Coldhearted Boss

by Grey, R. S.

  I have no choice but to stand to turn the lamp off. The cabin’s plunged into complete darkness. I have no clue what time it is. I don’t even feel tired, but there’s nothing else for us to do out here unless we want to kiss and make up, and right now we’re probably closer to biting than kissing.

  “Oh, and I wasn’t going to mention it because I knew you’d only accuse me of snooping, but what does it matter now? Your opinion of me can’t get any worse—”

  “Just say it,” I snap.

  I can sense her desire to strangle me as she speaks with a clipped tone. “A woman named Isla texted you while I was on the phone. I didn’t try to read it, but it popped up, and well…she’s wondering where you’ve been.”

  “So you read my text messages?” I ask, sounding pissed.

  “Like I said, I couldn’t help it. Also, I was a little curious. Who would possibly want to text you? Finding out it was a woman wanting to know where you were was shocking to say the least. She should count her blessings that she can’t find you. I’d love to be in that predicament.”

  I’m grinning now, utterly annoyed and yet entertained nonetheless.

  “Trying to get rid of me, Taylor?”

  “A girl can dream.”

  “Then why’d you come back to the cabin?”

  “It wasn’t by choice. In fact, last week, I slept in an old truck instead of bunking here with you. That’s how desperate I am.”

  In a truck? That’s where she’s been?!

  I turn onto my side and stare at the wall. Cicadas fill the quiet until Taylor speaks up again.

  “And just for the record, if I still had the option, I’d be in that truck right now.”

  “Are you going to keep doing that all night?”

  “What?”

  “Talking.”

  She growls and her sheets rustle as she turns over, probably facing the wall too, probably wondering how she can pull off killing me in my sleep.

  Chapter 18

  Taylor

  Isla…Isla…Isla… Who is she and why is she texting Ethan? If she were in my shoes, she’d know better. He’s not worthy of a text. He’s not worthy of a polite greeting at this point! He’s under my skin and going nowhere, and even when we’re not together, my annoyance and hatred of him seem to fester. He’s just so…so arrogant! And rude! And coldhearted! I cannot believe he hung up on my mom. It was my first phone call with her in two weeks where I could actually hear her clearly. All our previous calls were more like poor parodies of those old Sprint commercials. “Can you hear me now?”

  I truly thought he’d comply with my wish for a cabin change. He cannot want me sleeping above him every night, but then of course he does. He obviously finds happiness in tormenting me, and it makes sense. He thinks I stole money from him, and this is his way of punishing me.

  I want to text this Isla person and tell her to run for the hills. I want to ask her what she possibly wants with Ethan and also…yes, fine, I would also like to know more about her. What she looks like, what kind of personality she has, what her hobbies are. Purely for curiosity’s sake, I need to know what sort of woman Ethan finds attractive. Who could possibly thaw that frozen heart of his?

  Truthfully, I’m not sure it’s possible.

  The following week is proof of that. I wake up and get to work bright and early. I do my job insanely well—bringing Ethan his breakfast and lunch, tidying up around the cabin and the trailer, faxing, scanning, filing, taking messages, running notes to Robert and the subcontractors. After this, there’s only two more weeks of preparation before the concrete trucks arrive, so the crew works tirelessly to level the ground and prepare the site for foundation work. Robert walks me through all the steps and I’m grateful. If it weren’t for him, I’d have no idea that Ethan will be extra stressed this week and next. Concrete pours are time sensitive and extremely tricky, especially in a location like this. Concrete can’t sit in trucks more than a few hours or it won’t pour right and they’ll have to tear everything out and start over. The concrete also can’t be poured if it’s raining outside or if it’s too hot or too cold. The list goes on…

  Fortunately, that shouldn’t be a problem. Outside, it’s still a perfect 70 degrees most days and the crew works happily, soaking in the sun that breaks through the canopy of pine trees. I soak it up myself as I run from one task to another, building a killer tan and also a thin sheen of sweat. Not that it matters—everyone’s sweaty here. Compared to the guys, I smell like a rose.

