Page 10 of Tempted By the Safety

He doesn’t answer that, which I’m learning is his answer to most things.

“I already said sorry,” I try instead, quieter. “So why are you still mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re doing a really convincing impression of mad, then, because from where I’m sitting this reads like mad.”

“I’m not mad, Milo.”

“Then something’s wrong. And I don’t get why you won’t just ask me instead of doing the thousand-yard windshield thing for thirty minutes straight.”

His eyes flick in my direction, the same look he gave my outfit this morning right before he told me it wasn’t office attire. It stays on me half a second longer than a driver should spend not looking at the road, and my stomach does an unhelpful little flip about it.

“You got a girlfriend somewhere,” he says, “unhappy you moved into some guy’s house to be his live-in assistant?” His eyes go back to the road before he adds, “Or boyfriend.”

I laugh, because that is not remotely where I expected this to go. “No jealous anybody. My love life currently consists of me and a plant I keep forgetting to water.”

“Then what?”

I could keep deflecting. It’s basically my whole professional skill set at this point. But his shoulders and the look in his eyes make me want to just tell him. So I give him the soft version.

“It’s my mom,” I say, watching the median blur past. “She’s going through kind of a rough patch. Landlord stuff, money stuff, the usual parade. She calls when it gets loud in her head, and I’m the only one who picks up.” I shrug, aiming for light. “My dad left when I was two, so it’s just been her, my brother Dean, and me. She’s been doing the single-mom thing for twenty years, and some days she’s great at it and some days not so much. Today happened to be one of the not-great days.”

I don’t look at him while I say it, because I’ve found that’s easier, but I feel him look at me, longer than before.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I can tell he means them. Spencer doesn’t seem like a man who spends sentences he doesn’t mean.

“It’s fine.” I wave a hand like I’m swatting the whole conversation out of the air. “It’s just a lot sometimes, that’s all, and I should’ve handled it better today instead of blowing up your meetings. It won’t happen again tomorrow, I promise. I’ll keep her outside work hours. I didn’t mean to bring my personal circus into your workday.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but the tapping stops. His hands ease off the wheel half a degree, and I count that as a win.

We drive another few minutes like that, the silence easier now, and I’m looking out the window watching the highway peel off into storefronts instead of overpasses, when I realize the turns aren’t matching up with anything I remember from the way in.

“Wait.” I sit up straighter. “This isn’t the way back to the house. Where are we going, boss?”

“Don’t call me boss.”

“Where are we going, then,sir?” I say it just to watch his jaw do the thing again, and it does not disappoint.

“There’s a store,” he says, ignoring the sir. “I can’t have you running around the office in that until your first paycheck clears.”

I look down at myself, at the crop top and the shorts. “Excuse me. This is a good outfit. It has range.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“It’s just too—” He stops himself.

My mouth curls before I’ve fully decided to let it. “Too cute? Too iconic? You’re gonna have to finish that sentence.”

“Too much,” he says finally, which is a non-answer, and I decide I’m not letting him off that easy.

“Too sexy?” I supply for him, watching his ears go a shade darker even though his face gives up nothing. “That’s what you’re not saying. You think I’m too sexy for the office.”

“I think you’re distracting my employees,” he says evenly.