Boss Man Bridegroom

by Quinn, Meghan

  I rub at my temple. “I said, that’s enough. Enough chatter. Just go set up your computer.”

  “Oh dear, do you have a headache?” She studies me, worry etching her brow. “Want me to get you some water?” She looks over my desk. “I don’t see a water bottle in sight. Are you hydrating? Don’t worry, I’ll put it on my list of things to remind you to do. If you’re going to run the world we need you fed and hydrated.” Leaning forward she whispers, “When you pee, is it clear?”

  “Out,” I shout, pointing with my finger. “Out, now.”

  She startles back, clutching her pad of paper to her chest. “I’m s-sorry, but, do you want me to leave?”

  “Yes, for Christ’s sake, that’s what out means. OUT.”

  “Oh dear. Was it something I did? Said? Because honestly, I think we’re on the brink of being productive here. If you would loosen up a little more, we would be able to really crack the code on this boss-assistant working relationship.”

  “I swear to God Himself, if you don’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’ll have someone escort you out.” I point again. “Drop your things off and go.”

  “Okay, sure, yeah.” She stands and gives me a parting glance. “You know, your skin does look a little dry; a little more hydration might help.”

  “You have five seconds.”

  On an “eep” she scurries away, leaving me with a sense of failure once again.

  Another one bites the dust. Just like that.

  I assumed from my gut instinct she was going to be a good match. Apparently, she decided to flip her crazy switch this morning and turn into an obnoxiously loud and constant chatterbox. Unfortunately, that’s not what I need, especially with the high volume she came at me this morning.

  Dehydrated . . . I’m not fucking dehydrated. I drink plenty of water.

  Pressing my fingers into my forehead, I let out a giant sigh. What the fuck had Harold and Linus taken to recommend Charlee Bag of Dicks? She is not the assistant I thought she was going to be.

  But then five minutes later, my security team brings me both a donut and lox and bagel. Without even thinking, I down them both. Not because she got them for me, but because I’m a depressed motherfucker who can’t seem to find an assistant worth a damn.

  Harold Danvers just lost a whole bunch of credibility.

  * * *

  “Either you lost a deal, or the new assistant is already driving you insane,” Roark says, saddling up next to me at High Nine, our favorite bar. Thankfully Sutton is out of town, giving me free access to my best friend.

  Staring into my half-empty glass of Stella, I say, “She didn’t last past ten.”

  “What?” He laughs. “But Harold Danvers—”

  “Harold Danvers is a lying piece of shit, and I’m pretty sure he set me up.”

  Roark orders a Guinness and I glance at him for a second, questioning his choice since he’s a milk drinker these days. He shrugs and says, “One glass won’t kill me.” When it’s placed in front of him, he takes the tiniest of sips, the foam sticking to his five o’clock shadow. “She was a dud?”

  “She was annoying. Wouldn’t stop talking. Called me crabby.”

  “Well, you are crabby a lot of the times when you’re at work.”

  “You would be too if you were working with morons.” I twist my beer with both hands on the bar top.

  He chuckles. “I wonder what your employees would think if they saw you outside of the office. They wouldn’t even recognize you. You’re completely different.”

  “I keep my two lives separate. If they knew the frat boy in me, they’d never respect me.”

  “Respect you, or fear you?”

  “Both.” I sigh and wave down the bartender. When he comes up to me, I say, “Nachos please, extra jalapenos.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He takes off and Roark asks, “So, she wouldn’t stop talking, because of that, you canned her?”

  “Trust me, you would have too. I just didn’t think she was a good fit. I should have interviewed her first.”

  “That’s usually how conventional businessmen proceed with new hires, but then again, when have you ever been conventional?” Roark gives me some side-eye and asks, “Are you sure it has nothing to do with you thinking she’s pretty?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me with that?”

  He shrugs. “Just checking one last time.”

  “You act as if I’m some horndog who can’t keep it in my pants. Vanessa was a onetime deal, okay? Never happening again.”

  He throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay, just checking.”

  Jesus. You make one mistake and that’s what you’re known for. Vanessa was a mistake, a giant one at that.

  I hired her based on her qualifications, but late nights and her seductive and suggestive ways started to wear me down until one cliché night of working late led to breaking the seal on the sexual tension between us. I got lost in her and quick.

  To the point that when we broke up, I made it quite clear that no matter what, we never talk about her.

  Ever.

  Apparently, Roark has no problem bringing up my past though.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Start from scratch again. Have Renita put out some feelers for someone new. Maybe get some recruiters involved. I can’t be dealing with this shit on my own for much longer.”

  “Understandable.” Roark sighs and sits back in his chair. “So . . . what did you think of the tux choices for the wedding?”

  We both exchange a knowing look before I say, “If he chooses brown, I’m going to be pissed.”

  Roark nods. “Right there with you. The navy blue was sharp, the brown would make us look like little piles of shit standing at the altar. I can’t believe Julia approved that color.”

  “I sent her a text earlier asking about the tux color and she said she gave Bram complete control over the men’s side. We just had to go with the wedding color scheme.”

