Boss Man Bridegroom

by Quinn, Meghan

  “A few touches?” Is she insane? What I’m staring at is not a few touches. “It looks like a goddamn jungle in here.”

  “Oh, now, now. Don’t we like to exaggerate. Noted. But no, it’s not a jungle. I told you Sir Dragomir had some cousins coming. I got you a few bonsai, as they’re very good for finding piece of mind. You can trim them how you want and name them. They can be your friends when you’re stressed.”

  “I don’t want them in here.”

  “Hmm, that’s a problem because they love it here so much. Just give them a chance.”

  They will die from thirst before I even consider looking at them.

  I sit down at my desk and look at the oatmeal she prepared. Shit, I hate to admit it, but it looks really good and smells like heaven, but I’ll be damned if I eat it in front of her.

  From my briefcase, I hand her a list and say, “Done by noon. Don’t dawdle.”

  She snatches the list from me with glee and says, “I would never dawdle. Oh, and when you’re done with your dishes, please be a dear and put them in the kitchen area. I may be your assistant, but I’m not your maid.”

  She takes off and closes my door.

  Out of all the people I had to hire, then fire, then I guess rehire (?) she had to be the kind who lives in a land of cupcakes and unicorns.

  I lean back in my chair and take in my office. Little trees are scattered all over, a side table is against the wall with a sign, “Rath’s pruning tools.” I drag my hand over my face, wondering what all my business associates would think.

  Bram would love it. Roark would laugh in my face. As I look around, all I can think is when the fuck does she sleep?

  I pick up the spoon that’s next to the oatmeal, dip it in the bowl, and scoop up a decent mouthful. I plop it against my tongue and my eyes immediately fall closed as I relish in the delicious and blending flavors. Damn her for tantalizing my taste buds.

  * * *

  “Well, would you look at you.”

  I step out of the elevator, still not used to her greeting me with sunshine and such cheeriness that I feel myself scowl right away. Being an introvert, I’ve developed a solid routine in the morning and it doesn’t include chit-chatting with my employees before my first cup of coffee at my desk. My mornings are supposed to be my time to collect myself at my desk for at least an hour before I even consider talking to someone else. That way, I’m mentally prepared and sharp on my feet for when questions are fired at me. Now it feels like I have to prep on my way to the office when I’m usually looking at my sports feed to relax.

  But Charlee has changed that.

  Not sure I’ll ever get used to being bombarded right when I get off the elevator.

  Wondering why she’s grinning like a lunatic, I glance at her outfit and immediately realize the colossal mistake I made this morning.

  We’re both wearing green.

  Fuck.

  Not wanting to hear her highly probable, over-the-top statement about my clothing, I take off toward my office, but she catches up quickly and elbows me in the side. “Thursday, am I right?” She opens my door for me and continues, “Got to make that money.” I loathe myself right now. “Let’s not let Thursday slow us down because tomorrow is Friday, and do you know what Friday means?”

  “Two days away from you,” I mutter, even though it’s not true. We have to work this weekend.

  “A joke, look at you lightening up.”

  Not a joke.

  “Friday means it’s the weekend and the possibilities are endless. So let’s plow through this day and make it great. What do you say?”

  I sit at my desk where a green smoothie stares back at me. “What’s this?”

  “Power drink. It’s Thursday, and we have to get our brain working. According to the dietary form you filled out for me”—yeah, that was fucking fun—“you’re not allergic to anything but you don’t like kale. So I put it in your smoothie.”

  “If I don’t like it, why would you put it in my smoothie?”

  “Because you can’t taste it and it’s such a good vegetable for you. Something a high-powered macho man like yourself needs.” She flexes her arms when she says that, and I feel like she’s mocking me.

  “Did you finish typing up that proposal yesterday?”

  “Yes, it’s in our shared file, which I organized for us, because having all those Word documents and Excel sheets floating around without a home was a nightmare. So I took it upon myself to divide them into appropriate files.”

  Something I’ve been wanting to do for a while, but I don’t mention that.

  “And what about this weekend, did you book hotel rooms in Miami?”

  “Of course. You’re booked into the royal oceanfront suite at The St. Regis Bal Harbour Resort. I believe that’s where you’ve stayed on previous trips to Miami.”

  “Singular? As in one room?” I ask.

  “Do you plan on having company? A little lady friend?” She laughs.

  I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. “What the hell do you think you’re doing this weekend?”

  “Uh, having brunch with my grandma. It’s her birthday. Turning the young age of eighty.”

