Page 27 of The Relationship Clause

“Good, since that’s settled, I must get back to work. Please let me know if you need anything. Otherwise, we’ll speak again when I accompany you to your meeting with your business partner. I saw in the notes on your calendar that you usually have your secretary accompany you. Goodbye!” Then I run out the door when the phone at the desk rings.

The elevator ride to meet Mr. Ferguson’s business partner is a tense one. He hasn’t said a word to me since I basically steamrolled him this morning, and it’s starting to get to my head. When I formulated my master plan for this job, Step Number One: Make Everyone Love Me was supposed to imply Mr. Ferguson too. (Not in that way. He’s my boss and my best friend’s brother, so that would be wrong. Wrong, I tell you!) I just mean, I wanted him to see me as a peer, appreciate the work I put in, and value my efforts.

What I didn’t realize was that making everyone else love me in the office is apparently going to have an equal and opposite reaction with Mr. Ferguson.

It’s obvious he’s got that whole alpha boss thing down. He runs a tight ship and wants things done a certain way. Apparently bringing pastries to share upsets that delicate balance. Was there anything in the contract about him having the ability to fire me prematurely if he hates my guts?

Maybe I should have read it more carefully… Or maybe I should have read it, period.

The whole time we’re in the elevator, I am hyper aware of his scent. He probably uses one of those body washes called Saber Toothed Mountain or Mighty Aqua Dragon or Wild Warrior. Whatever it is, I want to bottle it up secretly so I can take it home and hide it under my pillow.

I probably smell the complete opposite, which is to say: bad. It’s the tightest quarters we’ve ever been in together, and I’ve never been so aware of my sweat glands in my life. Did I put deodorant on this morning? Being this close to him is making me perspire.

The doors finally open, and I follow him out into a large room similar to the office above, but this one has a much more industrial feel with taller ceilings, exposed metal beams, and a busy atmosphere. There’s a distinctive, more laid-back feel to the place too.

“This way,” Mr. Ferguson orders, because I’m still staring.

I follow him to a smaller, empty conference room. Mr. Ferguson grumbles something about “always being late” then he disappears and tells me he’ll be right back.

He’s only gone for ten seconds though when another man enters the room from the opposite direction, and I almost make an audible gasp.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Junie Cousins?” he says, stopping inside the doorway.

My head feels weird, like I’m having a major case of déjà vu. “Shane Thatcher?”

A big smile breaks over the guy’s face, sending a dozen memories to my prefrontal cortex. “It is you!” Then he lumbers forward, and before I can say anything, he wraps his big arms around me in a way that is at once familiar and awkward. Or at least, awkward on my part. As far as I remember, Shane is never awkward about anything.

He wasn’t awkward playing football for the Gamecocks, or about the way he asked me out at a party after one of his games. Back then, he had this quality about him, this it quality. He still has it now, like he still has his boyish charm and likable charisma, but I can’t help noticing there also seems to be something different. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

After three seconds that seem way longer than they probably are, he pulls back, holding me at arm’s length. “Wow, Junie, you look great. Seriously. What are you doing here?”

“I-I’m Mr. Ferguson’s new—”

“Secretary.” Understanding dawns on Shane’s handsome face, followed quickly by a smirky little smile. “That makes so much sense.”

“What does?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, I’m happy you’re here, that’s all. I think you’ve made quite an impression on Owen already.”

He finally lets me go, and I take a step back. “So, um, what are you doing here? What happened to the football plan?”

“Aw, that didn’t work out. Injured my knee pretty bad. Pro teams wouldn’t take me after that.”

“Wow, I’m so sorry.” Football was Shane’s thing. He was more than good. Destined for the NFL, or so everyone thought. To hear him shrug it off so easily is more than a little surprising.

“That’s alright. Things happen. Owen and I wouldn’t have this company if I’d gone pro. Man, it’s so good to see you again.”

He comes in for another hug, but this time, I hold my hand out between us. One of his eyebrows lifts in amusement, but he takes my hand. Instead of shaking it though, he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles as if we are in a Jane Austen novel. The gesture is so unexpected that I immediately blush.

It’s at exactly this Austen-esque moment that Mr. Ferguson reenters the room. His eyes narrow on our hands and Shane’s lips. I try to pull away, but Shane has a firm but gentle grasp, and he holds on for an extra few seconds before letting go. Those extra few seconds seem to last forever as Mr. Ferguson glares daggers at his best friend and business partner.

“What’s going on here?” he demands.

Shane shrugs and smiles, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Nothing, just catching up with an old girlfriend.”

I swear I see a muscle twitch along Mr. Ferguson’s jaw. “Old girlfriend?”

“Yeah, we dated for a bit after USC.”

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