  “I love your sister, but that was a stupid mistake.” The nachos are placed in front of us and we both reach out and scoop up a pile of cheese and jalapenos.

  “Bram can be very persuasive and you know him, he wants to be involved as much as possible. He’s not a groom who just shows up; he’s going to every single appointment with her and has a hand in every decision. He even went to get her dress with her.”

  “Are you serious? I thought grooms weren’t supposed to see that shit before the wedding.”

  “He went with a blindfold, kept saying how gorgeous she was even though he couldn’t see.”

  Roark shakes his head in disbelief. “Why are we even friends with him?”

  “I question that every day.” I take another bite of nachos and ask, “So, are you gearing up for another round of fantasy football?”

  He nods. “I’ve been doing my off-season studying. I’m going to annihilate you two motherfuckers.”

  Yeah, we’ll see about that. Thank God for fantasy football, High Nine, and nachos. Right now, it’s the only way I’ll be able to cling to being human.

  Chapter Five

  RATH

  I’m dragging this morning. More than usual.

  That’s what happens when I fire my assistant before she can even finish turning on her computer. I stayed up until two, reworking my schedule and sending emails from my “executive assistant” email so it looks like I have it together.

  There are so many fucked-up things about what I was doing last night that it would take hours to hash out, so let’s just leave it as I’m in desperation mode.

  On a yawn, I lean against my private elevator wall to hold me up and watch as the carriage climbs and climbs until it hits my floor. Pushing off the wall, I hold my bag close to my side as the doors part and . . . I’m immediately hit in the face with sun.

  Everywhere.

  Blasting my retinas and melting them into nothing, my eyes are thunderstruck with sunshine leaving me reeling back, feeling like a vampir
e struck by the brightness of day.

  Using my arm as a cloak, I block the light from my eyes and mutter, “What the actual fuck?”

  To my side, a cheery voice says, “Good morning, Mr. Westin. Got to love that sunshine. Really gets your mental juices pumping in the morning, doesn’t it?”

  Squinting, I step out of the elevator and look to the side where Charlee Bag of Dicks is standing with a pink and purple notepad in hand, purple pen poised, decked out in a purple and pink dress, matching purple shoes and . . . purple glasses. Her hair is in a bun with some weird braid wrapped around the base of the bun, and her makeup matches her outfit as well.

  What the hell is happening right now?

  And why is she here?

  And why does it feel like my office was moved to the surface of the sun?

  Am I really that delirious from no sleep, acting like my own damn assistant last night, answering emails?

  “Now since you never told me how you take your coffee yesterday, I took it upon myself to create a coffee bar right here on our floor. I’m not a professionally trained barista, but my friend Doreen is and two years ago she gave me a crash course on some very popular drinks. Right this way.” She takes my arm that’s not blocking the sun and guides me down the hall until we stop at a decked-out kiosk stocked with mugs, coffee, fixings, and a top-of-the-line espresso machine. On the front of the kiosk is a “menu” with a picture of Charlee smiling with a cup of coffee. Below her picture it says, please tip your barista with smiles.

  Yup . . . this is a nightmare. It has to be.

  “As you can see, these are the variety of drinks I’m able to make narrowed down by my skill and the supplies we have. If you have a different request, please share, and I’ll be sure to be trained by Doreen in the next day or so. And before you get your panties in a twist about wanting coffee from your favorite place, I assure you, this coffee will be just as good or better. I didn’t go cheap. Plus, we’ll save money, time, and the environment by making our own. Moving along.”

  She takes my arm again and drags me down the hallway. I’m speechless. Confused.

  I fired her yesterday, right?

  That’s what happened. I told her to leave . . .

  So why is she here looking like Miss Frizzle and acting like we’re at freshman orientation?

  I peel my eyes open wider, looking around for a magic school bus just in case I’m truly having some fucked-up dream.

  But instead of taking me to a large, yellow vehicle, she continues with her tour, sending my mind into a tailspin of “what the fuck?”

  “Over here I had the company install a fridge, kitchen island, with two hot plates, a microwave, and I just gathered the cookware from my house for now because I was reaching the limit on my credit card. I can manage with what I have at my place for now. The fridge is stocked, I wasn’t sure—”

  “Wait,” I boom, squeezing my brow with my fingers. “You put this on your personal credit card?”

  “Yes, of course. I wasn’t about to spend the company’s money. So, like I was saying, I wasn’t sure—”

  “This is for the company, so why would you spend your own money?” Why am I even asking? She was fired. She shouldn’t be here.

  “Well, because it wasn’t approved, so I figured, my treat, and I’ll just pay it off in chunks. It’s really not a big deal. Now, please let me finish the tour. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

  In a daze, Charlee shows me around the rest of our floor where she set up a meditation room with two yoga mats, a trickling fountain, and soothing music. There are also flowers scattered around the space, every window is open, and her desk is all sorts of colorful with pens and notebooks and file folders, and calendars on the wall. It looks like the office supply convention threw up in her space. And her desk is repositioned, with an additional desk attached to it to form a mega desk giving the presence of importance with the way she positioned it instead of right outside of my office.

  When the hell did she do all of this?

  Did she even sleep?