  “Send her flowers. You’re coming to Miami.” I turn on my computer.

  “Hmm. I don’t recall that being part of the job description or booked in our shared calendar.” She taps her green pen to her paper.

  “Then you didn’t read the fine print. Not only are you contracted to me for two years unless I fire you, you’re also required to work extra hours as an executive salaried employee. You’re coming to Miami, and I’d appreciate appropriate work attire, nothing too”—I motion up and down her body—“flashy.”

  She glances at her green dress and then back up at me. “How is this flashy? You’re wearing the same color as me.”

  “In a subtle way.”

  She folds her arms as well. “You know, this is harassment.”

  “It really isn’t and once again, read your contract. As an executive employee you’re required to adhere to a certain standard. I suggest you read things before you sign them, Miss Cox.”

  “Fine.” She lifts her chin in the air and a wave of nerves trickle up my spine. When women say “fine” it’s never good . . . in any context. The word “fine” should be eliminated from the English language because all it does is cause stress and trouble. “I’ll go with you this weekend, but I will require to be home by nine Sunday morning. I’m sure you can manage since you have a private jet and you’re to return Sunday anyway. That way my poor grandma doesn’t have a stroke from me not showing up.” She leans forward, hands on hips, her voice sharp with me. “Is that what you want? For my grandma to have a stroke?”

  Casually, I unpack my suitcase and say, “You’ll be home by nine on Sunday.” I take the list I made last night, finding it harder and harder to stump this girl after only a few days on the job, and hand it to her. “You know the drill. By noon.”

  “As if you even have to announce your demands.” She snatches the list and strides out of my office, slamming my door this time.

  Maybe Thursdays might be my favorite days, after all.

  I stare at the smoothie, glance at Sir Dragomir, who I swear reports back to Charlee, and then I take a cautious sip.

  Fuck.

  Why is it so good?

  The oats were perfect, the rug—gunmetal gray, soft, and perfectly suited to my office—perfect, John—who can be a cranky ass—loves the sweet new assistant and thought her perfect . . . and her attention to detail? Perfect.

  Damn Charlee and her ability to be perfect at everything.

  * * *

  “Gooooooooooood MORNING,” Charlee shouts at the top of her lungs the minute the elevator doors open, startling the fuck out of me.

  Motherfucker. I was prepared for her onslaught but not for her to shout through a megaphone and scare the piss right out of me.

  On cue, she presses a button on a remote in her hand and
“Celebrate” by Kool & the Gang blasts through the speakers of our office floor.

  Wearing a yellow skintight dress, leopard-print glasses, and matching shoes, she does some weird jig in front of me and then twirls.

  “Come on, boss man. YAAAA-HOOO! It’s Friday.” She waves her arms in the air. “Oh yeah, it’s a celebration.”

  Fucking . . . hell.

  The music blares, she flings her body around, and . . . are those balloons?

  I focus and confirm, yup, those are in fact, balloons. Balloons and streamers are strewn across her workspace.

  My office has turned into a goddamn circus.

  That’s exactly what this week has been, a fucking circus, not a place of business and yet, instead of taking a pen to the balloons and a Gianni shoe to the speakers, I walk past the dancing blonde with far too much energy for eight in the morning and head to my office, nervous to open the door.

  So nervous, that I hesitate to open it, which of course she notices.

  “You act like something is going to pop out.” She laughs and pushes the door open for me. I glance inside and see everything is “normal” for now.

  That is until I walk in and Brute and Bulldog—as they will be referred to now—pop out from the corners with signs that say Happy Friday.

  Together my barrel-chested security detail dance with Charlee, all gleefully excited about it being Friday. They hold signs, Charlee is holding . . . wait . . . what are those?

  POP.

  “Jesus Christ,” I yelp, startling backward as confetti shoots from the tubes.

  Pulse on overdrive, I clutch my briefcase like a life raft as I take in the spectacle in front of me, confetti strands dripping down my forehead.

  “Celebrate good times,” Charlee sings, bopping her head back and forth, looking like a Peanuts character with two giant men on either side.

  What.

  The.

  Actual.

  Fuck.

  The music finally dies down and she hands out high fives to Brute and Bulldog who jog off, patting me on the back on their way out.

  “Oh wait,” Charlee calls out. From her cleavage . . . yes, her fucking cleavage, she pulls out two fun-sized packs of Skittles and tosses one each to the boys like dog treats. “Thanks, fellas, your rhythm was on point.”

