Page 26 of Reluctantly You

“Good,” he murmurs and pushes past me, nearly running out of the office. I watch him head toward the stairs and push the door open with a slam, disappearing down them a moment later.

My hand scrapes across my face and my shoulders sag. I don’t know if I won or lost, but for some reason, I don’t feel as good as I should.

Goddamnit.

Mitch doesn’t show up to work on Wednesday. It’s now Thursday afternoon and he still hasn’t shown. Fuck, I want to fire him. I want to sit him down and say those words, watch as his face turns pale with realization that he can’t buy his way out of this. That his father isn’t here to patch up his mistakes. I want to see his face as I give him the news. But in order to do this, I need to actually see him.

“Where the fuck is he?” I ask Shiloh, and he shrugs, his purple knit sweater falling off his bare shoulder.

“Don’t know, Boss. He hasn’t called in. Maybe he’s just run away. That’s what you wanted, right?”

I frown at that. “No, it’s not what I wanted. But he would run. I can see that. The little coward.”

Shiloh’s brows meet. “I’ve never seen you so mad about an employee.”

“He offends me just by existing.”

He snorts and then straightens slightly. “Right, of course. We hate him. I know why. Got it. Memo has been created.”

I stare at him, and he salutes me before turning around and striding out.

I turn to my computer screen and get back to work, Mitchell still in the back of my mind, haunting me.

When four o’clock rolls around, I lean back in my chair and stare at the address HR provided me. Debra had stared at me with suspicion while giving me his file. Well, she doesn’t needto know what’s going on or why I need it. I glance down at the piece of paper, my teeth grinding. Those numbers are glaring up at me, taunting me.

I shouldn’t. It’s overstepping. But I want this over with. I want him gone. He’s given me a very good reason to. I’ve not been unfair. I’ve only done what needed to be done and have never spoken a single lie.

He’s done shit work and is a shit worker. I won’t pay another dime toward his useless life.

If I wait for him to show up at work to tell him that he’s fired to his face, it may never happen. So I plug his address into my phone’s GPS and head out of the office a little early.

He lives on a quiet street in a small house near the beach with a neatly trimmed yard. It’s not what I was expecting and much smaller than I envisioned. It looks like a three-bedroom bungalow. Nothing outrageous or tacky. And yet, he lives in an artsy neighborhood, eclectic. His own house is a pale blue with a white door, beachy and soft.

For some reason, this surprises me. I expected something cold and modern.

As I make my way up the driveway, I wonder if he’s the one outside mowing every week or if he hires someone to do it. It’s a stupid thought, but I have it all the same. I adjust my jacket as I peer around the property. His car isn’t parked outside and, for a moment, I hope he’s gone. That he’s packed up and left the state. One less shit to deal with. But when I make it up to his door and knock, I hear the telltale meow of a hungry cat.

Growing up, I fed many alley cats, my heart aching for anything as hungry as I was. I can hear them from a mile away.

My hands cup around my eyes as I peer in through the glass windows at the top of the blue paneling and see some lights on, but I don’t see Mitch. Not that I expected to see him glaring back at me. He’s not going to be lurking around in the window,waiting for me to arrive. He has no idea I’d even show up here. This isn’t what bosses do. And yet, here I am.

I ring the doorbell and knock, and when no one answers, I debate leaving.

I can just send him a notice via e-mail, or even certified mail. I shouldn’t have come here, to his house.

And yet, for some reason, my hand lands on the doorknob and I twist it.

It opens with an ominous creak.

I hear another loud meow from the living room as I call out, “Mr. Morris!”

There’s nothing. No response. Just the cat replying loudly and the sound of the TV in the other room. Is that Bob Ross?

God, what the hell is this? This is fucking creepy.

What if he’s dead?

The thought makes my feet move a little quicker. What I said in his office the other day was nothing but the truth, but it was ugly and sometimes people can’t face that. Sometimes they can’t cope.

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