  It’s weird without Jeremy, especially when lunch rolls around. Normally, we’d meet in line and share anecdotes about our morning (read: I’d complain about Ethan and things pertaining to Ethan) but now that he’s gone, it’s just me, in line, nodding hello at people, hoping I don’t stick out like a sore thumb.

  Max saves me when I run into him at lunch on Tuesday and he insists I sit with him even though Jeremy’s gone. I have reservations considering Max hasn’t exactly been shy about flirting with me and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. I’m not looking to pick up where we left off all those years ago. Fortunately, he addresses that.

  “I know without Jeremy here, you need a friend now more than ever. No strings, I swear.”

  So, I give in, and we eat lunch together the rest of the week. He and his friends are who I sit with at dinner too, and it’s nice, a little family of sweaty construction workers chowing down.

  I even work up the courage to ask Max how he’s been getting to and from the jobsite.

  “Oh, I ride out with Nolan. He’s got a truck, so there are like five of us who pile in.”

  Ah, that was the answer I was afraid of. Squeezing myself in as a sixth passenger doesn’t sound all that appealing, but I need to find a solution soon because Ethan made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me staying here on the weekends. More than that, I’d like to go home and see my mom and McKenna sometime soon.

  * * *

  Though I thought he would, Ethan doesn’t avoid the cabin all week. Neither do I—on principle. If he can survive in that tiny room, I can too. It’s a game we’ve unknowingly agreed to: Who Can Seem Less Affected. To hide out at the camp and slink in at midnight would be on par with admitting you have an issue with the other person. Not happening. We both return to the cabin right after dinner, when the sun is still up and there’s plenty of time left for annoying, passive aggressive behavior.

  He likes to take his sweet time putting on his workout clothes so I’m forced to avert my eyes for as long as possible. Because no, he never goes into the bathroom to change. He wants me to ask him to go into the bathroom. He wants me to admit I’m bothered by his naked torso. BUT I AM NOT.

  I take extra-long showers and steam up the whole cabin, ensuring my body wash is a lingering scent that clogs his nose for hours afterward.

  I bring in more wildflowers and set them up in jars around the room. That way, wherever he looks, he sees them and therefore has to think of me. It’s beautifully evil.

  Tuesday night, Ethan starts chatting on the phone precisely when I’m slipping off into dreamland. He proceeds to continue talking for what feels like hours but is probably only five minutes. I can’t tell who he’s talking to—it could be just a friend, but I bet it’s Isla, which is the only reason I lean over the side of the bunk and not-so-politely ask him to hang up the call so I can go to sleep.

  The next night, I borrow Mike’s guitar and strum a few chords, acting as if I’m teaching myself how to play. In reality, I produce nails-on-a-chalkboard level screeches for exactly one hour. Ethan doesn’t utter one complaint. I’m forced to give up because one of my fingers is about to blister.

  The bathroom is an easy place for friction since both of us have bedtime rituals we can’t forego. Brushing our teeth has turned into a shoulder-to-shoulder standoff, our arms moving quickly, toothbrushes swirling over teeth. We floss and brush like we have dentist appointments in an hour and we’re trying to prove we’ve kept up with our oral hygiene since the la
st time we lied about flossing. Our strokes are hard, aggressive, like we’re buffing away years of gunk. In reality, our smiles are pearly white. We take turns leaning over and spitting then rinsing. I dab my mouth with a towel and he does the same.

  That’s when I usually start to wash my face, but he doesn’t give me space. Of course he doesn’t, because I don’t give him space in the morning when he’s trying to shave. He crowds me, acting as though he still has reason to be in the bathroom.

  It’s infuriating.

  All of it.

  I can’t crack first. I refuse to tell him again how much I loathe rooming with him.

