Page 23 of Miss Understood

Oddly, that feels like enough. His presence, and whatever this is that forces him to drag me away from the scene, is a statement. It’s almost like he’s protecting me, as stupid as that sounds in my head. Because Jesse only cares about himself and his image.

Appearances and all.

He doesn’t let go until the door to his office clicks behind us.

“What was that?” I ask him as he paces back and forth in front of the window.

Jesse runs his palm over the stubble on his jaw. “Mateo’s idea of a welcome home gift?” He lets out a frustrated laugh.

“This isn’t funny. This is my career.” My hands are clenched fists.

“You think I don’t know that?” He walks over to me, and we’re in that standoff I’m used to, inches apart. Frustrated and out of breath before we’ve even said anything. And all I can think about is him in my bed, and how good it felt waking up next to him that morning, whether I realized it at the time or not.

Dangerous thoughts I need to shake loose.

“What are we going to do?” I ask him

He steps back and sits against his desk. “Fuck,” he says.

Not exactly the answer I was hoping for. I clasp my hands on my forehead as the room starts to spin. I can feel them out there, the people, everyone we work with. Colleagues who took me seriously. Feared me. Didn’t question my decisions. People I now feel whispering and speculating on the other side of the wall, even if I can’t hear them.

One moment flushing my reputation down the drain.

“Luce?”

I look up, and Jesse’s eyes are on me. Another expression I’ve never seen before reminds me that there’s so much I don’t really know about him. His eyebrows crinkle, and his jaw is tense.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

I’m a failure.

I’m a fraud.

This is all they’ll see in me from now on.

But even if Jesse is technically my husband, I don’t say any of those things to him. Because as much as I poke at Jesse for caring about what people think, I’m worse. Constantly worrying that the inexperienced blonde they don’t take seriously will become the person I am. And I can never let him see that.

“We need a plan,” I say.

His eyes are reading me like a lying client, but he lets me get away with it anyway.

“This looks bad,” he says.

I nod.

“I’m your boss,” he says.

Another nod, or maybe my head never stopped bobbing.

“You’re my employee.”

“All facts,” I tell him, trying to move him along.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m just a little caught off guard.”

“You and me both,” I say, dipping my chin. “I look like some cheap Vegas fling.”

His eyes move back to mine, and he steps forward. “You aren’t.”

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