Boss Man Bridegroom

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Because she’s . . .”

  Beautiful.

  Smart.

  Funny.

  Quirky.

  Annoying . . .

  “Because she’s not right for the job.”

  “Seems like she’s more right than you were ready for. Give her a chance and be nice. She’s clearly invested in making things easy for you.”

  “I’m not being nice.”

  “Why? Because you’re afraid she’ll actually see that you’re a good guy?”

  “I’m not that self-absorbed. I can’t be nice, not when I don’t know her potential.”

  “Let me guess, you’re going to put her through the ringer?”

  “I don’t have an option,” I say while flicking one of Dragomir’s leaves. “If she wants to work for me, then I’m going to make sure she knows what working for me entails.”

  “Christ,” Bram blows out. “Just promise me one thing and I’m serious about this.”

  “What?” I ask, checking the time again. Two minutes.

  “Don’t piss on the welcome parade she gave you this morning. She clearly put thought into it.”

  I think about how the office looks vastly different and even though it’s not my style, Bram is right. She obviously put a lot of time and thought into it, especially to make it happen this fast. I have no fucking clue how she got all this up here so early in the day. And fuck. The security staff allowed some unknown to deliver the coffee cart? And a ficus? They don’t know her. How did she get that approved? And she paid for it. Who is this girl?

  But then the businessman in me sees a spot of potential. She has connections and that might be a good thing moving forward.

  “Okay, I promise.”

  Chapter Six

  CHARLEE

  Linus: He called this morning, looking for Bram, as expected.

  Charlee: Good, thanks for letting me know. And thanks for the help yesterday. I wasn’t sure the security team would actually let me up here. They obviously know who you are, Linus. Anyway, it means a lot to me.

  Linus: You’re welcome. No way in hell are you going to be fired before noon. Not my girl. Keep me updated on everything.

  Charlee: I will. Time to go into the lion’s den. P.S. I think he’s taking a liking to Dragomir.

  Linus: I’m still snorting over the name. Rath Westin has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. Good luck, girl.

  Charlee: Thank you.

  I set my phone to the side and take a deep breath.

  I’m not an idiot. I knew exactly what Rath Westin was doing yesterday. He couldn’t handle me and within the first interaction we had in the office, he sent me packing. Harold Danvers did the same thing, but never actually uttered the words, you’re fired. Therefore, I acted like it never happened.

  Yes, my personality can be a bit much at times, but what these powerful businessmen don’t realize is that they need someone like me to keep them running.

  Someone bright and shiny.

  Someone who will respectfully refuse and decline meetings and events for them.

  Someone who knows their eating schedule, meeting schedule, and poop schedule.

  The puppet master, that’s me. I make sure these men function while making tough decisions and Rath doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to be the biggest asset to him. And when he does realize it, oh boy, will it feel so, so good.

  Pen and notebook in hand, I stand, straighten my dress, and walk straight into Rath’s office, not even bothering to knock. We’re the only ones on this floor, he didn’t receive any incoming calls, therefore, I’ll walk right in.

  When I do, I find him leaning over his desk, his hand in his hair, a position I’m sure I’ll be seeing many times.

  It takes monumental effort not to burst out into laughter. How I’d love to be inside his head right now, watching him try to make sense of his morning. I know he’s confused, distressed probably, also maybe slightly relieved, which adds to more confusion.

  I’d be confused too if I fired someone and then they showed up the next day as if nothing happened. It was a risk, but one I was willing to take, because even though we didn’t get off on the right foot, I know there’s a good working relationship between us ready to blossom. I can feel the give and take, I can see the long nights, and I can sense his need for me. It’s the only reason I didn’t go home defeated. Instead, I strapped my purse tighter to my shoulder and made a to-do list, maxed out my credit card, and cashed in on some favors.

  I’m now hoping it all pays off.

  “Uh-oh, looks like you haven’t touched your muffin yet. Can I make you something else? How about a breakfast burrito?”

