Page 91 of Power Moves
I stalk off to the elevator and Boss follows.
When we make it to my door, I turn around to face him. ‘Thank you for walking me back,’ I say, attempting a sober voice. It sounds strangely British.
‘Are you drunk?’ he asks.
‘Absolutely not!’ I squeak. A lock of hair has fallen over my face but moving it will require a degree of coordination I currently lack.
‘I had fun tonight,’ says Boss with a smile. My spatial awareness must be faulty; he appears oddly close.
‘Thank you for dinner,’ I say, my accent now going full Surrey. I sound as though I’m ready to don tweeds and hunt foxes on horseback. I try to smile back at him in a grateful, earnest way, but I suspect I look more like a toothy shark than a demure employee.
‘Always a pleasure.’ Boss’s fingers reach up to move my hair back into place. This seems like a strangely intimate thing to do, and I’m about to laugh and point out the absurdity when I realise Boss is not smiling anymore. I blink, confused. Somehow he’s now cradling my face and his eyes are on mine and there’s something really weird about him being so close that I can see the stubble on his jaw.
‘Mill,’ he breathes, shifting closer.
My eyes widen. A solid and concrete realisation cuts through my drunken haze like a wrecking ball.WHAT THE EFFING—
His body presses me flush against the door. I try to gasp but his lips are on mine; one hand is on my waist and the other is on my neck, and holy fuck, he’shard.
Archie’s voice rings in my ear:You’re going to date your boss?I think I’m going to vomit.
‘Ha!’ I yelp. I wrench myself out of the space between his body and the door. I’ll pretend I thought he was going for a misdirected goodnight kiss on the cheek—though even that would be outrageously inappropriate.
‘Need bed,’ I say, avoiding unnecessary verbs and pronouns for maximum efficiency. I can’t look at him as I lever the heavy door open. My eyes are already clouded with tears. The door slams behind me and Boss is locked outside.
‘Mill?’ Boss calls through the door. He sounds confused, possibly annoyed.
‘I need to go to bed!’ I yell, as I chuck my handbag at my feet and race to the bathroom. My voice is as hard and spiky as broken glass.
I hang my head above the sink, my hair falling over my face. There is bile roiling in my stomach but I know I’m not going to spew. That would be too clean. That would be absolution. These churned-up feelings are going to fester in my gut like an ulcer. I splash water on my face and mascara runs down my cheeks and onto my blouse, staining it black. I don’t care. I’m crying. Tears and mascara drips are mingling like food dye in water. My throat is like razor blades. What am I supposed to do?
I pick up my phone and my thumb brings up my favourites list: my VIP contacts. The first name on the list makes me cry harder.Mum. It’s been six years and I still haven’t deleted her number. I wish I could call her now. I want to cry and for someone to tell me to let it out, tell me that I’m strong enough to get through this. My finger hovers sadistically over her number and I press down hard. A tinny voice responds instantly: ‘This number has been disconnected.’ I cry even harder. Why the hell did I do that to myself? I know she’s gone. I know she’s not coming back. I’ve known that for six years. And it’s all my fault!
I look at the other numbers on the list. Jessie is mad at me, I love Dad but this is beyond his parental capabilities, and obviously I can’t callBoss, so I punch the only other number on the screen. Maxy picks up almost instantly.
‘Hey, sis.’
‘Hey, Maxy.’ Just hearing his voice calms me. Stiffly, I wipe the tears from my cheeks.
‘What’s up?’
‘Oh, um … nothing.’My boss just kissed me against a hotel door.‘What are you up to?’
‘Just in the crib room waiting for the sparkies to fix up the crusher. I’ve been trying to change my Instagram algorithm by doing a really deep dive on that cow that lives in a house. Did you see the reels I sent you? It’s a two-tonne cow, and it lives in an actual house.’
Despite myself, I giggle, wiping new tears from my eyes. ‘Oh Maxy, I miss you so much.’
‘I’m coming home tomorrow. You’re coming to Dad’s barbeque too, right?’
‘You’re flying home for it?’
‘Yeah, Dad said it was important.’
Another wave of guilt engulfs me. Maxy is flying across state borders for this barbeque while I’ve truthfully never even entertained the thought of attending.
‘You’re coming, right?’
‘Yep, yep,’ I say, knowing that it’s still impossible for me to come, but I can’t bear the thought of disappointing him.
