Page 12 of Unmoored: How to Fail at Hating the Boss

I sneak a peek over at him. A single line of juice runs down his chin.

Here I am, just mindlessly staring, and thinking about leaning over and cleaning his chin with my mouth.

If I’d had my head on straight, I’d know that it’s a very bad idea to bite into anything with a graham cracker crust when not in possession of a plate and a fork. When I take a big bite into the tart, the crust cracks catastrophically.

“Oh god,” I mumble, forlornly watching berries and custard tumble down my front.

“Here,” Reef says, handing me a bunch of napkins. He takes what’s left of my tart so that I can clean myself up. My face feels hot in embarrassment as I wipe up, leaving streaks all over my white shirt.

“I can’t go into Robin’s looking like this. I always see at least three current or former students every time I go in there. Or their parents,” I say, though I was secretly looking forward to a little grocery shopping alongside Reef. Just to spend a little time trying to figure this man out. “I really don’t want to have to make small talk looking like this.”

“Give me a shopping list, and I’ll take care of it, if you don’t want to go in there,” he says, gesturing with his chin across the street to the supermarket. “But I swear, it’s not that bad.”

I have to remind my hardening nipples that Reef isn’t staring at my breasts for any other reason than the fact that I’ve made a mess of myself.

When I meet his dark gaze, though, something in them makes me go all tight and nervous inside.

“You know what, it’s fine. My students have seen me looking much worse,” I say. “Let’s go.”

At the grocery store, we walk the aisles together, with Reef pushing a buggy and me going down the list and putting things in the basket. For the cake ingredients, Reef seems to know what he’s doing. Box mix, pint of strawberries, pint of blueberries, butter, vanilla, powdered sugar.

“I didn’t know you were a baker,” I comment as we wheel around a small group of moms I recognize from the booster club. I try not to get distracted by the way they all stop talking about plans for their vacations, or lake gatherings and whatnot, to stare at Reef and me together. Or maybe they’re noticing howdisheveled I am with my stained shirt and all the odors that come with working at the marina.

“Not a baker. My grandma had a wedding cake business, so I picked up a few things, since I practically lived with her in the summers when my dad was working on charters in the Outer Banks, and Mom worked two jobs to tide us over until the charter money kicked in at the end of each season. Grandma Barb let me help her sometimes in the kitchen. She would be horrified that I’m using a mix.”

Look at Reef, opening up to me. I try not to gloat about it, but I can’t prevent my beaming smile. “Little Reefy, standing on a chair, sifting flour and sugar. That’s adorable.”

“Stop,” he growls, but can’t hide the smile.

“Did you have a tiny kid-sized apron? Please say yes.”

Reef rounds the corner by the onions and potatoes and makes a low, growly noise of consternation that’s starting to feel like his signature sound whenever I tease him. If I had any scruples whatsoever, I would not enjoy getting Reef to make that sound. But I’m having too much fun. And I’m enjoying this…whatever this feeling is that I’m having while we shop together. It’s like we’re playing pretend at being a couple, shopping for groceries together.

“Where are we baking this flag cake?” I ask.

“Assuming you have a normal size fridge, I suggest your house. Do you have eggs? Oil?”

I pause and stare at him. “What do you mean, normal size fridge?”

He shrugs. “I just…my house is very small, and I don’t have space for it.”

I have so many questions. Does he live in a camper? A tent? A studio apartment with no kitchen? Not that I hate the idea of him coming over to my house—as long as he gives me five minutes to clean up before he comes inside.

I think Reef takes my staring at him as judgment rather than what it is—me trying to decide whether to pry or not. His eyes dart away from me, and I feel it.

Oh. That’s… not good. I shouldn’t be feeling that little sting of sadness just because my boss—my boss—broke eye contact first.

“Ms. Travers! I need you to settle a bet.”

The teacher in me is suddenly activated. I spin around to find Hannah Partridge and her gaggle of booster moms staring at me. So much perfect hair.

“Bet?”

Hannah sips from her “baseball mom” water tumbler and says, “Patricia said she saw you working at the marina, but Renee said no, you were hanging around the boats because you got yourself a new beau.”

I stare at her as my stomach drops into my butt. I wish for the floor at Robin’s Supermarket to crack up and for the underworld to swallow me whole.

I should be used to this. Schools are a breeding ground for gossip. Mainly I feel bad that Reef is being subjected to the gossip mill that is Songbird Ridge.