  He glances up at me as I approach and take the seat across from him. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Did you eat breakfast?”

  “Feeding me isn’t in your job description.”

  “Not specifically, but it falls under the category of helping the CEO, so . . . did you eat?”

  “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  I shake my head. “No, no, no. That won’t do.” I take my work phone that I already plugged all my contacts into, and I type out a text to Vincent, my go-to Postmate driver. “You see, Mr. Westin, when they say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, they mean it. Your brain needs food. If a muffin isn’t your thing, then we’ll try something else. We’ll have some options here in fifteen.” I text away. “Bulldog and Brute are aware and will be bringing it up when it’s done.”

  “Bulldog and Brute?” He lifts his brow.

  “Yes, your security detail.” I roll my eyes. “You don’t call them by their nicknames yet? Such wonderful guys. Brute and his wife are expecting their third child soon. Father of three, wow, I can’t even imagine, but that’s beside the point. Let’s get to work.” From the pocket of my dress, I pull out a purple felt-tip pen and hand it to him.

  He doesn’t take it.

  “Here, go on, don’t be afraid. Tuesdays are for purple.”

  “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Mr. Westin, I assure you, this is very much necessary, because once you start color-coding your days, you’re going to notice a trend of when you’re most productive. If you know what color corresponds with what day, the trend will grow stronger. Thursdays are my hardest days. You would think it’s Monday, but it’s not. Thursdays I struggle with, that’s why I save green for Thursdays.”

  I can see the intrigue in his eyes when he asks, “Why green?”

  “Because green is the color of money, and if I want money, I better get my ass into gear and make some.”

  The corner of his lip twitches as he glances at his hands.

  Already hiding smiles. Gah, my favorite part of historical romances that I read during my lunch hour. The burly hero who has a stick up his butt and a chip on his shoulder finds the heroine to be entertaining, but he never lets on.

  Well, guess what, Rath Westin, I see you.

  “Take the pen and let’s get down to working.”

  Reluctantly, after a few seconds of staring at it, he takes the pen from me and uses it to tap on his paper.

  “Today you have—”

  “I’m aware of what’s on my schedule. I don’t need you listing everything off.”

  “Oh, competent in reading his own schedule, understood.” I write a note. “When entering your meetings, would you like me to make notes about what they’re pertaining to so I don’t have to list them off to you?”

  “Notes and pictures of the people I’m talking to. I like to know what they look like so if I see them in person, I’m not caught off guard.”

  I tap my pen to my temple. “Ooo, and that, folks, is how he gets ahead of the game. Noted. Do you need a brief bio, two to three sentences about their personal life or recent accomplishments?”

  His jaw twitches. “Yes, that would be fine.”

  That would be fine, my ass. He’s totally salivating over that idea.

  “Not a problem. If you’re set on your schedu
le, would you like to let me know what you need from me?”

  “Yes, I would.” He slides a piece of paper across the table and says, “I need all of those done by end of day.”

  I pick up the list and don’t even look at it, as I realize exactly what he’s doing. He’s challenging me, to see if I can keep up with him and his ridiculous demands. And I keep my mouth shut about the use of paper . . . Mr. Better-Use-Your-iPad.

  Please, Rath, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen a high-powered alpha try to prove he was right. He could not be more cliché if he tried.

  The ominous list, the gruff attitude, the rumpled hair, and alpha attitude . . . same personality, different man.

  It’s sad that he thinks he’s going to scare me away. Little does he know, this list is about to become my bitch, and it will be done by noon, not end of day.

  Standing, I give him a quick smile and say, “When breakfast arrives, I’ll bring it right in.”

  “Knock beforehand.”

  “Why, do you get naked in here?”

  His eyes sharpen. “It’s polite.”

  Who’s he to act like the polite police? Pretty sure he has yet to thank me for the office or any meals.

