Temp (Milford College Book 5)

by Noelle Adams

  “What?”

  “We’re okay? You’re not... I’m sorry about earlier today. We’re okay?”

  “Yes, we’re okay. I told you before that it’s fine.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes people say that but don’t really mean it. Sometimes they’re still upset, and then it comes back out later.”

  “Well, I mean it. I’m not still upset. And I do appreciate the cupcakes, but they really weren’t necessary.”

  “You deserve them,” he says in a low mumble. He’s not looking at me anymore.

  I slow my walk and lean toward him without thinking. “What did you say?”

  He scowls again. “You heard me.”

  “I’m not sure that I did. I might have misunderstood. It sounded like you said something nice.” I really am trying not to grin in delight, but I doubt I’m fooling anyone.

  His scowl intensifies, but his eyes are warm. Almost fond. “You heard me. You deserve the cupcakes. You’ve done really good work. Plus you put up with me. Not everyone can do that.”

  “Well, it’s good practice in patience for me. I’m sure it will come in handy later in my life.” I’m laughing for real now. Spilling over with soft, warm feelings. I know it’s dangerous to feel this way, but I’m not sure how I’m supposed to stop myself.

  Liam really shouldn’t be this adorable. It’s not entirely fair.

  He chuckles now too, the amusement transforming his face. “You really have done a great job,” he murmurs, a husky note entering his voice and giving me chills.

  I lick my lips. “Thanks.” With a ragged breath, I add, “I’m actually surprised that I’ve managed okay at the job. It’s not really the kind of work I’m good at.”

  “I think you’re good at it. Why wouldn’t you be good at it?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’m basically an organized person, so that helps. I like to follow instructions, and I don’t mind routine. But I’m not naturally outgoing. I hate making phone calls. I don’t like telling people no. These are not things that incline one toward an administrative assistant’s job.”

  We’ve reached my car, but he doesn’t hand me the box of cupcakes. He leans against my driver’s door with a thoughtful expression. “Yeah. I see what you mean.” Then he frowns. “Why do you hate to make phone calls?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just terrible. Calling someone out of the blue. Not being able to see the person on the other end of the line. Trying to explain myself. I hate it.” I shrug and lean against the car beside him. “I really, really hate it, and I’ll go way out of my way to get something done if it means avoiding a phone call.”

  He’s laughing softly again. His eyes rest on my face.

  I’m suddenly overwhelmed with attraction and affection. As if the only thing in the world I want to do is hold on to him. Rub myself against him. The feeling is so strong that I have trouble resisting it.

  Wrenching my eyes away from his, I search desperately for something safe and casual to say. “So anyway, the phone calls aside, it hasn’t been too bad working here.”

  “But I’m sure you’re looking forward to getting back to your regular life. Graduate school and everything.”

  “Uh, yeah.” The truth is, despite the way I felt a few weeks ago, I’m not actually excited about leaving Milford and returning to my real world. I’m definitely not excited about never seeing Liam again.

  “You don’t sound very sure of it.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I am. It’s strange to do something like this—take time out of your regular life to live somewhere and do something that you know is only temporary. It’s hard to really... really...”

  “Invest.”

  “Yes. That’s it exactly.” I look back up at him, our gazes meeting and not wavering. “Although to tell you the truth, I’m not sure how much I’ve ever really invested. I feel like I’ve always... always...”

  He leans closer. It looks like he really wants to hear what I’m saying. “Always what?”

  “Always living in between. Always living a temporary life. Never putting down roots. I don’t know why, but in college, in DC, in Charlottesville, I’ve never felt like I’m really... home.” I swallow hard. “And I want that. I want to feel at home. I don’t know why I never do.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  “Do you? Do you feel the same way?”

  “Sort of. I guess I feel basically settled here. But it doesn’t feel like a full life.”

  The haunted note in his voice pulls me out of my self-reflection. I raise a hand to touch his sleeve. “Then what does it feel like?”

  He answers with what’s barely a whisper. “Like I’m always running. Like I’m afraid to let out my breath.”

  “You’re afraid it will hurt too much? If you let down? If you allow yourself to feel?”

  He nods.

  “I can understand that.” His mother said he had a wife who died. That kind of tragedy can change a person, can make them afraid to start living again. I sigh and drop my hand since I’ve been standing here petting his arm. “Sometimes I wonder if everyone lives life this way. In expectation. Waiting for something better.”

  “Maybe we do.”

  We stand in silence for several seconds, staring at each other.

  I’ve never felt so close to another person in my entire life.

  But he’s my boss. I have to remember that. I make myself reach to take the box of cupcakes from his hand. “Thanks again for these,” I say, slanting him a shy smile as I pull out my keys. “And thanks for talking to me.”

  “Thank you. Drive safe home.”

  I wave as he closes the car door for me. He waits until the car ignition starts before he takes a few steps back.

  I drive away, wishing I didn’t have to say goodbye to him tonight.

  Three

  I SPEND THE NEXT FEW days with those jittery feelings inside my chest and belly—the ones that always happen when I start to get excited about someone.

