Page 90 of Sexting the Boss

A chemical reaction.

It doesn’t mean anything.

But even as I think it, I know I’m lying to myself.

He texts me like he already owns my body, my reactions, my pleasure.

And worst of all?

Some part of me wants him to.

* * *

Avoidance wasthe only rational choice.

Was it cowardly? Sure.

But self-preservation comes first, and after that bathroom incident, I knew walking into the office on Friday would mean walking straight into whatever trap Damien Zaitsev had set for me.

So, I did the smart thing.

I took the day off.

Sick leave.

It’s not entirely dishonest—I do feel feverish every time I think about him.

And honestly? I assume that after a day without seeing me, he’ll forget all about this ridiculous ball invitation.

I’m in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup, trying to ignore the nagging voice in my head reminding me that I’m supposed to be somewhere tonight.

Then the doorbell rings.

I barely register it. Probably another one of Melanie’s packages—the girl has a serious online shopping addiction.

I hear her shuffle to the door and pull it open.

Then, a long pause.

“Oh,” she says, her voice unusually high-pitched. “Uh…hi?”

My brow furrows. That’s weird. Melanie isn’t usually awkward.

Then, a deep voice—one I’d know anywhere.

“Where is she?”

I drop the ladle into the pot. It sinks with a sad little plop, soup splattering onto the stove.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Before I can react, before I can run, hide, or escape through a conveniently placed window, Damien Zaitsev walks into my tiny apartment like he owns the place.

Melanie stands frozen by the door, her wide eyes darting between us.

Meanwhile, I am barefoot in the kitchen, wearing duck-patterned pajamas, holding a dripping spoon like it’s going to protect me.

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