Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 138

Maya’s POV

Avoidance becomes my new mission. I restructure my schedule around Archie's movements with the precision of a military campaign. He arrives at eight; I arrive at six-thirty.

He takes lunch at noon; I eat at my desk at eleven. He conducts evening security reviews at seven; I finish my work by six and disappear before he can find a reason to keep me.

It should work. I've spent five years perfecting the art of strategic invisibility—being present without being noticed, occupying space without leaving impressions. This should be simple.

It doesn't work.

The household is too small, our responsibilities too intertwined. The universe seems to be conspiring against my careful avoidance, throwing us together in ways that feel less like coincidence and more like cosmic punishment.

Monday morning, I reach for a doorknob and his hand is already there. Our fingers brush, and the contact sends electricity up my arm so sharp I nearly gasp.

"Sorry," I manage, pulling back. "I didn't realize you were…"

"My fault." His voice is carefully neutral. "After you."

I slip through the door without looking at him. I can feel his eyes on my back the entire way down the hall.

Tuesday afternoon, I round a corner too quickly and walk straight into his chest.

His hands catch my shoulders to steady me, and for one terrible moment we're pressed together—close enough that I can feel his heart beating, close enough that his cologne fills my lungs.

"Careful." The word comes out rough.

"I wasn't watching where I was going." I step back, putting distance between us. "Sorry."

"You keep apologizing." Something shifts in his expression. "Maya—"

"I have to check on the twins." I flee before he can finish the sentence.

Wednesday evening, I look up from my tablet and find his eyes already on me across the room.

Heavy with questions I can't afford to answer. He holds my gaze for three heartbeats—one, two, three—before I force myself to look away.

Every encounter is a small explosion.

Brushed fingers that leave trails of fire across my skin. Silences that stretch too long, filled with everything neither of us says.

The way his gaze drops to my mouth before he catches himself and looks away. The way my breath stutters when he stands too close, when his presence fills whatever room we share.

I watch Xander and Daphne to remind myself why I'm here.

They're in the kitchen this afternoon, caught in one of their private moments.

Xander passes behind her on his way to the coffee maker, and his hand finds the small of her back—automatic, unconscious, a touch worn smooth by repetition.

Daphne leans into it without pausing her conversation with Margaret, her body responding to his presence before her mind even registers it.

Later, in the hallway, I catch them again. He's whispering something against her temple—too quiet for me to hear, meant only for her.

She laughs, the sound bright and unguarded, and swats at his chest with mock indignation.

"You're terrible," she says, but she's grinning.

"You love it."

"Unfortunately." She rises on her toes to kiss him. "Now go. You'll be late for your call."

"Worth it."

They orbit each other like binary stars, bound by gravity neither questions. Drawn together by forces that predate logic, that transcend circumstance, that simply are.

This is what love looks like. Real love. The kind Lora deserved and never got.

Lora, who worked three jobs and slept four hours a night. Lora, who gave up everything—her degree, her dreams, her youth—so I could have a future.

Lora, who loved without limits and received nothing in return except exhaustion and sacrifice and a closed casket at thirty-three.

Don't forget, her voice whispers in my mind. Don't forget why you're here.

But the voice is getting quieter. And the cracks are spreading wider.

Late evening, the household settling into its nighttime rhythms, I turn a corner toward the staff wing and Archie is waiting.

Not accidentally this time, deliberately.

He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Like he knew exactly when I would pass through here, exactly where I would be trying to escape to.

"We need to talk," he says.

"It's late. I was just heading to…"

"Maya." His voice is quiet but firm. "Please."

Something in his tone stops me. The please, maybe. Or the way he looks at me—not with the easy charm he wears like armor, but with something raw and uncertain beneath.

"Five minutes," I say. "That's all I can spare."

"That's all I'm asking."

He steps forward, I step back. My spine meets the wall before I realize I've run out of room to retreat.

"You're avoiding me." Not a question.

"I'm busy."

"Liar."

The word hangs between us, gentle despite its accusation. He takes another step, closing the distance I've been so carefully maintaining.

Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. Close enough that his breath ghosts across my cheek.

"You're avoiding me," he repeats. "And I need to know why. Because if I did something wrong, if that night in the security room crossed a line—"

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then why won't you look at me anymore? Why do you leave every room I enter? Why does it feel like you're running from something?"

‘Because I am,’ I want to say. ‘I'm running from you. From myself. From everything I feel when you're near me.’

"It's complicated," I manage instead.

"Uncomplicate it."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

His hand finds my waist. The touch is gentle—questioning rather than demanding—but it sends heat flooding through my entire body.

My breath catches. My hands press flat against the wall behind me, searching for something solid to anchor me.

"Archie..." His name comes out like a warning.

"Tell me to stop." He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching mine, sharing air that feels like flame.

"Tell me you don't feel this, and I'll walk away. I'll never bring it up again. We'll go back to being colleagues, and I'll pretend I don't think about you every single moment of every single day."

I should tell him to stop. The mission depends on it. Lora depends on it. Everything I've built for five years depends on me saying the words that will end this before it destroys us both.

"I can't tell you that." The confession escapes before I can catch it. "I can't, because it would be a lie."

Something breaks open in his expression. Relief and hunger and tenderness, all tangled together in a way that makes my chest ache.

He tilts his head. His lips hover over mine—so close I can almost taste him. The moment stretches, infinite and impossible, both of us suspended on the edge of something irreversible.

We don't kiss. But only barely.

His breath shudders against my mouth. His fingers tighten on my waist. I can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back, of giving me the choice he promised.

I make my choice.

I push past him—gently but firmly—and flee down the hallway toward my room. My heart slams against my ribs with every step. My skin burns where he touched me. My lips ache with the kiss we didn't take.

Behind me, I hear him exhale—a sound of frustration and longing and something that might be acceptance.

I don't look back. In my room, door locked, back pressed against the wood, I finally let myself breathe.

This can't keep happening.

But even as I think it, I know the truth.

It's already happening. And I have no idea how to stop.