My Boss Hired Me To Pretend To Be Her Boyfriend—Then Refused To Cancel The Contract
Part 2
There was no immediate danger in the supply closet.
It was just an inconvenience.
But for Megan, it was the final straw in a week built on carrying too much weight.
She didn’t panic or scream.
She just stopped.
She sat down on a sturdy cardboard box of winter salt.
Reaching down, she unbuckled her high heels and let them drop to the linoleum floor.
“I can’t do it anymore,” she said quietly.
I stayed by the door, keeping my distance.
“Can’t do what?”
“Inventory.”
“Pretend,” she said, looking up at the fluorescent tube light humming above us.
“I hate the way he talks to me.”
“I hate that I smile when he does it.”
“I hate that I dragged you into the middle of a tavern and used you as a prop just so I wouldn’t look small.”
I let go of the door handle.
I walked over and sat down on a crate of printer paper next to her.
I didn’t tell her it was fine, and I didn’t say she shouldn’t feel that way.
“You didn’t look small,” I said.
“You looked like someone who was tired of being crowded.”
She turned her head to look at me.
The distance between us was suddenly very narrow.
There was no audience here.
No Craig, no tellers, nobody who needed us to be a couple or strictly professional.
Slowly, Megan tilted her head and let it rest against my shoulder.
It wasn’t a movie faint.
It was a heavy, real, exhausted lean.
The weight of her head against my collarbone was the most honest thing that had happened all week.
I felt the warmth of her through my shirt.
My breath caught in my chest.
I wanted to reach up and rest my hand against her hair.
I wanted to tell her I didn’t mind being her shield, that I would stand in front of Craig a thousand times if she needed it.
But I kept my hands folded in my lap.
I was terrified that if I touched her, she would realize what she was doing and pull away.
“If Friday goes well,” Megan murmured, her voice vibrating against my shoulder.
“What happens when we don’t have an excuse to pretend anymore?”
The question stayed between us, small enough to whisper and large enough to change everything.
Before I could answer, metal scraped outside the door.
The latch jumped once, then popped free.
Brenda stood there with a flathead screwdriver in one hand, looking horrified as Megan sat up instantly and slipped her shoes back on.
Friday morning, the day of the open house arrived.
I was in the back alley loading the final boxes into the van when Craig walked around the corner.
He had the sharp, impatient look of a man who wanted to solve a problem quickly.
“Greg,” he said, stepping closer.
“I haven’t heard back from you about the Asheville Summit.”
“I have an event here,” I said flatly.
Craig’s tone dropped into a low, confidential register.
“Megan is in a delicate position.”
“If she’s seen fraternizing with hourly staff, using her authority to play house with the logistics guy, it makes her look foolish.”
He was using my own insecurities against me, telling me my presence was a liability.
“If you care about her career at all,” Craig pressed, “you’ll take the Asheville job.”
Would I really ruin everything for her if I stayed?
