The Gratitude Guarantee (Boyfriend in the Bargain #4)

23. Brenna

23

brENNA

M y gut churns as the clock relentlessly progresses toward five o’clock at a much faster rate than our car approaches the office.

An hour ago, I was in a great mood, full of chocolate milkshake as I completed the last of the task that has haunted me for three days and settled in to enjoy the rest of the ride. Then the rain started, followed by the traffic.

“I’m sorry,” Zach says for the third time in the last ten minutes. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

I chew on a thumbnail and don’t reply. I briefly consider jumping out of the car and sprinting the last three blocks on foot to bypass the gridlock of cars in front of us. But I have no way to keep the binder of documents dry that far of a distance in the downpour.

Eight achingly slow minutes later, Zach stomps the brakes in front of my office building at exactly five o’clock. I dart out and approach the double doors with immense relief at having made it in the nick of time. I push on first one door, then the other. To my surprise, they’re both locked. Pressing my face to the glass, I shade my eyes against the glare created by the rain. I can see a few lights on farther down the hall so I knock, the sound of my knuckles on the glass echoing loudly. My relief intensifies when I see a figure step out and move toward me.

I hear the lock disengage and the door swings open to reveal Mr. Springfield, looking down his nose at me. I’m sure my damp, harried appearance isn’t what he expected, but I smile nonetheless, genuinely glad to see him for the first time in nearly three years as I step into the lobby.

“Here is the contract with changes marked, as you requested,” I say, holding out the binder. He takes it reluctantly, his lips curling as his hands touch the damp cover. “I almost didn’t make it. The traffic was worse than usual.”

He raises a brow. “By my watch, it’s 5:02, which means you didn’t ‘make it.’” He emphasizes the last works with a smug smirk. “I’m afraid I warned you what would happen if you were late.”

My lungs seize with the feeling you get on a rollercoaster when the floor drops out and you’re suddenly dangling in mid-air. “But…but you’re still here and I brought you exactly what you asked for. What does two minutes matter?”

He rests the binder on the unoccupied reception desk and crosses his arms, looking at me patronizingly as if I am a recalcitrant child experiencing the consequences of my actions. “Surely you realize how much attention to detail matters in this line of work, and the line has to be drawn somewhere. I suggest you gather any personal effects you might have at your desk.”

For a moment I simply stand there staring at him, rainwater puddling around my feet. This can’t be happening. I mean, I know he said I’d be fired if I didn’t make it by 5:00, but I never imagined he’d take it to such an extreme. Robert Springfield III is a deeply unpleasant man, but I wouldn’t have said that he’s wholly unreasonable. Except, apparently, he is.

“Well?” He raises one brow.

That one word snaps me out of my stunned stupor and I lurch forward. When I reach my desk, I pause again, studying the space I’ve occupied for the last three years. I can’t believe this is happening.

“If you don’t mind, Ms. Hartford, I’d appreciate a speedy evacuation. I have an appointment that I need to be leaving for.”

Springfield’s voice behind me makes me jump. I hadn’t realized he’d followed me, but now I see him leaning on the doorframe watching me. I’m suddenly very much aware that we seem to be alone in this building. Frantically, I search for something to put my things in, relieved to find a canvas shopping bag in the back of one drawer.

My hands shake as I empty the drawers, my lip balm, hand lotion, snacks, and the personalized Post-its I got for Christmas last year mingling in the bottom of the bag. I blush in anger and humiliation as I withdraw a box of feminine hygiene products, making a show of shoving them in as well. The picture frames containing family photos and my diplomas go on top, followed by my noise cancelling headphones.

When I’m satisfied that nothing I will miss remains, I drag the bag up onto my shoulder and face Springfield. “I’d say it was nice knowing you, but that would be a lie.”

His eyes widen at the insult and for a moment I wish I could take it back, but then I mentally shrug. I’ve already lost my job, and I haven’t the slightest hope or expectation of a letter of recommendation, so who cares what he thinks of me now?

“If you don’t mind…” I echo the haughty words and tone he used on me a few moments ago as I gesture to the door he’s blocking.

His gaze hardens and for a second, I think he’s going to refuse to move, but then he slowly takes a small step back and allows me to pass.

I walk away without a backward glance.

Bursting through the doors, I stride down the walkway to the parking area, my head held high as water streams down my face and soaks my clothes. I didn’t think it was possible for it to rain any harder than it had when I was walking in, but here we are at monsoon levels now.

Trembling with cold and emotion, I yank the passenger door open and drop into the seat.

“How’d it go?” Zach asks. “Seemed like you were in there for a while.”

“He fired me.” I stare at the dashboard, still trying to process.

“What? Are you serious?”

I don’t answer. All I can think is that I’ve failed and I have no idea what to do next. And the worst part is that I left my family for this. I should be about to eat dinner at my parents’ big table with my siblings and nieces and nephews surrounded by the Christmas decorations we hung together instead of shaking uncontrollably in the passenger seat of my car with a soaking wet bag of stuff from my desk in the floorboard.

“Brenna, are you okay?” He reaches over tentatively and touches my hand. “You’re freezing,” he exclaims. I’m vaguely aware of Zach cranking the heat all the way up, and then his hands gather mine and fold them up in a welcome warmth. This action breaks me out of my stupor enough to lift my eyes to his.

“What can I do to help?” His expression is so earnest and the question is so Zach. All he’s done for the past week is ask how he can help me.

I shake my head. “I just need to go home.”

“Can do. Tell me your address?”

I recite it woodenly and watch him plug it into the GPS app on his phone. Then he reaches across me and grasps my seatbelt, pulling it carefully across my body and clicking it into place. “Just sit tight and I’ll get you home.”