Page 7 of Tangling with the Boss

My hairline tingles.

But I won’t overthink this. So many times over the last few years, I’ve kidded myself that the boss and I have shared thesemoments.Invisible sparks crackling between our fingertips when our hands accidentally brushed; a swooping feeling whenever we’re alone in the elevator, like we’re dropping down, down, down to the earth’s core. All those times our eyes locked and it felt like time stood still.

I’ve told myself so many pretty stories; replayed those moments over and over in my head, until I lost track of what was a daydream and what was real.

“It’s not goodbye.” Leo speaks first, throwing down the words like a challenge. His chest puffs up, like we’re fighters squaring up in the ring. “Because you’re not leaving.”

Ha. “You can tell yourself that if you like. And while you’re at it, you can order the world to stop turning. I’ll still be gone in two weeks.”

Leo scowls at me, and for once in my life, I scowl back. The expression feels weird on my face, because I’m always the perky one. The happy-go-lucky girl next door. The ball of sunshine who cheers everybody else up, and makes sure people are happy and comfortable.

Not right now. Right now, my forehead is creased, and my eyes burn with frustration, and my cheeks are red-hot. I’m a first-time glarer, but I’m giving it my all.

“Pick your favorites,” Leo mutters at last, turning away. “We’re not leaving until you do.” Then my boss stomps back outside, the door slamming shut behind him, and stands guard at the window, his back to the glass.

Silence stretches for the space of three heartbeats, before Renata sniffs and shakes herself.

“Well,” the florist says. “Men, eh? Can’t live with them, but can’t get rid of them either. It’s the basis of my whole business.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

Four

Leo

Hazel chooses a simple bouquet of white daisies from the florist, then a small box of toffee-nut cookies from the bakery next door. After those two modest gifts, she point blank refuses to accept another thing from me, and insists on heading to the rooftop to help set up tonight’s party.

Whatever. I don’t care.

There never were anyerrands.I had no plans except spoiling her all day. Nothing else matters except keeping my assistant within arm’s reach, and changing her mind about quitting—and sure, I’d rather do that while buying her a diamond necklace or hand-feeding her chocolate dipped strawberries, but we can lug around sun loungers on my building’s rooftop if Hazel prefers.

After an hour of fussing with the furniture, she props her hands on her hips, breathing hard. Long flyaway hairs have frizzed out of her blonde ponytail, and her skin is dewy with sweat where it’s not covered by her purple dress. All around us, sun loungers have been dragged into clusters of two or three, safely away from the swimming pool’s edge.

Static crackles across the rooftop as the band sets up their sound system over on the pop-up stage. It’s a hot, sticky day, and we’re on top of a skyscraper, held up to the sun’s fiercest rays. Is Hazel drinking enough water? Does she need sunscreen?

“Should we fence it off somehow?”

Dabbing her wrist against her forehead, Hazel squints at the pool, with its sparkling turquoise water lapping the tiles. It would be so good to slip into that cool water right now. To soothe my heated skin, and feel the anguished pounding of my heart vibrate the water, and burn off this turmoil with fifty hard laps, barely coming up for air. Especially if Hazel came in with me.

Imagine it. That blonde ponytail trailing across the surface; those slippery wet legs twining around my waist…

“What if someone falls in?” she says.

“That’s called natural selection.”

“Leo!”

For god’s sake. “Would you fence off a fountain?” I point out. “Or a lakeside?”

“Well, no. But—”

“There are no children invited tonight. No high risk guests. And let’s say you roped the pool off—a rope wouldn’t stop anyone falling in, would it?”

“I guess…”

She’s still stewing, her big eyes fraught. That worried pinch between her eyebrows won’t go away. My thumb itches to smooth it, then trace the length of her pert nose. Since when am I so desperate to touch her?

“I could hire a lifeguard,” I hear myself offer. “Someone to blend in and hang around the sun loungers. There’s still time.”

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