Page 2 of Boss Me
Cooper strode around his desk and clapped Jackson’s shoulder. They were about the same height, two gorgeous physical specimens, but only one of them turned me inside out whenever I was in his presence.
I stayed there, pressed against the door. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A sandwich?” Had Cooper eaten lunch? I’d gone to the cafeteria with Jackson’s assistant, Marlee, but I wasn’t sure if Cooper had left his desk.
“Would you get me a coffee, please?” Jackson asked.
“Sure. How about a green smoothie, Mr. Fallon?” He’d need the antioxidants to keep up his strength if he was going back out on the road.
His gaze flicked to me, and heat washed over my skin. But his words were crisp with frost. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
And then, as much as I hated to do it, I walked out of his office and closed the door on Jackson Jones and Cooper Fallon.
I rubbed at my throbbing temple and edged forward in line for the coffee kiosk in Synergy’s soaring lobby. My gaze trailed up the glass elevator shaft to the sixth floor.
If I was any judge of the tightening around Cooper’s eyes, he was suffering through his own headache. Not that he’d ever admit to being human enough to experience pain. Maybe I could slip him a pain reliever along with the revolting green smoothie.
Smoothies: my small but important contribution to the company. Cooper drank at least one a day. It was quick, efficient fuel for his duties as Chief Operating Officer of Synergy Analytics. Cooper kept Synergy running, and by fetching his smoothies, I did my part.
I scrubbed my hand over my face and stared out across the lobby. Who was I kidding? I didn’t do it for Synergy. I did it for him.
I did it for the flare in those cool blue eyes when I handed the cup to him and said, “Your smoothie, Mr. Fallon.”
I did it because of the infatuation that fluttered in my stomach the moment I shook his hand on my first day on the job six months ago. And as we’d worked together, as I’d gotten to know the driven executive who’d do anything for his partner and best friend, who’d grown the company from a business plan he’d written in a spiral notebook in their dorm room, who supported foundations that helped at-risk kids, those flutters moved right into my heart and never left.
My sister, Mimi, said I lived with my heart on the outside, and I’d fall for anyone who gave me a hint of returning my attraction.
Not true.
Cooper Fallon had given me no hints. He was always cool and polite. He said, “Thank you, Ben,” at the end of each day. He’d given me an expensive but impersonal cheese basket for the holidays. He asked me about school sometimes, but he probably had to since the company was paying my tuition.
Yet I gobbled up those flares of heat when I handed over his smoothies.
A woman took her coffee and strode away from the kiosk, and I stepped forward, still two people from the front of the line. I checked my phone. Ten minutes since I’d left Cooper alone with Jackson.
Why had I tried to save time by coming downstairs to the kiosk? The place down the street knew our order. But I’d wanted to stay close enough to rescue Cooper if he needed it. Ha. Cooper Fallon would never admit he needed rescuing. Or a goddamned break from saving the world. I inched forward in line and tapped the toe of my chukka boot against the floor to relieve the nervous energy that made me want to shake someone.
Jackson, who was supposed to be Cooper’s best friend, pulled this shit all the damn time. There was always a reason he couldn’t take a trip or present to the board.
When I was first hired, Cooper handled it, no problem. But since Jackson’s baby was born in February, Cooper seemed paler somehow. Not just his skin, but the whole of him. Like some of his actual life essence had been sucked out of him by that machine in The Princess Bride. His movements were smaller. His smile—rare at the best of times—was nonexistent now. Even that famous Fallon temper had cooled, like nothing was worth getting upset over anymore.
Maybe it was just a seasonal thing, and Cooper would spring back to life when the days got longer and brighter in the summer. But I had a feeling it wasn’t. It was a Jackson Jones thing. I dug a knuckle into my temple. Fucking Jackson Jones and his bullshit.
“Hey, Ben.” The barista’s voice snapped me back to reality. Finally, I was at the front of the line.
“Hey.” I didn’t come to the kiosk often, but I guessed the barista made it his job to know everyone’s name.
“It’s Kris.” He winked at me, his dark hair flopping over one eye.
“Oh, right, I knew that. Sorry, Kris.” Did I know that? “Do you have blueberries?”
Kris blinked. “Um, sure.”
“Can you add a handful of them to a kale smoothie, please?” I checked my phone. Fifteen minutes, and no SOS text. That had to be a good sign. “And can I also get a black coffee and a skinny latte? Plus a caramel macchiato for Marlee. Please.”
“Got it.” He scooped fresh grounds into a French press. “You don’t come here that often. Not as often as I’d like.”
I flicked my gaze from his hands, which I’d been mentally urging to move faster, to his face. He had a Harry Styles look going with that floppy hair and those to-die-for cheekbones. Totally my type.
Except he wasn’t. Not anymore. My type, apparently, was emotionally unavailable, blue-eyed billionaires. Fuck. My. Life.
