Page 150 of Dear Grumpy Boss

That wasn’t happening. He’d already done the choosing.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Elise

Westonwaseverywhere.

He left another Post-it on my desk. This one equally gut-wrenching.

Baader-Meinhof phenomenon is a frequency illusion in which something you notice for the first time starts to “appear” everywhere.

I’m under no illusions about you. From the moment I fell, you are all I see.

That would have been bad enough, but Weston was nothing if not dedicated to his pursuits. I supposed since Andes was crawling out of its crisis, he now had time to pursue me, setting himself up at the collaboration table, which happened to be across from my desk.

He’d greeted me when I’d walked in, watched me read his note, and flinched when I ripped it up and tossed it in the break area trash can.

At lunchtime, he approached my desk and spoke in a low, private tone. “Will you have lunch with me today?”

My fingers didn’t pause on my keyboard. My monitor had never been so interesting.

“No.”

“Please.”

“The answer isn’t going to change.”

“Don’t you think we should have a conversation?”

“No.”

I had never been more aware of my surroundings. Weston and I hadn’t been out loud about our relationship, but he hadn’t kept it a secret either. For the most part, my coworkers had an idea we had been together. Now, they were all getting to watch the aftermath play out.

“Elise. You can’t—”

“I can.” Finally, I flicked my eyes to him. I wouldn’t meet his gaze, but I gave him a long look. He was wearing the navy-blue suit I’d once told him was my favorite. There was not a chance that was by accident. Weston was too deliberate.

He scrubbed at the thick scruff on his jaw. “You’re ghosting me. That’s what this is. You said you wouldn’t do this.”

I sucked in a sharp breath at his accusation. He didn’t get to say that to me. He wasn’t the one who’d been wronged here. I’d reacted to his actions.

“You ghosted me first, Weston.”

I pushed back from my desk and walked right by him. There was no way I could stay. As I rode the elevator down to the cafeteria, I considered I might not get to stay at Andes at all if Weston didn’t back off. I’d take my dead-end job back in Chicago overthis.

Weston had cleared out by the time I’d made it back to seven, but he’d left me something behind: a dill pickle spear in plastic wrap with a note that said, “This came with my lunch. Don’t let it go to waste. Talk soon. I love you.”

I ate the freaking pickle.

Then I had to hide in the bathroom to have a cry.

It wasn’t just a pickle I was crying over. It was the reminder of our history. He’d been giving me his pickles forever. Weston had been part of my life for so long, the prospect of truly cutting ties with him overwhelmed me with sorrow.

I wavered in those moments. Would it have been so bad to listen to him? He was clearly sorry. If he said the right words, I could take him back, and this wretched emptiness in me would be filled with him.

But what happened next time Andes needed him? How could I go through this again?

The answer was easy. I couldn’t.

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