Page 12 of Kissing the Boss
"This is insane." He glances at Cassandra. "He has you brainwashed or something. What, you're part of some small-town cult now?"
"Goodbye, Ryan." Her voice is steadier now. "Don't call. Don't visit. It's over."
He stares at her for a long moment, then shakes his head in disgust. "Your loss. Good luck playing country bumpkin with your grease monkey boyfriend."
The office door slams behind him. Through the window, I watch him storm toward a shiny black Mercedes parked at the curb. Dale and Mike, bless them, have positioned themselves near the car, arms crossed, making it clear that he's being watched.
The silence in his wake feels heavy. I turn back to Cassandra, who hasn't moved from her chair.
"You okay?" I ask, gentling my voice.
She nods, then shakes her head, then lets out a shaky laugh. "I don't know."
"He's gone."
"For now." Her hands are still trembling slightly. "I'm sorry about that. I never thought he'd track me down here."
"Nothing to apologize for." I want to touch her so badly it's a physical ache—to smooth back her hair, to take her hands in mine, to pull her against my chest where I can keep her safe. Instead, I lean against the desk, giving her space. "Want to talk about it?"
"Not much to say." She stares at her hands. "Classic story. Girl meets charming guy. Guy turns out to be controlling jerk. Girl finally finds the courage to leave."
"Seems like you found plenty of courage to me."
"I don't feel very brave right now." Her voice drops to a whisper. "No one's ever stood up for me like that before."
I imagine her alone, defending herself against that arrogant prick, with no one in her corner. Something fierce and protective unfurls in my chest.
"Well, get used to it." The words come out gruff. "That's how things work here."
"In Whitetail Falls? Or at Cox Auto Repair?"
"Both." I almost reach for her then, my hand lifting before I catch myself. "Listen, if he comes back, or if he contacts you, I want to know."
"Going to defend my honor again?" There's a hint of teasing in her voice, some of her spark returning.
"Damn right I will."
Her eyes widen slightly at my vehemence, and I realize I've let too much show. Too much of whatever this is that burns between us, this thing I'm fighting and failing to control.
"My knight in greasy armor," she says softly, a smile tugging at her lips.
The tension breaks, and I let out a surprised laugh— a real one, rusty from disuse. Her answering smile is like sunrise, warm and bright and full of promise.
"Pretty sure knights are supposed to be shining, not greasy," I manage.
"Overrated." She waves a dismissive hand. "I prefer the kind that can fix a carburetor."
"Water pump," I correct automatically.
"See? So much more useful than a sword."
We're both smiling now, the heaviness of Ryan's visit receding. But something fundamental has shifted. The careful distance I've been trying to maintain feels paper-thin, ready to tear at the slightest touch.
Because now I know. I know she's been hurt. I know she came here looking for safety, for belonging. And every instinct I have is screaming to be the one who gives that to her.
Boss or not. Professional boundaries be damned.
The rest of the day passes in a strange limbo. We work side by side, maintaining the pretense of normalcy, but the air between us has changed. Every accidental brush of fingers when she hands me paperwork, every shared glance, every moment our eyes meet and hold a beat too long—it all feels charged with something inevitable.
