Boss of Me

Chapter Five

        "They respect you," he answers immediately. I know Mr. Griffin has every reason to lie to me, to say whatever he thinks he needs to say so that I'll comply and come back to work for him again, but I've listened to him talk for the last eight months. As much as I don't want to admit it, I know the inflections in his voice. I've heard countless conversations—not unlike ours—that involve something he wants. He's a sedulous negotiator, willing to do just about anything to close a deal or win over a buyer. And I know the difference between made-up bullshit and a sincere admission. This, startlingly, is the latter. "And even if they didn't, they listen to me. I'm their boss, and I want you as my content specialist. No one else. I've made that clear."

        I find myself nodding at his words, but I still can't come to terms with this. It doesn't make any sense. "Why?"

        Mr. Griffin glances away and readjusts himself on my couch. "Don't make me say it, Summer."

        Shit.

        More confusion rolls in, and I have to move this restless energy. "Hm. Okay. Let me think." I spin around and start pacing the living room. My dress flutters around my thighs, and Max exhales a ragged breath that's barely audible, but I hear it—of course I do. The urge to look over at him is stronger than ever, but somehow, I resist. Stopping, I plant my hands on my hips, feeling my resolve click into place again. "As much as I appreciate the offer. Really, I'm flattered. I'm gonna say no. Not unless you tell me why you're doing this. Why you're really here."

        For a moment, I'm greeted with silence. Heavy, thick silence. It manages to vibrate against my skin, even though it's just that—the absence of sound.

        "I need you at Elevated. You're the best PA I've ever had," he reveals, his voice dropping by at least an octave, and it jolts a flicker of heat through me. "You're more on top of what's going down at the company than the execs I pay a six-figure salary to be. When you started working for me, I knew you were overqualified, but I . . . I didn't want to lose you."

        Another sincere admission. 

        This one, however, hits me harder than it should. It tiptoes past all my usual defences, undetected. It's an emotional appeal, and it makes my ex-boss appear incredibly vulnerable—the second time in the past two weeks, not that I'm counting. As an empath, this is my other weakness. Something I have to compartmentalise and keep in check, at least when it comes to work.

        I didn't want to lose you.

        Nothing Mr. Griffin has ever said or done has led me to believe he feels anything for me other than cool indifference or quiet irritation. In fact, I think if you looked up the word professional in the Macquarie Dictionary, you'd find his devastatingly handsome headshot right there, alongside the definition.

        But this conversation doesn't feel professional anymore. And it doesn't feel like we're talking about my position at Elevated. It's veering into uncharted, dangerous territory.

        Unable to help myself, I finally peek over at him, enjoying the way the shadows of the small lamp dance over his face.

        "What're you thinking?" he asks, voice barely above a gruff whisper.

        "Stuff."

        "Now you're the one who's not sharing," he points out unhelpfully.

        "For good reason."

        "Tell me."

        "No."

        "Suit yourself. I'll just be here, napping," he hums, closing his eyes. "Let me know when you're ready to continue having an adult conversation."