  But I keep my mouth shut—pick my battles. I nod and take off for my desk, leaving him alone with Sir Dragomir . . . who is a bitch to move, so I’ll be interested to see if he attempts to change his position at all.

  Once back at my desk, I set my notebook down, take a deep breath, and look at his list.

  Written in stinging handwriting is a list I don’t think anyone could accomplish . . . unless you’re me.

  1.Pick up laundry from dry cleaning.

  2.Buy five more of those shirts I like.

  3.Talk to John, ask him about GP.

  4.Go to Maxwell lunch, apologize.

  5.Personally deliver Hoosier files by 10 a.m.

  Hmm . . . there seems to be some decoding necessary and it’s already eight thirty, so it seems like I need to enlist some much-needed help.

  The elevator dings and Brute and Bulldog walk in with breakfast, coy smiles on their thick faces when they see me.

  Just the two guys I need to recruit.

  * * *

  “All right, Joel, I’m buckled up, let’s go.”

  After handing Rath his breakfast on a tray that was decked out like a room service cart, bud vase included with a pretty daisy, I told him I’d be out of the office but if he needed me, to give me a call or shoot me a text.

  He’s already sent me a text, asking me to have a rug delivered to his office so he doesn’t have to hear my heels clack against the floors of his office.

  Isn’t he a treasure?

  Then I enlisted the help of Brute and Bulldog to assist me in decoding the list, which they did—such great men, I gave them each a fun-sized pack of Skittles as a reward—and then I went to Joel, who was waiting for me after I text him that we were on the warpath today.

  First stop was the Hoosier files, which I dropped off at nine thirty. Then we whipped around to collect the dry cleaning. From there, we checked the shirts and lo and behold, found the ones he was talking about, because four of the eight shirts that were recently dry-cleaned were the same, and Joel remembered Rath talking about them one day. Told him Tom Ford made the best shirts. I then ordered five shirts for him in his size to be delivered to the office and charged to his account.

  Done.

  Talk to John, ask him about GP. That was a little puzzling until Brute said there’s a man in Rath’s building by the name of John and he’s the garage parking attendant. So, we rushed over to Rath’s apartment, spoke with John and thankfully he knew what we were looking for, which was for Rath’s parking spot to be repainted. That was done within the hour with a bribery of a shimmy, wink, and fun-sized pack of Skittles.

  And then it was a smooth downhill from there. Maxwell lunch. He was speaking of Gary Maxwell from High Nine, Rath’s favorite bar. We apologized for Rath skipping out the other day without paying, advising that he’d had an emergency and was extremely sorry. Gary was awesome, knew Rath would make good on it, and then I slipped him a pack of Skittles as well. After that, we went to the rug store, picked out a gunmetal gray, velour, cut pile rug—perfect that my heels won’t catch—and asked them to deliver it in an hour.

  “We have half an hour before noon, think we can make it?” I ask, food in hand.

  “We’re three blocks away. Easily. I’ll drop you off in the garage that gives you access to his private elevator. Take it right up and then shock the shit out of him,” Joel says, already on Team Charlee.

  “I plan on it.” I smile to myself. “Also, I really appreciate you helping me out. This means a lot to me.”

  “Anything for a girl who wants to prove herself. I like your spirit, Miss Cox.”

  “Please, call me Charlee. I will wither away if you call me Miss Cox.”

  “Well, we don’t want that, do we?”

  I shake my head. “No, because then who would hand out Skittles?”

  “It wouldn’t be Mr. Westin, that’s for damn sure.”

  We both laugh and then I lull my head toward him. “I think we’re going to have a wonderful friendship, Joel.”

  “I think so too, Miss Charlee.”

  I guess I’ll settle with that.

  * * *

  I check the tray one more time and then pick up the package of shirts that were just delivered followed by the food.

  We stopped at the local salad shop down the road, got Rath a steak salad with a Coke Zero, and a sugar cookie, because I thought he might like the pick-me-up.

