Page 16 of Under Locke & Key

Why does he have to be so . . . so . . . Ugh.

It’s impossible to focus. All morning has been me trying my best to be professional, to ask the right questions and toe the proper line.

I have to make a good impression. I can’t afford to mess this up.

My rent’s been paid for the month and Farren texted me that they might have a subletter, but I’m hanging on by my fingertips when it comes to cash flow and this job is the only thing standing between me and having to slink back home—a disappointment.

It’s for that very reason that I am incredibly pissed at my inner comments throughout the location scouting experience. Because, despite her usual propensity for snarkiness and pulling me back on track through deprecation, my inner voice has latched onto something else to focus on.

Namely, Bryce Locke Dawson—my cute, definitely kind of shy and surprisingly vulnerable boss.

So different from the picky, arrogant assholes in D.C.

walking around like their biology alone is something I should bow down to.

Bryce’s got that fucking Hallmark Christmas movie hero vibe and despite how awful I pretend those movies are, I still swoon when Mr. Small Town shows up in his laid back outfits after all the stuffy suits.

That henley, man . . . Whoa. You know, those romance writers have it right. It’s definitely a main character type of outfit. Between Hallmark movies and my secret romance stash on my kindle, he’s definitely swoonworthy.

Stop. No. We are not doing this right now.

I grip my menu tighter, my eyes blurring on words, skimming all the way from gyoza to the lunch bento without seeing a single descriptive ingredient.

How can I when my mind keeps getting tripped up on that moment in the car?

Bryce rested his arm on my seat, backing into the parking spot with no help from a fancy little back camera.

Just gripped the headrest in his big hand, the heat off his body close enough to feel, and a whiff of either his body wash or cologne sending my head spinning.

Boss, boss, boss, I chant to myself.

Married. Married. Married.

I am not this kind of woman. I don’t step in places where I don’t belong.

Every Friday at the bar I am careful to check for rings, to talk and gauge, and make sure that my momentary lapse—my stupid need for companionship—doesn’t ruin it for someone else.

Maybe he’s hot to me because I know he’s unavailable and therefore I can’t and won’t pursue anything—a form of self preservation to protect me from getting hurt.

It’s been a long time since I let myself be vulnerable in front of another person, and the response made it so I don’t really want to do it again.

My ex-girlfriend Riley was understanding, until she wasn’t.

What we were worked, until it didn’t. Riley had no qualms about blowing up our relationship and someone else’s by cheating because my weakness scared her.

So, I go out on Friday nights, and I find something meaningless to tide me over until it stretches too long or I get too tired of pretending.

I’ll have to find a pub or a bar to socialize nearby.

I’m lucky that ángel wasn’t working and expecting me at the bar this weekend but I’ll have to actually call him and let him know that I’m officially no longer in D.C.

and our tradition will have to be on hiatus until I get back.

I’ve been too scared to tell him. Like that will finally make it all real even when the job and the apartment don’t.

If you go back .

What? Of course I’m going back. This is a temporary position, once I’m more financially secure and I’ve had a chance to find my footing in the freelance community—or something more permanent again—I’ll be back.

Where you started?

I so do not have time for this. I’m trying to focus on the present and the moment I find myself in—the space I find myself in. So much has changed in a week, it’s astounding to me.

Bryce’s leg is bouncing under the table and I don’t think he even notices how it’s making the little floral arrangement on the table rock.

Is he nervous too or is it a regular thing for him?

I find myself wanting to figure out how he thinks, what’s going on behind those gold-flecked eyes and too-serious expressions.

He’s not . . . grumpy, exactly. But he has an air to him that says something is weighing on him.

Bryce was kind enough to set me at ease when I worried that I was overstepping, driving the situation and the conversation with Jim.

It’s refreshing to know that I’m not “in the way” or that my initiative isn’t intimidating him.

It’s few and far between that I’ve met people—men especially—who are willing to admit they don’t know what they’re doing and need help.

