Page 40 of Dear Grumpy Boss

I’mnervous as I stand at the familiar dark-red door of the Shettys’ house that evening.

A neat bench sits on the tiny porch with shoes tucked up under it. Then there’s that small copper bell that hangs at the top. This house is more familiar to me than my own apartment.

I’ve been here numerous times for holidays, and I could have made the decision to not show up. But my gut said otherwise, and my brain screamed at for even considering breaking the tradition.The weekend after Valentine’s Day, I’m supposed to be at Shettys’.

It was as simple as that and at some point, I’ll have to face her again. Why not get over the torment as soon as possible?

I smooth my left hand over my jacket lapel and ring the doorbell. A thought comes to me and I turn around to scan the driveway.

Adam’s truck isn’t here. Like the two evergreens straddling the small property, it’s a constant. Shit, is it going to be just her and me tonight?

No, Adam flew all this way to be with her this weekend. He wouldn’t just ditch her.

All the back-and-forth in my head is useless because suddenly the door opens.

And there she stands—my girl, my goddess. My reason for breathing.

“Hey,” she says, nudging her thick glasses up her nose. There’s a little squeak of shock in that word. Leaning forward, she kisses my cheek like she’s been doing since she was nine years old. As if just a few hours ago, I didn’t put my tongue in her pussy.

Even the look she gives me after the kiss is all polite and welcoming.

I hand her the bottle of wine wordlessly.

She frowns and moves to the side. “Come in.”

I squeeze past her, making sure none of me touches her. It feels as if all my feelings have not only been amplified but laid out for the world to see. Like I put myself on inside out.

“Thanks for this,” she says, raising the bottle.

I follow her to the cramped kitchen.

Some of the furor in my heart calms at the familiar sight of the counters bursting with food trays and a variety of new drinks that I love trying every year. But without her bustling grandma and her dry-witted grandpa, the space feels empty and quiet and…tense.

“Where’s Adam?” I say, as I pour myself some mango juice and walk to the tree painted on one wall of the living room.

There are pictures and medals and little notes and greeting cards pasted all over, a testament to the love the house has seen for decades. Even my face stares down at me—pics with Adam or her grandparents and a few with her. There are greeting cards I’ve barely scribbled my name on. Then there are little notes that I put on her birthday and Christmas gifts every year. Wanting to say so much, but not sure what.

Each and every single one of them is here—nearly fifteen years of notes with “Mouse” written on them in colored inks.

She didn’t just save all of them, but she put them out here for everyone to see. How have I not noticed before?

“Adam said he had some errands to run but he should be back anytime. I…”

“What?” I say, turning around. The last thing I want is for her to be nervous around me.

“I didn’t have much time to do any elaborate cooking.” She points to the steaming mac-and-cheese tray. “It’s not going to be as good as Grandma’s cooking.”

“That’s fine,” I say, noting how the navy-blue sheath dress clings to her curves. Her hair falls down her back in thick waves and her mouth glistens pink. I feel this intense twisting urge in my stomach to pull her into my arms and ruin all that innocence all over again.

She opens the wine bottle I brought, pours some for herself and joins me in the living room.I clink my glass against hers. She takes a sip and licks off a lingering drop from her lower lip.

Her gaze dips to the wine. “I wasn’t sure if you would come tonight.”

“You still made my favorite mac and cheese.”

“I hoped you would come and I did promise you a feast. I know that tonight is important to you.”

I nod. Words keep getting stuck in my throat. Suddenly, it’s as if we’re strangers who’ve been set up on some dreadful first date.

---