The Gratitude Guarantee (Boyfriend in the Bargain #4)

18. Brenna

18

brENNA

I sag against the door and stay still, listening for Zach’s footsteps. At first, I think I must have missed them, but finally, I hear him walk away.

I wonder if I made a mistake by not accepting his offer to help. His concern seemed genuine, and for a moment, I considered it. But ultimately, I decided against it. Not only am I responsible for keeping the client’s information private, but it would have been a bad idea for us to spend that much time alone together.

I scrub my hands over my face and into my hair, my thoughts and feelings thoroughly muddled. Even though I don’t have time for it, I let myself indulge for a moment in the memory of being wrapped in Zach’s arms in the attic. How can so brief an embrace have made such a big impression on me? We hugged for like three seconds, and I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’ve got to stop thinking about it. About him.

Toeing off my shoes, I take out my phone and tap to check my email before I get started on my work, hoping against hope that a holiday miracle will occur and I’ll find an email at the top of my inbox from Springfield informing me that he made a mistake and that the files are not due tomorrow after all. I quickly see that there is, in fact, another email from my boss, but it’s most assuredly not of the miracle variety.

Ms. Hartford,

I hope that the lack of response to my earlier email is due to the fact that you are busy completing the task I assigned you. In the event that you are unable to do your job in a timely manner, I will be forced to terminate your employment as I cannot have associates who are unresponsive and unwilling to complete their assignments. I’ll expect to see you at the office with those documents no later than 5:00 pm tomorrow.

Robert Springfield III

My jaw clenches so tightly that I already feel a headache coming on. A furious heat flushes my body and I tug my sweatshirt over my head, flinging it onto a chair angrily. I stand in the middle of the room in just my tank top and jeans, heaving deep breaths and trying not to dissolve into tears.

Can he be serious? I’ve been a good—no, an excellent—employee for nearly three years. Would he truly fire me over one missed deadline on a holiday?

A dreadful surety rises within me that he would indeed, if for no other reason than to put me in my place once and for all. But where would that leave me? Cast away from the job I worked so hard for, the career I’ve been striving to build for the last eight years through school and my time at the firm. And who would hire me with the blight of termination on my record and no hope of a recommendation from Springfield & Springfield? And that’s assuming he doesn’t actively spread the word that I’m difficult to work with or something.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force back the panic rising in my chest. I can do this. All I have to do is mark each page appropriately and drive this box back to Nashville before five o’clock tomorrow. It’s loathsome but manageable.

Woodenly, I rummage in my purse for a pen. Settling onto the bed with the binder, one foot tucked beneath me, I flip it open to reveal the contract that will be the sole focus of my existence for the next few hours.

Ugh.

I take it back. I’d rather be thinking about Zach, whether it’s good for me or not.

With a sigh, I scan the first sheet of paper and note the name change I’ll be looking for, then I begin in earnest. I work steadily, doing my best to keep my mind focused on the task at hand and not get discouraged by how slowly it’s going. An hour passes, then two, and I’m only a third of the way through the contract.

I make no effort to stifle the yawns that are coming more and more frequently, swiping a hand over bleary eyes. The sound of someone in the hallway grabs my attention for a moment, but then I turn back to the documents. It’s probably Heather getting up to use the toilet, a theory that is confirmed when I hear the bathroom door close quietly across the way. As long as I’ve known her, I don’t think she’s ever made it through a whole night without having to pee.

After a minute, I hear her come out and her fading footsteps cause a loneliness to rise in my chest. A tap on my door startles the feeling away and I jump, sending the binder sliding to the floor with a thud and causing me to mutter a word I’m not proud of.

“Come in,” I call quietly.

Zach’s sleepy, handsome face appears. “I saw the light on under your door. You’re still working?”

I’d like to answer, but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth as I register his pajamas—or lack thereof. All I can see is the torso of a man who obviously does a lot of physical labor, tapering down into a pair of plaid pajama pants that swish around his ankles over bare feet, and I have a much clearer view than I did this morning. I catch myself and yank my eyes back up to his face to find him smirking with one eyebrow cocked.

“You okay there, Brenna?”

“Yes.” I swallow and try to act like I wasn’t ogling the man. “Fine. Just, you know, a little tired.”

His smirk fades to a look of concern, and he takes a few steps toward me, crossing his arms over his chest as his gaze skims over the binder splayed on the floor. “How much do you have left?”

I bite my lip and slump a little. “I’m about a third of the way done.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

“No, I’ve got it. It’s a matter of client privacy. I can’t let someone outside the firm look through them. I really appreciate it, though.”

I unfurl my legs and almost groan as the blood starts to flow back into them after so long crisscrossed, prickling painfully. I stand and bend to pick up the binder.

But Zach has the same idea and when he reaches for it too, our fingers brush. His skin feels warm against my icy hands, making me shiver.

“You’re cold.” He quickly crosses to the chair where my sweatshirt still lies in a rumpled heap from earlier. Shaking it out, he hands it to me.

I accept it gratefully because truthfully, I am a little chilly. “Thanks.”

“Maybe I can’t help with this part,” he gestures toward the binder I plopped on my bed as I pull the sweatshirt on. “But surely there’s no rule against me keeping you company.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, pulling my ponytail out of the collar and smoothing it down. “You should go back to bed. There’s no sense in both of us losing sleep.”

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” he says with a playful grin. “I don’t mind. I want to. In fact, why don’t I go make us some hot chocolate?”

I feel my defenses crumbling when he wiggles his eyebrows in a way that I think is meant to be enticing. It’s not that, but it’s certainly endearing. And I’m tired. Too tired to resist the offer of hot chocolate and someone to ease the late-night solitude that was beginning to feel oppressive.

“Okay.” I nod in agreement. “But I do have one condition—actually, two.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“First is that you promise to go back to bed if you get tired of sitting up with me at any point.”

“I promise,” he says promptly. “It’s not going to happen, so that’s a risk-free commitment. What’s the other condition?”

I regret that I have to do this. “You need to put a shirt on.”

“What, you’re not enjoying the view? I thought women liked a gun show from time to time.” He lifts one arm and flexes an impressive bicep with a wink.

I press my lips together to hide a smile. “Gun show? Really? Please never use that phrase again.”

He waves me off with an unbothered smile. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As soon as he exits, I press my hands to my cheeks and let my grin spread until my face hurts. I hope I’ll be able to focus with him here, shirt or not. I climb back up onto the bed, feeling awake again, to work with renewed vigor.

True to his word, he returns fully clothed—though the white T-shirt he chose fits flatteringly enough that it’s not much of an improvement—and two huge mugs of cocoa with whipped cream mounded on top.

I accept the mug he offers me with undisguised delight. “How’d you know I like extra whipped cream?”

“Lucky guess based on your pancakes this morning.” His eyes twinkle over the edge of his mug as he takes a sip. He nods in satisfaction. “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

“Not bad at all,” I agree, wiping a cream mustache off my lip with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Pull up a chair, Dawson. This is going to be a long night.”