Page 6 of Finding Fate

Now clearly annoyed, he says, "Fate. It's Tuesday."

Oh shit.

Whoops.

I glance down at my watch and cringe at the first number being a twelve. Warmth spreads from my chest, up my neck and creeps to my cheeks. He's going to fire me. I can't get fired. I can't.

"But...." I shake my head, trying to come up with an excuse I haven’t used before, but none come to mind. "I'm getting everything done, aren't I?" A slight panic builds in my chest, making my pulse quicken. "I'm at least getting more done than the other two out there. Why does it matter when I show up?"

With an exasperated sigh, he slouches back in his chair. Massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers, he says, "That's why we're having this conversation instead of me firing your ass. You can't show up when you want just because you know you’re the best programmer we have. The others look to you for standards, in both their coding and work ethic. If you do it, they do it. And I can't have everyone coming in at noon."

"Eleven?" I say with a hopeful smile. I’m not a morning person.

"Eight."

"How about ten and a two-hour lunch?"

"This isn't a negotiation, Fate. Eight o'clock is our start time. Be here, or this conversation will be very different the next time I call you into my office."

"Fine, nine," I mumble and tuck my glitter-covered Converse under the uncomfortable plastic chair. This start-up is worse than the last one. At least the other company splurged for Ikea furniture instead of looking for anything on clearance at Walmart like this one.

But it's a job, and a decent-paying one at that. The consulting gig for the FBI at night pays great, but I need more. Lots more. Who knew college was so damn expensive. And then there's helping Mom. We never talk about the cash-stuffed envelope I leave in her purse once a month, not that I want to. She never complained when we were growing up. She would be dog tired but still got up to work a second job just to put food on our plates.

Looking up from a chipped blue nail I've now made worse by picking at the edges, I find him staring. "Okay, I get it. And I’m sorry, really. I’ll be here on time from now on, " I say, hoping to convince myself that my own words are true. I’m a hard worker, always have been, but being on time for anything has always been a struggle.

Pale, hairy arms press against the edge of the desk as he leans forward with a smirk. "I took a chance on you. Don't make me regret it."

Internally I roll my eyes. Of course he's bringing that up. Taking a chance on me, my ass. Just because I don't have a stupid piece of paper showing I graduated high school, people think they’re 'taking a chance' on the underprivileged girl. It was over ten years ago. Get. Over. It. I know I have. And I've done pretty well without it, so... moving on.

With a sigh, I break his stare to look out the window into the dreary Fort Worth sky. I should alter the school system records, give myself the damn diploma just so this scarlet letter can be ripped from my chest, but it always seems to get pushed to the bottom of the to-do list.

Destiny. Mom. Mac. Work. There isn't enough time in the day for all that and squeezing in anything for me. Things were a little easier when Mom took better care of herself, but now instead of just taking care of Destiny, I have to monitor her too.

The boss clears his throat, bringing my wandering attention back to him. "On time from now on." He rakes a lingering gaze over me, starting at my loose pink buns, down to my lip ring before going lower and pausing, sending my stomach rolling at the new predatory gleam in his eyes. I fight the urge to zip up my hoodie. "If not, maybe we can work out other ways for you to make up lost time."

The room heats, making the flush from earlier flare again. Damn my fair skin. Hopefully he doesn't take my blushing as a sign of attraction. If I were stronger, I’d tell him off right now, but like everything else, I’m not that great face-to-face. Online, I’d give him hell, but I’m not, so instead I ignore it.

"I'll just be—" I push out of the stupid plastic chair with shaky arms but only get halfway before he speaks up again. Slowly I lower myself back down.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

This time I don't stop my hands from gripping both zippered edges of my hoodie and tugging it tighter around my small chest to provide an extra layer against his leering.

"Yeah... yes, I do." I lean forward to pull the cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans, scrolling through the pictures before turning the phone so he can see the screen. "This is him, my boyfriend." Which is a lie, but this picture of Mac’s strong, dark arms wrapped around my shoulders smiling at me while I smile at the camera will no doubt put an end to this conversation. "Cute, right? He's FBI," I toss in for good measure, which isn't a lie.

This jackass doesn't need to know Mac is twenty years older than me, even though he doesn't look it, and more my mentor than boyfriend.

I release the breath I was holding at the curl of my boss’s lip as he takes in the picture. Without another word, he angles his head to the door and motions with his hand for me to leave his presence.

Finally.

As soon as the door clicks closed, I take a deep, steady breath in and slump against the wall. Frustrated tears build, at him and myself, threatening to spill down my cheeks.

No. Not here.

Hell.

Staring up to the ceiling, I attempt to rein in my emotions.

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