Page 38 of Grumpy Boss's Secret

I lifted my sticky notepad and hurled it at him. He ducked out of the way and shut the door. Quietly. Like someone who was tiptoeing away. He didn't come back after that. I stifled the remaining tears for nothing.

Chapter Sixteen

It was Kirk's turn to email me back. He didn't. I felt as if Ian knew I knew it was him and had somehow guessed that I was Zee. He avoided me over email like he tiptoed out of my office yesterday.

"He can't know, though," I told myself as I kneaded dough in my apartment that night. I was making cinnamon rolls. I planned on leaving them in the breakroom tomorrow. Nothing is therapeutic quite like baking, especially when it involves punching a blob of dough.

“Ian might know that I read his book” – my cheeks flushed at the prospect – “but Kirk doesn’t know I’m Zee. There’s no way for him to know. We haven’t shared enough personal details for him to guess.”

The only reason I'd been able to guess was because of Ian's secret Instagram. I hadn't looked at his Instagram page since before yesterday. I'd sworn I would never look at it again. But now, I reached for my phone with flour-caked fingers and tapped my way there. The same kind of self-destructive itch caused people to scratch at scabs.

A new post. I leaned forward over my counter, getting even more flour on the front of my apron. I didn't notice. It was a picture of a book lying open on a table. My book. Kirk's book. One of my favorite parts of the book – the two pages he'd photographed – was covered in underlines and drawn hearts in pink gel pen. I felt he'd just posted a diary page online without my permission.

I should have been mad. I wasn’t. I looked at the caption. “Women are meant to be loved, not understood,” I read aloud. “Oscar Wilde.”

I leaned back, trailing a miniature dust storm of flour in my wake. “What…but…does he mean me?”

My heart was pounding. I wanted to have hope again. What else could he possibly mean if it wasn’t me? It made sense that it was about me. I knew he was confused about how I’d reacted to him today. He didn’t know that I knew that I was the other woman.

“But he…”

Then I scowled.

“There’s probably two of us,” I said. “He’s leading two women on. Having feelings for both of us. Trying to two-time both of us. Not today, Satan.”

I sucked on my teeth, still warmed despite myself at the thought that he did have feelings for me after all.

"No, Jozi," I said. "That's silly. He isn't pursuing you. You hooked up accidentally once – he hasn't made romantic gestures towards you."

But he had feelings for me anyway? Maybe…maybe he would fall in love with me instead. Perhaps he would leave this other woman for me.

“No,” I said firmly, squashing that thought. “I will not be that kind of girl. As long as I know there’s another woman, he doesn’t have a chance with me.”

I continued to knead the dough fiercely.

"It doesn't matter. He isn't pursuing me. All I need to do is keep my head down, and his crush on me will disappear. The first thing I should do is get my book back."

I paused. I didn't really want it back anymore. That book was filled with my love for Kirk. I'd lost Kirk. I didn't want tangible memories of how I'd felt about him lying around my apartment. After all, letting Kirk – Ian – keep it felt fitting. Like a last gift to him before I let him go. A token of appreciation for what he'd written and what I'd loved about him.

I carried the cinnamon rolls into the breakroom the next day when I got to the office. They were gooey and moist and fluffy. Absolutely perfect. Too bad my mood was hard and crusty and shriveled. I walked to my office, my eyes on my shoes, my mind on my to-do list, as a distraction. I hadn't slept well that night and had an irritating feeling that I wouldn't be productive at work that day.

I opened the door to my office and froze. Roses. A gorgeous bouquet of pink roses was sitting on my desk. I shut the door behind me and marched over to the card.

Dear Jozi, Your temper is red, I am blue, and these roses are for you. I’m not a poet. Ian

I wrinkled my nose, suppressing a laugh. It was a cute card. An adorable card. I plucked the roses from their vase and dropped them into my trash. Then I picked up the vase and carried it primly down the hallway to the breakroom. I dumped the water out and set the vase on the counter next to the sink.

Here he was, pursuing me. He would have given me daisies or something if it had been a purely friendly token. Your temper is red. My mouth twitched.

"Yes, it is, Ian," I murmured as I shut my office door and sat behind my desk. "Don't try to turn me into the other woman."

I felt terrible for those poor roses lying head-down in my trash can, but I didn't rescue them. The jolt of adrenaline that the incident had brought carried me into my workday with more vigor than I'd expected. I got my work done early. Then I got a little ahead. By three o'clock, I was ready to leave early.

“It’s not my first day here anymore,” I decided. “I’m just going to leave.”

On my way out, I said hello and goodbye to Janet and took the elevator downstairs. I could pick up my cinnamon roll bowl tomorrow.

I went home, ordered Thai takeout, drank wine, and watched Game of Thrones. I felt good about what I'd done. It wasn't nice of me to be angry without telling him why, but he knew that he was messing around with me – at least emotionally – when he shouldn't be. I didn't want to confess to following him. Let him think I was a crazy, mean lady and get over me that much faster.

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