  Not only because it would give him untold pleasure, but also because it’s a flat-out lie. In reality, I would never, ever switch rooms. There is one part of life in this cabin that feels like a tiny gift, like the universe is trying to make amends with me. This is it: if I happen to wake up in the middle of the night and need to pee, I get to see Ethan asleep, quiet, nice, tucked in the bottom bunk, cast in moonlight. A bare-chested god, the planes of his hard face relaxed in sleep, he seems somewhat less intimidating but no less handsome. I’m beginning to think my body is waking me up to use the bathroom just so I can spy on him while he’s sleeping, but don’t worry—I’m not trying to get caught watching him like a creepy child in a horror film, so I cut my obsessive perusal of him down to the time it takes me to pass slowly from the bathroom to the ladder on our bunk bed. That way I never officially stop moving, maintaining plausible deniability if he happens to wake up. I’ll be mid-step. The explanation is obvious: Oh, just heading back from the bathroom, that’s all. So what if there’s drool on my chin? That could be from sleep. And my heavy breaths? Just had a night terror.

  Friday can’t come soon enough, though I’m no closer to solving my issue about my ride home. Max confirms again that he’s carpooling with a group of guys and it’s a full house. I could try to ask around, but I’m not that friendly with anyone else. They’re all proving to be pretty nice and welcoming, but asking them to drive hours out of their way to drop me off at home is just not something I’m comfortable with. I could look into a taxi if I had cell service or an internet connection, but it’s probably for the best because I can’t exactly afford to pay for a taxi.

  We did get paid today and my check was the full amount. My hands shook as I opened it up. It’s more money than I’ve ever earned in a single paycheck before. It might even be enough to cover the car repairs so my mom can get it out of the shop. I’m sure she and McKenna are both sick of asking people for rides.

  I pop the check in an envelope and address it. Max promised he’d drop it in the mail so my mom can deposit it in our joint account.

  Everything is settled except for my ride, and unfortunately, Ethan is suspicious.

  “When are you leaving?” he asks Friday evening in the cabin. He’s grabbing the last of the things he’s taking with him for the weekend and I’m pretending to do the same. Ah yes, one sock, can’t forget that.

  “Oh, my ride will be here any minute.”

  “How do you know? You have no cell reception.”

  I cast a tight, your-arrogance-has-no-effect-on-me smile over my shoulder. “Call it a hunch.”

  “Then I’ll wait for you,” he says, straightening to his full height, which is annoyingly large.

  “No need. I wouldn’t want to keep you from Is—your weekend plans.”

  I nearly said Isla, and he still smirks, fully aware of where my thoughts were headed.

  “You’re right. I do have plans I’d like to get to. Have a good weekend.”

  Once that door slams closed behind him and I know he’s a good distance away, I lie back on the bottom bunk and heave a deep breath. Truthfully, I’m tempted to let out a barrage of expletives that outlines every single feeling I have toward Ethan. I want to shout every single word I’ve had to keep bottled up all week so that by the end, the walls would blush, but I just don’t have the energy.

  Being around him zaps it right out of me. I have to be on, aware, and mentally present at all times. He keeps me on my toes, and my toes are tired, and I should not have collapsed onto this bunk because it smells like Ethan. It’s a smell I can’t quite categorize. Normally scents are either good or bad. Some thrust you right back to a favorite memory, like freshly sharpened pencils and elementary school. Ethan’s scent—masculine, woodsy, fresh—makes my stomach flip over and my chest ache right near my heart.

  I roll off his bunk and step away, scared of what that smell could do to me if I let it linger.

  Then I realize I’m stuck here, all alone. Again.

  The fact is, I have no ride home, and even though Ethan told me not to, I’m going to have to stay here over the weekend. I’ll just have to be careful. No long leisurely baths on Sunday afternoon. In fact, no baths ever. Also, I should probably make it look as if I return to camp after him, just so he doesn’t think even for one second that I might have disobeyed him.

  Plotting out how to do that eats up the first half of my Saturday at the lake, the second half of my day consumed by reading. Oh yes, I found another book. This one was tucked in one of the mess hall cupboards, and I found it while I was cleaning this week. It’s a well-worn romance from the 70s. The pages are so yellowed they’re nearly brown, but I tear through that puppy and enjoy every delicious glance, every teasing innuendo and playful conversation between the hero and heroine. It gets my loins burning and I’m forced to swim in the lake as a reprieve because there is no man in sight to soothe this ache—no man in the whole entire state, it seems.

