Hillary
I jump out of bed and run to the mirror. Oh no—my cheeks are flushed. I rub my whole face so it looks blotchy instead of glowing, because God forbid anyone guesses I was just touching myself to a disgusting memory of my boss groping a girl in his car.
I rush back to the door and swing it open.
Ben. Just like I thought.
His hands are shoved into the pockets of his blue and white flannel pants, his glasses sitting low on his nose as he scans me with a scowl.
“We’re working from home tomorrow. Be in my study by noon—that’s enough rest for you.” He glances at my hurting leg.
That’s all he wanted to say that he couldn’t text or call? He just had to come knock on my door.
“My leg is fine,” I assure him.
I’m sure he only cares about my leg because my limping annoyed him. How c
