Page 81 of Saved By the CEO

It’s been six days since the hotel room. I know we have to do the treatment soon. Preferably yesterday. Andrew has tried to bring it up multiple times, but I’ve managed to steer the conversation away each time.

Ireallydon’t want to do the treatment.

Which is inconvenient, considering the treatment is the only thing standing between me and a potentially fatal fever. I know that. And I am, in general, in favor of staying alive. Big supporter of not dying. But knowing it’s necessary doesn’t make it any easier to get through. It just makes the avoidance suck more.

Before the other night, I could still pretend the treatments existed in their own strange little bubble. Anything that happened behind a locked door could be blamed on RHV, physical proximity, and the fact that Andrew is disturbingly good with his hands.

Now that bubble is gone.

I’m still angry. I should be able to hold on to that anger without any complications. Instead, it keeps getting tangled up with the uncomfortable knowledge that part of me was glad he wanted to talk to me. Glad he thought about me. Glad I might not be the only one struggling.

But even if I’m right about that, it doesn’t change anything. He’s still my boss. Another treatment would only give us more to feel miserable about.

And what if I’m wrong? What if I’m lying there on his desk, reading meaning into every look and touch while he’s only trying to keep me alive?

I don’t think I could survive the humiliation.

Maybe the fever won’t come back this time? Dr. Shaw has made it very clear that RHV does not just go away on its own.However, Dr. Shaw also says they still don’t know enough about it because it’s only been around for a few months. Which means, technically, there could be exceptions. Maybe sometimes it burns itself out and nobody knows yet. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow completely fine, virus-free, cured through sheer stubbornness and avoidance.

Wouldn’t that be something?

At five-twenty, I shut down my computer and start putting things into my bag with the calm, efficient movements of a woman who is absolutely not running away from anything. Phone. Notebook. The charger I always forget and then complain about forgetting. I pull on my coat, keeping my eyes on my desk and not on the open door of Andrew’s office.

I can feel him in there.

Okay, no, I can’t. That would be insane. But Iknowhe’s in there, and I’m hyperaware of it, which is sort of the same thing.

I lift my bag onto my shoulder and head for the elevators.

“Carly?”

His voice comes from behind me before I’ve made it halfway across the corridor.

I keep walking, pretending I didn’t hear him.

“Carly.”

I reach the elevator and press the button.

Behind me, I hear his office door close.

The elevator dings.

Thank God.

The doors slide open, and I step inside quickly, turning around just as Andrew reaches the corridor. He stops several feet away, frowning.

Our eyes meet, and for half a second, I almost want to apologize.

I know you’re trying to look out for me.

I know I’m being stupid.

I’m sorry.

The elevator doors begin to close.

He doesn’t call my name again. He doesn’t step forward. He doesn’t make a scene in the middle of the executive floor. He gives me the dignity of pretending this is a normal departure at the end of a normal workday.