Page 39 of Sexting the Boss

“You shouldn’t be here alone.”

Something about the way he says it unsettles me.

Not in a creepy man in a parking garage way—more like a man who knows something I don’t kind of way.

His expression is unreadable, but there’s tension in his body.

I blink up at him, trying to make sense of it. “Why?” I ask, my voice softer than I mean it to be.

He doesn’t answer, just watches me.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy between us.

I shift on my feet. “Did you—did you hear that sound? That popping noise?”

Nothing.

His jaw tics, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Like he’s debating something. Like he’s deciding how much to say.

And that’s when I know.

Something is wrong.

I’m not crazy.

I’m not imagining it.

He was already on edge before I ran into him. And that means…whatever’s wrong didn’t start with me.

My stomach tightens. “I—” I shake my head, trying to piece it together. “Should I—should we call security or?—?”

“No.” The response is immediate.

Firm.

Final.

I stare at him, and my pulse thuds harder.

He still hasn’t explained why he’s here.

Why I shouldn’t be.

Why the air around us feels thicker, why he keeps scanning the garage like he’s waiting for something—or someone.

I swallow.

Something inside me says to listen to him, to get in my car and leave.

But another part—the part that got me into this city in the first place, that makes me ask too many questions, that doesn’t just accept things without answers—keeps me standing still.

Keeps me looking at him.

Keeps me wondering who the hell my boss really is.

Then—

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