  They invariably go away after a while.

  I keep telling this to myself as I lie in bed thinking about Liam. As I get anxious flutters while I dress in the morning, spending way more time than I normally would to make sure I look as pretty as possible. As I wait for him to come out of his office. As I look forward to everything he might say to me.

  I’ve gotten excited about guys all my life—every time I feel a spark of interest. It never takes long for real life to catch up to me when I realize that this guy I’ve been building mental fantasies about simply isn’t who I want him to be.

  No doubt the same thing will happen with Liam. There’s no reason to indulge all my flutters and jitters. And even if he might happen to share my interest, still nothing can happen between us.

  He’s my boss for another month. There are immovable boundaries between us. He’s not going to cross the line, and I shouldn’t want him to.

  So, for the most part, I keep myself under appropriate rein and act like an adult and a professional and not like a little girl playing dress-up.

  On Monday I go to lunch with May Waverly, whom I met on the phone call for Liam last week and who is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. We go to a local sandwich place that’s close enough to campus to walk to, and I have a great time, feeling like the person I was back in Charlottesville who can do normal things like have lunch with a friend.

  She’s talking a mile a minute as we walk back to the administration building on campus, where both of us work. She just got together with her boyfriend a couple of months ago. They’d been friends since high school until she finally realized he was in love with her. I’m fascinated by the story and pleased with how happy she clearly is, and honestly... just a little bit jealous.

  I’ve been into plenty of guys before. I had a boyfriend through most of my college years who I thought I might end up marrying, and I’ve had a couple of other relationships since then that have lasted more than a year. But I’ve never been as in love as May clearly is with her boyf
riend.

  And it would be nice. I’d like to feel that way once in my life.

  The image of Liam’s scowl flashes through my mind at the thought, and I have to push it away by the force of my will.

  We’re approaching the executive suite when May says, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been talking about Jeremy this whole time. I try not to be one of those girls who does nothing but rave about her boyfriend.” She’s a gorgeous redhead with a tall, slim build and freckles. “Didn’t do a very good job at it, did I?”

  “No, it’s great,” I assure her as we walk into the suite. “I was happy to hear it. I don’t have any friends in town while I’m here, so it’s nice to feel like I’m with a friend. You can talk about Jeremy all you want.”

  She giggles appealingly and gives me a hug. “We’re definitely going to be friends.”

  I’m about to reply when I hear a familiar bellow from Liam’s office. “Polly! Are you out there?”

  May jerks in surprise as I shake my head. “Yes. Just give me a second,” I call in a much more appropriate decibel for a workplace.

  “That man scares the crap out of me,” May whispers. “Does he always yell?”

  “No. He doesn’t always. And it’s just his way. He’s really not that bad.”

  “If you say so.” May glances once more toward the open door of Liam’s office. “Okay. I’ll let you deal with the grizzly bear. I better get back to work. I’ll call you, and maybe we can do lunch again.”

  “That sounds great.” I’m smiling as I watch her leave, then I head in to see what Liam wants.

  He’s scowling. Predictably. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for you for twenty minutes.”

  “I’ve been at lunch. I was just gone an hour.”

  “You’re usually not gone for that long.”

  “Well, I was today. Were you really yelling out my name every two minutes? You must have been driving Cindy and Marlene crazy.”

  He turns from his computer to look at me. There’s a glint of amusement in his expression behind the exaggerated glower. “Not every two minutes. More like every five. I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Well, I’m here now. What did you need?”

  FOR THE WHOLE NEXT week, Liam and I are busy with preparing for a retreat that’s coming up for the executive team at Milford College. Liam needs to put together a lot of materials, which means I’m the one trying to write up, organize, and print them. This wouldn’t be a problem, except a lot of the materials need to be written up from Liam’s scrawled notes.

  He also wants fancy charts and graphs. Some I can pull from what Kelly has put together over the past year, and others I can revise from charts she used in previous years, just inputting this year’s data. But a few of them are new, so I have to start from scratch.

  This isn’t the kind of thing I’m good at. My skill set includes writing in paragraphs, creating lists with either bullet points or numbers, and using headings and subheadings. Anything beyond that takes research and poring over instructions and how-to websites. And a lot of stress.

  So, as the following week progresses, my flutters gradually become overwhelmed with nervous pressure. Liam isn’t being particularly unreasonable in his expectations. Several times he’s told me to do the best I can. But I can see in our files the examples of the materials put together for previous retreats and strategic-planning meetings. Everything Kelly put together in the past looks beautiful, sophisticated, and flawless.

  I don’t want Liam to be embarrassed or disappointed by what I put together for him.

  Between that and the fact that we don’t have any other personal conversations or interactions, the week goes quickly but isn’t all that good.

  On Friday I’m supposed to have everything done, and I’m close enough that I think it’s possible. The retreat isn’t until the second half of next week, but Liam wants the stuff to be ready early to give the others time to read it over before they get there. I get in early that morning to give myself as much time as possible, and after lunch I’m convinced that I’ll make our deadline. But the phone doesn’t stop ringing, and then at one thirty, Liam comes in with a page of handwritten notes he wants integrated into what I’ve already put together, which means changing things I’ve already completed.

