Page 56 of Sexting the Boss
She doesn’t flinch. “I saw them, I just didn’t have the time to respond.”
Ouch.So she’s in a mood, but the question is why. Lila doesn’t snap for sport, and the tension in her replies, paired with her careful refusal to look at me, tells me something is wrong.
“Noted,” I reply, and I let a beat pass. “You’re tight today.”
Her mouth twitches, the smallest tell I’ve seen all morning. “I’m focused.”
“That’s not what I said.”
She studies me for a moment, then exhales slowly. “I’m taking space.”
There it is. Clear. Chosen.
I lean back in my chair, not to disengage, but to show her I’m not crowding this conversation. Control works better when it isn’t theatrical.
“That’s within our agreement,” I say. “You don’t owe me access.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look like you’re waiting for a counterargument?”
She holds my gaze. There’s a flicker there now, something live and wary and far more honest than the calm she’s been wearing.
“I don’t want this to turn into something where I have to justify myself,” she says. “I’m allowed downtime. Nothing happens without my consent, and right now I’m choosing to clear my head.”
I nod once. “Correct.”
She blinks. Just once. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She watches me carefully, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m setting a trap or closing one.
“You’re not angry,” she observes.
“No.”
“Disappointed?”
I consider that then shake my head. “No. I prefer clarity.”
That earns me the first real reaction of the day, a small huff of breath that might have been a laugh if she’d let it. Her shoulders loosen a fraction.
“I’ll finish out the morning,” she says. “Then I’m taking the afternoon.”
“Take the day,” I tell her. “Or don’t. Your call.”
She stands then hesitates near the door, which is the only sign she’s been holding something back.
“This isn’t me pulling away,” she says quietly. “It’s me thinking.”
“I didn’t assume otherwise.”
She studies my face, searching for something she doesn’t quite trust yet. “You’re good at this,” she says. “At not pushing.”
I let one corner of my mouth lift. “I’m good at listening when someone knows what they need.”
I can tell by the way her posture shifts, less guarded, more herself, that I’ve said the right thing. She leaves, and the office feels smaller immediately. I sit there longer than I need to, staring at the closed door, and I don’t bother lying to myself about the concern sitting in my chest.