  On a deep breath, I knock on his door and when he yaps at me to come in, I push through. The tray of food from breakfast is on the floor next to the door and everything has been eaten. I hide the smile that wants to pass over my lips and head across the floor, sans shoes.

  My approach is stealth and he notices.

  He looks up over his computer and down at my feet.

  “Where are your shoes?”

  I try to hide the sarcastic tone when I reply, but I can’t help what comes out of my mouth. “I didn’t want your ears to bleed from the clacking of my heels, so I took them off before entering. Your new rug will be arriving within the hour, which will be perfect because in half an hour you’re supposed to be in a meeting with finance, freeing up your office.”

  He grumbles something and then goes back to his computer. Staring at the screen, he asks, “Why are you standing around? You have lunch with Maxwell.”

  “No, that was already sorted.” I place the tray on his desk with a smile and tap on the list he gave me with the added checks of buy rug and get lunch. “Everything is done. Here are your Tom Ford shirts you love so much. Your parking spot has been repainted, your dry cleaning has been sent to your apartment, and the Hoosier files were delivered at nine thirty. Everything is done and taken care of. I also found you this delicious salad from around the corner with the thought that you didn’t bring a sack lunch with you, am I right?”

  He sits up, leaning back in his chair, staring at the list on the tray.

  “You spoke with John?”

  “Yes, lovely man. Parking spot is all taken care of.”

  His jaw works back and forth, and I know it’s stinging him that I not only decoded his list, but got everything done by noon.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some emails and phone calls to return.”

  I start to walk away when Rath says, “There’s a cookie on my tray. I don’t eat cookies.”

  “Try it,” I say, spinning to face him and walking backward. “It might help turn your crabby pants into something a little less . . . crusty.”

  His brows narrow as he says, “My pants aren’t crusty.”

  “Well, they’re not smooth, that’s for sure.” I give him a wave. “Enjoy, boss man crust pants.”

  I shut his door behind me and smile to myself.

  And the point goes to Charlee Cox. Hashtag winning.
<
br />   Chapter Seven

  RATH

  “Good morning, Mr. Westin. Lovely morning, don’t you think?”

  For the love of God. I shudder to the side as Charlee meets me with a warm smile.

  Wasn’t ready for her greeting this morning, not after the gauntlet she ran me through yesterday.

  The list.

  The rug.

  The food.

  Boss man crust pants.

  It’s all still swimming around in my head in one giant blur as I try to comprehend what has happened to my life in the last forty-eight hours.

  I give Charlee a quick once-over as I catch my breath. Blue apparently is assigned to Wednesdays, because she looks like a goddamn blueberry.

  Is this going to happen every day? A color theme?

  I pinch the bridge of my nose while taking deep breaths.

  “Breakfast is at your desk, fresh from the pot. Oatmeal with dates, raisins, apple, and cinnamon. I skipped the brown sugar, because we shouldn’t load up on sugar first thing in the morning. Those hearty oats though, they’ll get things flowing for you.” And so the barrage begins.

  “Flowing?” I ask, walking to my office.

  “You know, digestively. Which reminds me, I established your bathroom to be the one in your office. I added a candle, and some light reading material . . . you know, for when the mood strikes. The bathroom out here in the hallway is mine. Please don’t use it unless you want to stare at a basket of tampons when you’re taking a leak.”

  Jesus.

  Christ.

  It’s way too early for this shit.

  “We have a lot to do so best we get to your office and get to work.” She takes me by the arm and guides the way. “You look tired. Are you sleeping well? Do you need—?”

  “What the fuck happened in here?” I ask when we walk into my office.

  “Oh.” She lightly laughs. “Just a few things I picked up to make it more homey. Honestly, your office was like an asylum for the insane, and how you got work done is beyond me. And the chairs I have to sit in when we’re talking, they were incredibly uncomfortable. And don’t get me started on the lack of lumbar support. Don’t worry, I stuck with your dark, dramatic theme when picking out some new chairs, but also took it upon myself to add a few special touches here and there.”