  I’m so confused.

  She heads to my office and flings the door open. Once again, light floods through the space and I have to blink a few times for my eyes to adjust. Nervous to see what she did to my office, I hesitantly step in and glance around.

  Not a pen is out of place, not a piece of furniture has been added. It’s the same besides one thing . . .

  “What’s that?” I point at a five-foot potted tree next to my desk.

  “That’s a dragon tree, or Sir Dragomir of Westinville. That’s what I named him. He’s spikey looking, like you, and will offer remarkable breathable space and relaxation. He’s all I could afford for now, but just you wait, I’ll have some cousins for him soon. Plants offer a sense of peace in the office, something you need when working such a high-powered job. I can help you position him elsewhere, but don’t fret, he won’t get much taller than ten feet so we have plenty of ceiling space. Isn’t he magnificent? He spoke to me at the nursery and I couldn’t leave without—”

  “How much did you spend?” I ask through clenched teeth. I don’t even know if that’s what I should be asking. Maybe what the fuck would suffice . . .

  She waves her hand casually at me and starts working around my desk, turning on my computer for me and adjusting a cup of coffee on the desk as well as a blueberry muffin. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we make sure you’re fed, you’re caffeinated, and you’re addressed of your morning meetings. Now, I spoke with Renita and she set me up with your schedule; apparently she’s the only other person with access. So she kindly helped me out. We’re up and running, boss man.” She claps her hands together. “I’ll let you get adjusted, but I’ll be back in ten minutes to go over everything for the day. Busy, busy, busy.” With a smile, she takes off and closes my door quietly, leaving me in a fog of what the fuck with . . . Sir Dragomir of Westinville.

  * * *

  “Mr. Scott’s office, how may I help you?”

  “Linus, it’s Rath. I need to talk to Bram, now. Like right fucking now. He’s not answering his cell and I know he’s in his office because he sent me an email.”

  “He’s in a meeting, Mr. Westin.”

  “Linus, this is a red alert. Help me out.”

  He pauses and then says on a sigh, “Okay, but I would only do this for you. One second.”

  I tap at my desk as my foot bounces up and down. Ten minutes, I have ten minutes to figure out what to do about the office apocalypse that has happened this morning.

  “This better be good,” Bram says, getting on the line.

  “What are you really doing? You don’t have meetings this early.”

  “Julia is here . . .”

  My spine shivers. “Don’t fucking tell me you’re doing dirty shit with my sister in your office.”

  “No, we do that at her office. We’re going over wedding things.”

  “You can’t do that at home?”

  “You’re wasting your time with these inconsequential questions. Are you going to tell me why you’re calling me in a panic?”

  He’s right . . . unfortunately.

  Looking toward my door, as if it’s see-through, I quietly say, “She’s back.”

  “What do you mean she’s back?”

  I texted Bram last night to let him know what happened with Charlee and he thought it was one of the best things he’d ever heard and was mad at me for sending her away. He said I needed someone like her around.

  “The assistant, she’s back.”

  “Wait . . . what?” He chuckles lightly. “After you fired her? She returned?”

  “Not only did she return, but she’s dressed like Miss Frizzle from the Magic School Bus.”

  “Miss Frizzle always got my groin working; loved the saucy redhead.”

  “Can you not, right now?” I seethe. “What the fuck do I do? She transformed my entire office.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is a fucking
ficus staring at me.”

  “Like a plant?”

  “Yeah . . . technically it’s some kind of dragon bush, I’m not sure. All I know is that she named it Sir Dragomir of Westinville and my fucking balls seized out of fear. I think she’s insane.”

  “Slow down. It’s a fucking plant, man.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Come on, Westin. I’ve got things—”

  “There’s light pouring in from every window, there’s some fucking coffee kiosk outside, a kitchen . . . a goddamn meditation room. And don’t get me started on her workspace—a rainbow had an orgy with ten unicorns last night and its progeny is scattered all over her desktop. She’s coming back in”—I check my watch—“seven minutes to go over the busy schedule I have. Dude, I didn’t give her a schedule. What if she has me blocked out to do some kind of voodoo shit for an hour at lunch?”

  There’s silence on the phone and then, “You know, it sounds kind of magical over there, so maybe I’ll call to schedule an appointment with her.”

  “Jesus Christ, man, I’m serious. What the fuck do I do? She’s acting like nothing happened.”

  “Well, what exactly happened? Because if she still has her keycard and employee pass, then it sounds like she wasn’t fired. What did you say to her? Did you actually say, you’re fired?”

  “Yes . . . I mean . . .” I think about it. Did I? Did I say it out loud or did I say it in my head? “I thought I did.” Bram laughs hard. “Shit.” I drag my hand down my face. “Now I can’t remember. I definitely told her to get out and then she was gone for the day.”

  “Yeah, prepping the space for Sir Dragomir. You so did not fire her.”

  “Fuck.” I lean back in my chair, staring at the stupid spikey tree thing. “What do I do? Fire her now?”

  “Sure, if you want to look like an ungrateful prick who has no common decency. She clearly wants to make you comfortable in your environment. Why not give her a chance?”