn.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, turning to go back to my desk.

“Keep it up, and you might just win our little bet.”

His words fester in my mind, mixing with the reminder that, no matter how hard I try, I find this man attractive.

But I don’t let him see me sweat—can’t let him see.

Sitting back down in my chair, I shoot him my signature fake smile.

For some unknown reason, it seems to drive him wild.

“I plan to win. Lucky for you, paint’s on sale. You might want to take advantage of that now—stock up while you can, ya know?”

Mr. Ettin only smirks before retreating. An hour later, a woman knocks on my door jamb, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Delivery for a Wyn Archer.”

“I didn’t order—”

“It’s from a Mr. Ettin.”

Nodding, I take the bag, noting it’s from my favorite sub shop down the road.

To my surprise, the sandwich has everything I love, right down to the sprinkle of black olives.

And for a moment, I wonder what it might be like to lose this bet.

At five o’clock sharp, I jump up and rush out of my office like my ass is on fire.

Mondays are my longest days, and by the end of them, I’m more than ready to leave.

The crisp, evening air hits my face, and I inhale deeply as I navigate the familiar route to my son’s aftercare.

“Mom!”

The exuberant energy in that small voice is enough to lift some of the heaviness of the day from my shoulders.

Jake, my sun amidst the cloudy expanse of my life, waves as he rushes into my open arms.

His mop of dark curls and gap-toothed smile make everything right in my world.

“Chi?kší! How’s my little man?”

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