  I walk back out of the water and shake my limbs, flinging water everywhere. Then I lie back down on my towel and pick up the book.

  Though I wish I didn’t, I think of Ethan with Isla. I imagine her just like how the author describes the heroine in my book: tall, blonde, effervescent. What a word. Can a woman wearing oversized jeans and work boots even attempt effervescence? I hate Isla on principle.

  I glance down and take in my wet t-shirt clinging to my curves. My underwear peeks out just below the hem, and I think of when Ethan accidentally walked in on me bathing last week, how there was no time for me to register my nakedness because I was too preoccupied with getting caught reading his book.

  Now, I indulge the memory, twisting it into a create-your-own-adventure story in my mind. I imagine that in another world, Ethan strolls in and loses himself at the sight of me, lounging there, breasts barely visible over the top of the water. Maybe in this world, we’re friends, more than friends. Maybe in this world, he strolls over and uses his hands—the hands I’ve only seen doing busy important boss things—to pick up my soap and washcloth and start to bathe me. I tuck my knees up against my chest, rest my cheek on my knee, and sit patiently while he starts on my lower back. The towel drags up my spine and I groan with pleasure in the simple act of him touching me with reverence and awe. No one’s touched me like that before. Gently, beautifully.

  Even in this other world, though, Ethan isn’t the perfect gentleman, and what starts out as an innocent bath tips toward something more playful when he tugs on my shoulders and forces me to recline, legs stretched in front of me.

  He kneels down behind me, outside of the tub, and uses his hands to soap and lather my chest, creating a wake of bubbles between my breasts and down across my stomach. My head tips back against the lip of the tub, my eyes flutter closed, and he continues south. His mouth slants over my neck and his lips press against my pulse point just as his hand slides between my thighs.

  Oh, Ethan.

  OH, ETHAN!

  I snap back to reality and fling the book away from me like it’s a hot potato, realizing what I’m doing: fantasizing about him! A man I loathe! A man who brings out the worst, most childish side of me. Even this line of thought seems like another mark added against him, though rationally I know he had nothing to do with it. But didn’t he? He’s the one who sleeps in our cabin without a shirt on. He’s the one who purposefully walks out of the bathr
oom with a low-slung towel around his hips.

  Of course, it would be best to handle this as an adult and tell him I’m not comfortable with the lengths he’s resorting to in an effort to get a reaction out of me.

  Instead, I wonder if two can play his game.

  Chapter 19

  Taylor

  Sunday evening, I kill two birds with one stone. I carry all of my clothes to the mess hall and hide out in there doing my laundry, that way when Ethan arrives back at the cabin it’ll look like I’m still gone for the weekend.

  My plan works flawlessly until he strolls by the window and sees me sitting up on the washing machine, finishing my book.

  I hear his voice before I see him.

  “When did you get back?”

  I jerk out of my reading haze and slam the book closed, glancing up in time to see him lean his tall frame against the doorjamb. He’s wearing jeans and a white cotton t-shirt. Somehow, it’s the best he’s ever looked.

  “Not long ago,” I say with a casual shrug.

  “Huh.”

  His eyes are narrowed, but his mouth is edging toward an amused smirk.

  “What?” I snap, my good mood wiped clean in five seconds flat.

  He tips his head toward the dryer. “It just seems odd. I watched you pack all your stuff on Friday before you left.”

  I glance down at the machine currently filled with my clothes, tumbling them dry.

  “So?”

  “So…you lugged everything home only to repack it and bring it all back here to wash?”

  I won’t admit defeat so easily.

  I arch a sardonic brow. “Are you always this obsessed with other people’s laundry habits?”

  His smile stretches. His dimple pops. He seems to be enjoying this far too much. And well, of course he is. He’s caught me. “Did I not make myself perfectly clear when I told you no one is allowed to stay here on the weekends unless you get prior approval?”