I didn’t miss the way his lips parted in surprise when I didn’t make a big deal of his opening up to me.

But I’d want the same. I’d want it to just be normal.

It’s hard enough telling the truth when you’re afraid of what it says about you without the other person making you feel self-conscious.

Today was—exciting. Each building had its own character and imagining how things could look in the space we were in was a challenge I hadn’t considered and far more fun than I thought it would be.

Being outside of a cubicle, away from gray walls, squeaky rolling chairs and the constant clack of fingers on keyboards was so refreshing I’m worried I might not be able to return to it if this keeps going well.

Don’t celebrate early. There’s plenty that can still go wrong.

My stomach grumbles, pulling me from my head. Fuck. I need to focus.

Settling on the first thing that sounds good, I place my order with our waiter, and Bryce follows suit. His voice is a low rumble against the torrent of my thoughts, soothing.

Stop .

I switch tactics.

“So, how do you think today went?” I ask, desperate to center myself in this conversation and avoid more thoughts. Plus, I am curious about his opinion. He didn’t really share it while we were on location.

“Not awful. It’s going to be a lot of work and I think I didn’t realize until today just how much is going to be required. Obviously, I could go for a strip mall or something else that’s a quick fix of flimsy walls. But I want character. I want downtown, charm, and history.”

I get it. My eyes have been glued on every inch of Dulaney I’ve been able to see.

Downtown is especially interesting because you can tell when certain parts were built.

Some homes and businesses have a solidly colonial feel to them but there are a good share of Victorian style buildings as well.

Turrets and trim, and colorful accents that seem at odds with the stoic and serious white or brick squares with shutters on each window and a door in the middle.

Gingerbread houses and George Washington.

D.C. had its own flair and influences from all over the world, but in Dulaney those influences feel .

. . closer and more intimate. “I think you’re off to a good start.

Once you’ve decided on a building we can brainstorm some room themes and puzzle ideas for me to work on while things get fixed up. ”

His sigh is unmistakable and I get the feeling that he’s trying hard to hide how overwhelmed he is. I get it. I would feel the exact same way if the roles were reversed.

“Speaking of working together. I’ve got a contract for you in the car.

I meant to give it to you earlier but I was caught up in location scouting.

It includes your asks on health care, maximum hours, and that share you mentioned.

My mo—managerial person who’s been advising me drew it up.

Please take a look at your leisure. If you see anything you don’t like or want changed, let me know.

You can text me when it’s done or just give it to me the next time we get together for work. ”

Bryce props his chin up on his fist, elbow on the table, and again I hear my mom’s insistence on proper manners and elbows off the table rear its head.

She’s drowned out fairly quickly by the grating voice in my head that’s latched onto the image of his shirt sleeve pushed up to the crook of his elbow, his forearm out for all to see.

God, I need to calm down. This isn’t the Victorian Era and I’m not some scoundrel panting over a flash of ankle.

He’s my boss. He’s also like three feet away and staring directly at him is getting a little overwhelming.

“That sounds great! I uh—I’ll be right back.

” I scoot out from the booth and turn back to face him. Why, I don’t know.

He’s got a question on his face so I blurt, “Ladies room,” before scurrying off to some area behind Bryce even though I have no idea where it is in the first place.

Rounding the corner, I target the first employee I see and they very kindly point me in the right direction.

Staring at myself in the restroom mirror—my eyes wide and cheeks flushed, my hair a little windblown from our walking—I can see the underlying fear and excitement in my eyes.

I want this to work. I need this to work.

With student loan bills, my parents’ ever-looming expectations, and my desire to prove I’m more than just a fucking skirt at a keyboard, I can’t afford for it not to.

My phone buzzes in my hand, a text message from my parents popping up and dread replacing the excitement in my reflection.

Mom

Hope you are well.

Your father and I are having a good time at Bethany beach before all the tourists arrive for the season.

How is work going?