Page 20 of Love Marks

Just as I’m putting the enchiladas into the oven, Wesley crosses through the kitchen to the other side of the apartment. He scowls in my direction and disappears into his bedroom.

Would it kill the guy to force out a pleasantry every now and then?

I try to breathe through my anger. Only thirty minutes left until the food is finished — then I can go home and complain to my mom all about my new boss. I can’t believe I thought he was sexy. I can’t believe I thought he was nice. That night at the restaurant, when he looked at me, I’d thought for a moment that he had kind eyes. Gentle eyes.

Now when I look into his eyes, I see nothing.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and it’s my mom, calling me. I glance around but don’t see Wesley, so I pick up the phone.

“Hey, Mom, I’m at work. I can’t really talk.”

“Sorry, sweetie. It’s just so late, I got worried. I thought you were done at 3?”

I glance around, paranoid. Why does it feel like an echo chamber in here?

“I kind of got promoted. I’ll explain it later. I’m almost done here, and I’ll pick something up on the way home for dinner.”

“No need. I’m making enchiladas.”

I gasp louder than necessary. “No way! I’m making enchiladas, too!”

My mom gasps back. “You’re cooking? For who?”

I think I hear footsteps coming back down the hall. Or am I imagining that?

“I have to go!”

“Alright. I love you.”

“Love you too.” I hang up and slip the phone in my pocket, but it’s too late. From behind me, Wesley clears his throat.

“Was that a personal call?” His cold voice drawls from behind me.

I turn around and meet his hard eyes. “No,” I lie.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “You say I love you to all your business associates?” He challenges me, smirking.

“Sure. Yes.”

What are you doing? He knows you’re lying!

I can’t help it. I know I’m being stubborn and digging my heels in, but he’s infuriating. It was a thirty-second phone call, for God’s sake. I haven’t bothered him all day. Why does he have such a stick up his ass?

“I don’t appreciate my staff lying to me. Or taking personal calls on my dime. Don’t do it again.”

His smirk is gone, and he frowns down at me again. I have to physically stop my eyes from rolling.

“Won’t happen again, sir.” I sneer the last word and turn away from him.

Luckily, I’m saved by the bell. The oven timer beeps, and I grab the oven mitts, opening the door and taking the enchiladas out. I was going to plate it and make it look nice, but I’m out of here. He can do it himself. It’s almost 6:30 and I’ve been here for over 12 hours, running back and forth trying to make the devil smile. I’m going home.

I leave the food on the kitchen counter and grab my bag. I press the elevator button over and over, cursing under my breath for it to arrive. When it finally does, I step inside, fuming.

I hope he burns his mouth on my damn enchiladas.

* * *

No amount of complaining to my mother prepares me for the next day with Wesley. I spent all of last night bitching and moaning about him — which I never do. Eventually, my mom got sick of hearing about it and told me I needed to “chill out.”