Page 1 of Found By Him

1

Ella

Beyond being an insufferable asshole, it seems my boss is stealing money from the company.

At least, I’m pretty sure he is.

If not him, then it’s someone else who’s very good at covering their tracks and making it look like it’s him.

As I sit at a red light, I roll my shoulders, trying to ease some anxious tension.

This is the worst-case scenario every accountant is warned about in college. As the Controller of a successful medical supply company, I know how serious these accusations are. I’ve spent my free moments over the last couple of weeks digging into every account and each transaction to figure out what’s going on so I can take the next steps in reporting it. Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but the last thing I want to do is falsely accuse someone when it really isn’t anything suspicious.

My mind swirls with jumbled thoughts as the light turns green. With a sigh, I let my foot off the brake and turn left, before my body jolts as my car jerks forward. The seatbelt digs painfully into my neck and stomach as adrenaline ripples through me momentarily.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I groan to myself.

I flip on my blinker to let the driver who just rear-ended me know I’m pulling over to the right. Checking to ensure I’m not about to cause another accident, I maneuver my car to the side of the road and look in my rearview mirror. Thankfully, the large black SUV pulls up behind me. At least they aren’t going to run. That’s the last thing I need right now.

As I unbuckle slowly, I notice a slight twinge in my back, so I take a moment to assess if I have any other pains. When I don’t feel anything more, I push my door open as the other driver climbs out of his car.

Holy crap.

That’s a large man. Well over six feet. Dark jeans and a tight t-shirt cling to his body. He pulls off his sunglasses, and I smile, noting the concern on his baby face. He can’t be more than twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. I wonder if he’s driving his dad’s car, which would explain the look on his face.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” He rushes toward me, but stops short, his hands raised as if he wants to physically ensure I’m okay, but holds back. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I try to hide my amusement because he looks freaked out—more than he should be for a simple fender bender. Something about it has me feeling at ease, and I reach over to place my hand on his forearm. “I’m okay. I promise. This was very minor.”

He seems to settle a little at my touch and reassurance, but his face is still strained with stress.

“Let me grab my phone so I can call the cops.” Turning toward my car, I pause when he speaks up again.

“Oh, shoot. I should have told you, I already called the police. They should be here soon.” He rubs his forehead. “This is a company car. I was on my way to a meeting with a client. I need to call my boss.”

His boss.

His demeanor makes more sense now. He thinks he’s going to get in trouble at work.

I smile at him. “Great, let’s move to the sidewalk and get out of the street.” I place my hand on his well-defined tricep, gently ushering him between our cars and onto the sidewalk. As I pass, I look over the back of my car and cringe. The trunk door is caved in slightly where the front of his Yukon hit.

Once we make it to the curb without incident, I look over and ask, “What’s your name?”

“Tyler Matthews.”

“Nice to meet you, Tyler. I’m Ella. Why don’t you call your boss now?”

He grimaces as he moves a few feet away. I can’t hear his conversation, but the tension in his shoulders is evident.

We’re on a side street in downtown Nashville. It’s not super busy, but there are cars driving by and a few people milling around on the sidewalks. Hopefully, the cops won’t take too long. I have better things to do than wait around here all afternoon. My plans for the evening include baking three dozen cookies for the residents of the senior center I volunteer at. I’ve been promising them cookies for weeks, but have been too busy with work. I don’t want to show up again this weekend empty-handed. There may bea revolt. Very little gets the residents as excited as baked goods do.

Tyler rejoins me where I’m waiting, rambling nervously about nothing. He’s sweet. I find myself genuinely enjoying our small talk despite the unfortunate situation we’ve found ourselves in.

It isn’t long until the cop car pulls up to the curb across the street. Two police officers climb out and greet us with the obligatory, “Can you tell us what happened?”

Tyler and I give them the details and then hand over our driver’s licenses and registrations. We stand silently next to each other as we wait.

“Oh god. I can’t get fired.”

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