Page 64 of Sexting the Boss
“Do that.”
She pauses, like she might say more, then opens the door and steps out. She doesn’t look back.
I watch her go, watch the sway of her hips and the lift of her chin and the exact second her body language shifts into something cooler, something private.
She left like this whole connection between us was a switch she’s flipped off without warning.
I sit there a while after she’s gone, hands still on the wheel, eyes locked on the empty passenger seat, and I feel the shape of the distance she just put between us settle somewhere sharp under my ribs. The realization that she’s already started pulling away has begun settling in, and somehow I can’t help thinking she’s doing it because she thinks it’ll be good for us. So…what am I doing that’s making her think this way?
I drive home on muscle memory and park in the garage without registering the ride, then I walk into a penthouse that still smells like her shampoo and something warmer underneath it. I drop my keys on the counter, loosen my tie, and open my laptop because that’s what I do when things get loud in my head. Work has always been the cleanest way to quiet the noise.
Tonight it doesn’t work.
I read the same paragraph three times and retain none of it, then I switch files and lose ten minutes staring at a spreadsheet that should be simple. My phone stays face down on the desk, and I don’t check it because checking it would mean admitting I’m waiting. I pour a drink, take one sip, and set it aside untouched.
She said she wasn’t running. I believe that.
She also said she needed space, and I agreed, and I meant it. Consent doesn’t stop mattering because I want something more than she’s ready to give. Still, the absence sits wrong, like a pulled thread I can’t ignore.
I give up sometime after midnight and go to bed alone, which is rare and irritating, and I wake up too early with the sense that something’s already gone off schedule.
At the office the next morning, Lila is exactly what she promised she’d be.
Perfectly professional.
She’s efficient, focused, and pleasant in the way that means nothing leaks. Her tone is even, her reports are tight, and she doesn’t linger in doorways or make unnecessary comments. She doesn’t avoid me, which would be easier to read. She simply doesn’t offer anything extra.
It’s like watching someone close a door without slamming it.
I try to catch her at lunch, not to corner her but to reset the temperature, and when I step out of my office she’s already halfway to the elevators. I call her name once. She doesn’t hear me…or pretends not to. The doors close.
That’s new.
I take the stairs instead of waiting, two at a time, and by the time I reach the lobby I see her crossing toward the deli next door. I tell myself I’m just curious, that I’ll walk past and keep going, but my feet angle after her before I finish the lie.
I stop just inside the door and scan the room, then I see her at the counter with a man I don’t recognize. He’s too close. Not friendly-close. Familiar-close. He’s smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes, and she’s stiff, shoulders pulled in, bag clutched against her side.
I move before I think better of it.
I’m three steps away when he reaches for her hand. That’s it.
“Hey,” I say, sharp enough that half the room turns. “Get your hand off her.”
The guy looks over his shoulder, startled, then annoyed. “Who the hell are you?”
I don’t take my eyes off his fingers wrapped around her wrist. “The last warning you’re getting.”
Lila turns fully now, eyes wide, color draining from her face. “Ethan?—”
The man tightens his grip. “She’s busy.”
I do it like it’s a form of precision work, like breaking him apart is something I’ve trained for. His knuckles crack as I pull. First the index. Then the middle. His ring finger is slower to go because he resists. I twist just enough to make him wince, then strip the last finger free.
The deli falls quiet.
No one dares interrupt. The register dings somewhere behind us, a tinny sound that only makes the stillness sharper. I feel the tension bleed off Lila as soon as I remove him from her, and that small change is enough to flood me with rage.
He jerks his hand back like I burned him and takes a full step forward, chest puffed, chin raised. He’s shorter than me but bulkier—one of those ex-athlete types whose prime was a decade ago but whose ego hasn’t moved on. There’s a shine on his forehead and a buzzed cut that makes his ears stick out. His sleeves are rolled up over badly inked forearms, and I clock the cheap watch, the fake confidence, the eyes that dart between mine and Lila’s like he still thinks he has some claim.
