Boss I Love to Hate: An Office Romance(11)

“Sonia, you have to pretend you’re okay. For fuck’s sake, save face.”

I could tell she was losing patience with me.

Once again, I found myself on the couch, facedown this time, like I was dead or dying. Maybe it would be better if I were.

“Listen to me.” Her stern, authoritative tone pushed through. “Do you want him to think you are not over him? Do you? Even if you are not, he’s moved on. Pretend that you have, too.”

I shook my head against the cushions, feeling the microfiber against my cheeks. “Oh, yeah, so easy,” I huffed. “So, what do you want me to do? Get the finest guy alive to go with me? Show up to her wedding and pretend he’s my boyfriend and that we’re madly in love and I’ve moved on?” The laugh that roared out of me was like one from a rated-R Halloween movie, one that could raise people from the dead.

“Yes.”

Her response had me shooting up from the couch.

“Yes? Okay, yeah, right.”

She must think I was nuts. No, she was the nuts one. I was merely being sarcastic.

“It’s either that or let him know that you’re still pining over him. He broke your heart, and you’re going to make him regret it. It’s the sweetest type of revenge. Been there. Done that.”

I blinked and peered over at my ice cream melting on the counter. Damn it. That was my only pint.

I vacantly stared hard at the now-mushy puddle that was supposed to be my solace. I felt like my life was mush.

Why is life so unfair?

“Are you listening to me?” Ava’s voice heightened.

You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

“Fine.” I sighed, resigned. “Say I even consider this plan. Where do I find the finest guy alive? Tinder?” An evil laugh escaped me.

“Hell if I know. Chris has a beer gut the size of Illinois. I’m a personality type of girl. Good-looking guys? I wouldn’t even know where to look.”

A slow migraine crept up from my neck to my temples. “I don’t know.”

I wasn’t sure about this. Any of this. There were so many obstacles to overcome.

1. Find a good-looking man.

2. Be secure enough to approach said good-looking man.

3. Propose this absurd arrangement to this stranger because, hell knows, I know no one who was model fine.

Why will a perfectly good-looking stranger even want to do this?

I can buy you dinner.

Like that would work.

Most grown men could buy their own dinner. If not, then I wouldn’t want to be taking them as my so-called date. It was weird, picking up a grown-ass man from his mother’s home.

“You’re doing this,” she insisted, pulling out all her positivity. “We can make this happen, so commit to the plan. Now, we have to start looking.”

A weariness filled my bones, and the mental fatigue rendered me unresponsive. I was too exhausted to try but even more exhausted to argue.





Brad

After dinner, Sarah helped Mason with the dishes while I ushered Mary up the stairs.

“I’m going to get you, you little monster.”

She squealed and ran up the stairs on all fours as I pretended to chase her, my fingers curled and outstretched like monster claws.

Five years ago, when Mary and Sarah’s mother had passed away, and then our parents, Mason and I had decided we would move in with Charles. Mason and I had made a pact long ago that we’d help Charles raise the girls. Natalie’s parents were long gone, and our parents had raised us to know that family meant everything.

From a very young age, the three of us had been groomed by our parents about the business—how to run the company and the ins and outs of the firm—but no one had taught us anything about raising children, most especially girls. But we learned. There was no satisfaction from the day-to-day at work, but soon enough, I’d found out that my joy came from watching my nieces grow up.

Mary was brushing her teeth, and I was enjoying how the toothpaste and foam were getting everywhere—on the sink, on her Barbie pajamas, on the floor.

Mary was meticulous in brushing every tooth, just like the dentist had told her. I didn’t stop her five minutes in because good hygiene was important, after all.

“Did you have a good day at school?” Because I knew she’d had a blast at Great America.

“I … I … yeah … pray … play.” Her words were muffled in the foam, and she had me chuckling.

Her eyes grew saucer-wide, and she giggled, spitting out the toothpaste from her mouth. After she gargled with water, she pointed a tiny finger my way and squinted like I was in big trouble. “Uncle Brad, you did that on purpose!”

I grabbed a towel from the rack, scooped her up in my arms, and dried her off.

“Hey …”

Her laughter was like endorphins to my soul, and I needed to hear it again and again. It was my personal addiction. So much so that I had a video on my phone of Mary laughing uncontrollably when she had been just over a year, playing peekaboo. Every now and then, I’d watch it on replay just to lift my mood.

“I just want to make sure you’re dry.” I wiped off her face, rubbed the towel over her dry hair, and back to her face.

“I’m dry. I’m dry.” She laughed, the sound muffled behind the towel. She pulled the towel off her head and wrapped her arms around my neck. “You and me and a bedtime story. You can tell me about Elsa and Anna or …” She bounced in my hold. “How about a story about Grandma and Grandpa or …” Her tiny fingers tightened around my neck as I walked out of the bathroom and toward her room. “Tell me again about that prince and all these princesses that chased after him because they wanted his crown jewels. I want to hear that story, Uncle Brad. I want to hear that story.” She ducked her head and kissed my cheek. “Please, Uncle Brad. Please.”