  I bite back my automatic complaint and murmur a polite response to his instructions, mentally wanting to wring his neck for messing everything up and acting like it’s no big deal.

  By four o’clock I’m so stressed out that I’m close to tears. I don’t know how people do this job. I’ve always believed I’m smart and competent, but I’m not enough to do this job well. Even three weeks of it is more than I can handle.

  I’ve only got an hour left of the workday to complete this for Liam, and I don’t know if I can do it.

  “Hey, Polly,” he says, coming out of his office as I’m brooding over my incompetence and desperately trying to make a graph work the way it’s supposed to. “Can you—”

  “I can’t add anything else!” The words burst out of me, which is something that almost never happens. I’m usually in complete control of my emotions and only let others see what I want them to see of me.

  Liam pulls to a stop, blinking down at me. He’s been stressed this week too, and it shows from the wrinkled state of his clothes, the tension in his jaw and shoulders, and the fact that his hair is practically standing on end.

  “Sorry,” I grit out, forcing a smile. “What did you need?”

  He comes closer to my desk. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I smile again. It feels fake to me, but he’s only known me for a few weeks. Maybe he won’t be able to tell the difference. “What did you need?”

  “I wasn’t going to add anything else. I just wanted you to show me what you’ve put together for tuition projections for the next five years.”

  I nod, relieved and relaxing as I scroll back to the chart he wants to see. This one is fine because I used what Kelly put together last year and just updated the numbers.

  He leans over my shoulder to peer at the screen. He’s so close I can smell him. He smells pretty good for a guy. Like coffee and fabric softener. I’m acutely conscious of his long, lean body beside me. It’s all I can do not to reach up to touch him.

  Fortunately, I manage to restrain the impulse and instead sit perfectly still as he reads my computer screen.

  After a minute, I ask, “Does that look okay?”

  “Yeah.” He has a pad of sticky notes in his hand, and he jots something down on the top one. Then he straightens up and moves his eyes to my face. “Now what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on with what?” I’m pretty sure I know what he’s asking, but there’s no reason to admit it.

  “You’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset.” My voice is cooler than normal because my emotions are still on the edge and I don’t want to lose it again.

  “Why are you lying to me?”

  I narrow my eyes, wishing this infuriating man would just shut up. “I’m not ly—”

  “Do you think I’m an idiot? You’re normally as cool as a cucumber, and you just yelled at me.”

  “I did not yell at you!” I say in outrage, my cheeks starting to warm and my heartbeat starting to race.

  “Well, you did something you never do. You’re upset. You looked a minute ago like you were about to cry. Is something wrong? Is your mom okay?” He looks characteristically grumpy and impatient but also worried.

  Worried about me.

  I swallow hard. “My mom is fine.”

  “Good. Then what’s going on?”

  “Nothing is going on. I only have an hour left, and you’re distracting me with these questions.”

  His eyebrows pull together. “You don’t have to finish it in an hour.”

  “You told me you needed it done by the end of this week. It’s Friday, and there’s less than an hour now until five.”
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  “You don’t have to have it done by five. Just give me what you have and I can finish it up.”

  I almost choke, my stress and angst transforming into the most ridiculous relieved giggle. “You’re going to finish it up? How exactly are you going to do that? Scribble all your notes on a printout and then make copies?”

  His eyes glint with that irresistible amusement. “Uh, yeah, that’s probably what I’d do.”

  “Not a very impressive handout for an executive retreat.”

  He shrugs. “Not a big deal. I wanted it done today so the others can read it over the weekend, but it doesn’t have to be perfect. I can send out what we’ve got, and then we can finalize it early next week.”

  “And you didn’t think about telling me this earlier so I wouldn’t tear my hair out trying to finish it?”

  “Have you been tearing your hair out?” His eyes are wide with obvious surprise.

  “Yes!”

  “Well, you shouldn’t act so cool and in control all the time. If you don’t let people see you’re stressed, how are they supposed to help you?”

  I’m feeling oddly exposed by this conversation. Like he’s seeing a lot more of me than I want him to. More than anyone else sees. “I don’t want help. I can do this.”

  His mouth quirks up slightly. “I know you can. But I also don’t want you to have a stroke or to snap my head off when I ask an innocent question, so next time don’t act so completely self-sufficient.”

  “I didn’t snap your head off!”

  He chuckles. “It sure felt like it. I take one step out of my office and my pretty, poised Polly just up and yells at me.”

  I gasp in surprise at the words. At how natural they sound. At how much I want to hear them.

  He must suddenly hear what he just said too because he suddenly stiffens and clears his throat. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, trying for relaxed composure even though my head is spinning and my heart feels like it’s going to hammer right out of my chest. “And if you don’t have any more additions, I’m not too far from finishing this. I should be able to get it done today. I don’t mind staying a little late.”