Page 44 of Claimed By the Boss

“I just don’t want you to miss your window,” she adds.

“This isn’t the sixties, Aunt Judy,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “The window is a myth.”

She chuckles. “You young girls always say that, but there’s definitely a window. It’s just easier to ignore when you’re young. But one day you wake up and realize that the window has passed and you’ve missed your chance to have a family.”

“Are we seriously talking about ticking clocks right now?”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying, you’re smart and beautiful. You should be sharing that with someone who’s going to stick around.”

My throat tightens. I picture Damien, all sharp angles and dark intentions. He’s methodical and precise. He has his sweet moments too, but he’s not someone I can picture in a cardigan posing for a Christmas photo or holding a screaming toddler.

I force a laugh. “God, you sound like a Hallmark movie.”

She smiles, completely unbothered. “At least Hallmark movies have happy endings.”

“Yeah,” I say. “If you ignore the parts that would never happen in real life.”

The check arrives a minute later, saving me from further commentary. I pay before she can argue. Her rule is that whoever picks the place doesn’t pay, but truthfully, she’s picked up the tab most of my life. When it’s all settled, we bundle up to head outside. The air is brisk enough to make my nose run and my fingers stiff. She kisses my cheek, promises to text me a casserole recipe I’ll never make, and waves as she disappears into her building.

I pull my coat tighter around me and flag down a cab. It’s a quiet ride. The driver doesn’t talk at all and we’re only left with the soft hum of his radio. I rest my forehead against the cool glass and let my mind wander.

I think about work. I think about the app I’ve been trying to debug all week. I think about Damien’s hand on my thigh last night under the dinner table and the way he said my name when he dropped me off at my place this morning.

Then, three blocks from home, a strange feeling hits.

It starts as a tickle at the nape of my neck, an unease I can’t quite name. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then to the sidewalk outside, then behind us, but there’s no obvious danger. No one is staring at me from the shadows. There’s no car following too closely.

But the feeling lingers, a heightened awareness of being watched.

I shake it off. I’m not the type to spiral into paranoia, but in New York anything could happen. But it doesn’t fade, even after the cab lets me out at the curb and drives off with a soft hum. The hairs on my arms lift.

I turn casually, pretending to adjust the strap of my purse, and scan the sidewalk behind me.

There’s nothing there.

Still, I move faster than usual. My keys are already between my fingers as I reach the front door of the apartment building, and I don’t let go of them until I’m locked inside. The foyer is warm, softly lit, and empty. I press the button for the elevator and watch the numbers descend.

One floor, then two, then three.

I turn one last time and nothing awaits me.

The elevator dings. I step inside and lean against the mirrored wall, exhaling. It’s probably just my aunt’s comments throwing me off. Or maybe I’m tired. Or maybe it’s the guilt I’ve been feeling since I started sleeping with Damien.

The elevator doors open. I walk quickly to my apartment, slide the key into the lock, and shut the door behind me with a quiet click.

I’m safe now.

I set my bag down and head to the kitchen, flipping on the lights as I go. The familiar comfort of my apartment wraps around me like a blanket, and I start to breathe a little easier. Still, I glance toward the window. The city glows beyond the glass, quiet and alive. I tell myself there’s no one there. But I don’t completely let go of that feeling of unease.

When I wake up the next morning, I smell something terrible. When I go into the kitchen, the first thing I see is the coffeemaker. I approach it slowly, like it may bite me, and sure enough, that’s the source of the horrid smell.

It’s very weird. I love coffee. I basically live on coffee. But now, the scent is like wet dirt and sour metal. My hand jerks away from the coffee pot, and I have to press the back of my hand to my mouth to keep from gagging.

Becca looks up from her spot at the table, a bowl of oatmeal in front of her and a thick book cracked open beside it.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, though I probably don’t look convincing. “Yeah. Just, ugh. I think something’s wrong with these coffee beans.”