Page 13 of The Relationship Clause

Kiera’s eyes are big, and she nods discreetly behind her mother, also toward the desk. Owen, however, is glaring at me as if he wishes looks could kill. Or at least, make me disappear. He gives a slight shake of his head, but what else am I supposed to do?

Creeping forward, I deposit the coffee on the desk and slip out of the room, deciding it’s best not to make any more eye contact.

“Close the door on your way out,” Ms. Burton says.

I do, and then, like a good little girl, I sit behind the tall desk, feeling Mr. TDC’s icy glare the whole time.

At this point, the office has emptied. Everyone is enjoying Pete’s pastries and coffee in the big conference room with the door closed. For five whole minutes, I agonize about whether I should continue sitting here, or whether I should get while the gettin’s good. Would anyone blame me? I obviously don’t belong here. I do have secretary experience, but this isn’t my job. Mr. TDC looked like he wanted to kill me for even sitting in this spot.

But if he didn’t want me to, why didn’t he correct his mom?

A bigger question presents itself to me: how will I ever face Mr. TDC at the coffee shop after this? What will this mean for him? How often does his mom come check in on him like this?

These questions and many other anxiety-inducing things run around my head until the office door opens and Ms. Burton’s imposing form is framed by the doorway.

“Don’t forget,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks my way, sunglasses in hand. “Friday. I’ll text you the address.”

She stops in front of my desk. Behind her, I can see Kiera and Owen whispering to each other. What the heck are they talking about? Don’t they know their mother is eyeing me like a wolf eyes a lost lamb?

I wish I had something important-looking to do like answer a phone or type at the computer, but the computer at the desk is actually off, and by the looks of the phone, all calls are being routed elsewhere at the current moment, so there is literally nothing else for me to do.

She looks over the desk at me with those brown eyes that are so warm and welcoming on her daughter, sexy on her son, but somehow cold and severe on her. “The next time I come in here, I want to see more professional clothing from you,” she says, her eyes traveling to my coffee-stained white button up and black pants that are standard at Pete’s Perk Up. “You are the face of the company, and I expect you to dress as such. That also means no more gum. No one wants to see a secretary masticating while they’re speaking to her.” Then she leaves without so much as a goodbye or a wave.

Mr. TDC’s sigh could probably be heard all the way to England. He pinches the bridge of his nose at the same time Kiera practically hops over to my side, eyes squeezed shut she’s smiling so hard.

She gives me yet another hug—I think I’ve more than filled my quota for the day—and whispers, “Welcome to the team!” Then she skips away toward the conference room.

I’m wondering what she means and what the heck I should do next when a deep, disapproving voice makes me shiver in my swivel chair.

“Junie. My office. Now.”

“Um, about that. You see, Pete’s probably wondering where I am, so I should—”

“Junie.”

I jump up from my desk—no, not my desk, the desk—and scurry into Mr. Ferguson’s office. The tension in the room is palpable. Mr. Ferguson stands, and when he walks toward me, he reminds me of a jungle cat closing in on its prey. Is he angry at me? His mom? The situation?

I’m frozen to the floor when he moves behind me to close the door, and I swear every hair on my body lifts when his arm brushes mine.

“Excuse me,” he says coldly, because I am, of course, still frozen. My body is keeping him from being able to close the door all the way and trap me in here with him.

As much as I want to obey, I can’t. My nervous system is shot. This doesn’t seem to faze him, as if he’s used to women glitching around him on the regular. He grasps my arm just above my elbow and firmly but gently coaxes me over about six inches. I’m simultaneously thankful and cursing the fact that I chose to wear a long-sleeve blouse today. My skin probably wouldn’t have been able to take the direct contact, and I’d have likely burst into flame.

The door closes behind me with a soft click, and Mr. Ferguson lets go, returning to his seat behind his desk. My imagination must be working overtime on account of all the adrenaline rushing through my system, because I swear I almost see him do a little Mr. Darcy hand flex. He steeples his fingers in front of him. His eyes are closed, head bent, as if he’s deep in thought.

Finally he sighs. “This is quite a predicament we’re in.”

“Better to be in a predicament than a pickle.” The quip comes out of me before I can stop it. It was something my dad used to say to lighten an otherwise dark or gloomy mood. It always used to make me smile, imagining being stuck in a giant, real pickle. I don’t think Mr. Ferguson shares in the humor though.

“Junie,” he says in a warning voice. “Sit, please.”

I’m mildly impressed he managed to tack a “please” on to the end of that while still making it sound like an order. I take the chair across from him. He still hasn’t met my eyes, and I begin to wonder if he ever will again when he suddenly lifts his head and hits me with the full force of his bedroom eyes. Yes, even full of disapproval, his eyes are still bedroom-worthy.

I am a puddle on the floor.

How is anyone able to get any work done with those eyes around all the time? Well, not counting Kiera. That would be gross.

“We find ourselves in a unique situation,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

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