Page 151 of Dear Grumpy Boss

I dried my tears and went back to my desk, newly resolved to continue working to get over Weston Aldrich.

He wasn’t making it easy. Weston worked at the collab table for at least part of the next few days, asking me to lunch each day and leaving me love notes. More flowers were delivered at home. He pleaded for a conversation.

I told him no. I ripped up his notes, shoved his flowers into Saoirse’s room. Each time he came to me, the stone thickened around my heart. I had to do it. If I didn’t protect myself, he would have gotten to me. When it came to Weston, I wasn’t strong.

Thursday, when I returned to my desk, there was a gift bag waiting for me. Shifting the tissue paper aside, I peeked at the contents and frowned.

An empty jar.

Okay. Confusing.

I sat down in my chair to read the note he’d left with it.

There is a shelf where I keep the jars with their hearts. I always take the hearts. Leaving them behind to rot seems wrong, somehow.

My morals are my own. Don’t judge me.

Earlier, I gave her her own jar. She asked me why. I told her to put it on a shelf. Anytime she wants, she can pluck my heart from my chest and put it in her jar. My heart is hers, after all.

It slowly dawned on me where these words had come from: the book I’d been reading when Weston and I had flown home from our trip.

It had been a dark romance about a serial killer who had fallen in love for the first time. I’d swooned when he’d told her his heart was hers.

But how had Weston known?

A warm breath touched my ear a beat before he spoke. “If those crazy people get a happy ending, we should too.”

He pulled back after whispering in my ear and moved to my side, leaning over me to bring us face to face.

“Did you read my book?”

He nodded. “I want to know everything that’s going on inside your head. That one was dark, baby.”

“I don’t—” He couldn't be sweet and considerate. It was too late for that. To pull out the big guns now, when we were finished, was unfair on every level. “I don’t think you want to know what’s going on inside my head right now, Weston.”

Murder.

Death.

Kill.

Heartbreak.

“I do. Every angry, beat-up thought, I want it. How can I fix it if I don’t know which parts to aim for?”

“You don’t. Please go. I can’t do this here.”

If he didn’t stop, I would cry, and one crying jag at work was enough for the ages.

“Okay.” His fingers grazed my hair. “I love you, Elise.”

I shuddered but kept my mouth clamped shut.

He tapped the lid of the jar. “My heart is yours, after all.”

Then he sauntered away as if he hadn’t just given me a jar to contain his heart. As if he wasn’t continuing to wreck me every single day.

I made it through the week. Barely. Friday rolled in like a lamb, gentle with Weston’s conspicuous absence from the collaboration table.

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