“What were you even doing?” I snap. “Why was I in that position?”
“I…” He reaches for the collar of his shirt, tugs. “We were talking.”
“Iknowwe were talking, Mr. Anders. I even rememberwhatwe were talking about. You tried to get me to agree to astupidbet. Fake dating. Bets.Whyare you so dead set on bringing to life myleastfavorite tropes?” I recall that I am talking to my boss and bite my tongue. Turning my face away from him, I temper myself, take cooling breaths, then mutter, “Ugh.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Why was I in that position? If you’re capable of such a feat, tell me thetruth.”
His office chair creaks, and heavy steps approach. By the time I’ve opened my eyes and turned, he’s got his hand braced against the backrest of my chair. Caged in, I sit beneath him. “You want me to be honest?” he asks, voice tantalizingly low.
I shiver. “Yes. Of course.” Honesty is all we have. It’s all anyone has.
“It’sreallynot obvious?” he presses.
I stare up at him, and blink. “What’s supposed to be obvious?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he steps back and falls into the chair across from me, sighing.
I…am deeply confused.
Is he allergic to honesty or something?Thatmuch seems almost obvious.
“Mr. Anders, why can’t you just tell me?”
His eyes snap open, brows heavy above them. “Because. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m under contract through February, and I’d rather not have to move again so soon even if this matter of unwelcome public displaying is deeply distressing. I think we should just make an effort to not be seen together. At all. Ever again.”
He winces. “I still think it’d be safer for you if we fabricate a dull relationship for a little while.”
I cross my arms. “We arenotfake dating!”
“Then it doesn’t need to be fake!” he booms.
“Ew, no.”
He winces, again, more violently. Then he clutches his fist, swings his head to the side, heaves a breath, and presses his clutched hand to his mouth. Heavily breathing, he sits like that for a little while.
I replay what I just said.
Okay.
Maybe it was a little harsh to sayew. But. Come on. He’s myboss. And he’s nearly adecadeolder than me. We are notfakedating and we areabsolutely notgoing torealdate, either.
Unwinding my arms, I thread my fingers together in my lap. “I apologize. That was crass of me. I likely should have said,no, thank you, sir.”
“You don’t need to censor yourself with me,” he mutters against his fingers. “You said what you meant, exactly how you meant it.”
Yes. Well. I cross my ankles, innocently.
I understand where hethinkshe wants me uncensored, because maybe he’s a little too probe yourselfand grew up with too much Disney Channel or something, but also he’s clearly having amomentbecause of what I said. I fear he doesn’t understand what it means to be in a position that controls my job security and living quarters.
I need to watch myself. Be respectful. And absolutely, one hundred percent completely, get back to heavy censorship…
Tapping the pads of my thumbs together, I watch him, respectfully waiting as long as I can before saying, “So we’ll just not be seen together ever again? Perpetually?”
He drops his face into his full palm.
“If you want someone to go out and do things with, I have all the guys’ numbers.”
His eye twitches before his gaze slices toward me.
