Page 115 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“Not for people who tell me sure when I’m being very romantic.”

We’re closer, somehow, our faces mashed into pillows, our linked hands between them. He’s just inside the space where I can see more or less clearly: rumpled and lazy, smile lines around his eyes, the hint of freckles across the tops of his shoulders, that long, faded scar wrapping around the side of his ribcage.

I take a deep breath, sigh it out, pretend to be annoyed. He’s not falling for it.

“Yes, Silas,” I say, over enunciating. “I would like to date you for fun.”

“Thank you,” he grumbles, and then he’s pulling me in for a kiss and his hand’s in my hair and the panic on the horizon stays away, just a little longer.

* * *

“I know what you’re doing.”

Evan’s voice cuts through the office, breaking an hour of very nice silence. I blink at him, not even sure he’s talking to me.

Then he finally looks up from his monitor, and gives me a flat look like he’s expecting an answer, so yeah, I guess it’s me.

“Answering emails?” I say, pointedly. “Was your first clue that you’re receiving way too many emails?”

For the past week, Evan’s had me CC him on every work email I send. All of them. Even the ones that say “yes” or “no, let’s hold off on that,” or “sure, I think that font is okay.”

All. Of. Them. Not to mention how many times he’s asked me what, exactly, my job description is, or whether I really have the right amount of experience for it, or maybe someone with a computer science degree instead of a geology degree would be a better fit?

“With Flynn,” he says.

Silas, he means, and I deliberately type the last line of an email and hit send before I look up again or let myself panic. Which I do, a little, that ever-present flame flickering higher while I hope it won’t catch this time.

“Yes. We’re dating,” I say, trying to match his tone. “Lovely that you’ve noticed, I guess.”

“Stalking me.”

I roll my eyes, even though my heart rate spikes. Don’t react, I tell myself. Just don’t react.

“Evan, I promise I’m not trying to spend more time with you,” I lie. Well, it’s not exactly a lie, only… a truth that’s sort of complicated.

“What did you tell her?”

“Tell who?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.

“Olivia.”

“I didn’t tell her anything.”

“You told her something to make her leave.”

The anxiety’s catching, like a match held to paper, and it doesn’t matter how straight I sit or how deeply I breathe right now.

“You think she needed me to tell her anything?” I ask, voice soft and demure even though I want to shout it. Like Olivia did, yesterday morning.

“I think you said something to her, yeah,” he says.

“Not a word,” I say, which is close to true. “She knows exactly who you are. She’s always known.”

Evan doesn’t say anything, just glares at me and I force myself to stare back even though my anxiety’s in full flame now, flickering through my body. It’s dangerous, because even though he’s not the one making hiring / firing decisions, he’s advising the guy who is. I should know better, and I don’t.

“Maybe she stopped being dumb enough to ignore it.”

He opens his mouth, but at exactly that moment a meeting reminder pops up on my screen, and I practically leap out of my chair.