  They bid her a goodbye and shut the door behind them, which finally gives me a second to catch my breath.

  “Aren’t you energized? Told you we just had to get past Thursday, and we did it. We are Friday fans in this office.” She waves her arms in the air, snapping her fingers, and still sidestepping.

  I . . .

  Hell, what the fuck do I even do with her?

  Clearly not in the mood, I steam past her, my heart pacing at an alarming rate from being startled and bombarded so much this morning, that I take my seat immediately and try to slow down my pulse with deep breaths.

  No person should have to work under these uncertain conditions. Erratic behavior, unexpected surprises, awkward security men spontaneously jumping out at me . . . it’s a fucking whirlwind of terrifying events, one after another.

  On a deep breath, I stare at the pancakes that are smiling back up at me.

  Yup . . . a fucking circus.

  “They’re protein pancake smilies.” Charlee steps up, a little out of breath from her performance. “Packed full of the protein you need in the morning with a bit of charm. I stuck blueberries in there for some antioxidants and then I made another kale smoothie for you since you seemed to suck yesterday’s down so fast. Only a half serving though, as we don’t want you bloated from breakfast. We need you fitting in those trousers.”

  Finally gathering myself, I say, “Please tell me you’re not going to do that every Friday.”

  “The balloons, no, because there’s a helium shortage, but we will be dancing every Friday. Next week, you get to pick the song. Can’t wait to hear what you pick and there will be no judgment, so if you get your boogie on to The Judds, then let’s do it. I’ll need your song choice by Wednesday to prepare.”

  I snag the list from my suitcase and wave it at her. “Just take this and leave. Please, just leave.”

  “Ah, okay. I get it, a little overwhelming. Totally reading the room. Don’t worry, boss man, I’ll tone it down.”

  Thank God. Because my head is about to explode.

  * * *

  Knock. Knock.

  “Mr. Westin.” Charlee pokes her head through my door. “You have a beautiful visitor here to see you.”

  Beautiful?

  Who on earth . . .

  “Your sister,” she squeals and flings my door open. Together, Julia and Charlee walk arm in arm toward my desk. Oh God, that can’t be good. “Can I just say she’s one of the most delightful humans I’ve ever met? What a charming young lady.”

  “I would say the same about you,” Julia says, patting Charlee on the hand.

  Great, just what I need, my sister and my executive assistant becoming best friends. All I need now is for Bram to get involved and then I’m done.

  “I’ll leave you two to it, but, Julia, I’ll send that spaghetti squash recipe your way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Charlee takes off but before she shuts the door, she says, “Ordered some high tea for you two, and it will be here shortly. A little snack for the afternoon.”

  When she shuts the door, Julia takes a seat and beams at me. “I—”

  “Please.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Don’t say it.”

  “Love her,” Julia finishes, looking back at the door. “Oh my God, Rath, she is so much fun and so vibrant and sweet. Completely different than anyone you’ve worked with and look at your office, it’s so full of life. I bet you get a lot done.”

  I don’t want to admit it, but I’ve been able to get more work done this past week than I ever have before. She is . . . fun . . . but I’m still not sure I can deal with the morning overtures. I mean, fuck, how does she manage to get here before me and have everything set up? Food, people, music . . . when does she sleep? Does she sleep? How the hell is she getting all the shit done on my lists? I’m being as evasive as possible to challenge her, stump her, and she keeps one-upping me like a goddamn A-plus champion by finishing the lists and adding some kind of decadent sweet to my lunch.

  It’s infuriating. And she seems to know exactly what kind of afternoon sweet I need at the right time. It boosts my spirits, makes me think of sprinkles and cupcakes and itty-bitty kittens—hell, she’s making me say words in my head like itty-bitty.

  Therefore, she’s fucking with my head in all sorts of ways. She has completely obliterated my plan to overwhelm her, having passed every challenge thrown at her. And I’m left on the backfoot more often than not. She shouldn’t be able to do that to me. The chaos I’ve worked with for so long has been traded in for something crazier . . . yet, I’m on top of my work. I shake my head. We are Friday fans in this office. Christ.

  “She’s efficient,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “What’s up, sis? Everything okay?”

  She nods. “Everything is great. I wanted to talk to you about the wedding.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well . . .” She twists her hands in her lap and I’m immediately on high alert.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just, we moved the date and it’s your birthday weekend.”

  “So?”

  “The wedding would be on your actual birthday. It was the only day we could book and I feel awful, but we didn’t want to lose the venue.”

  I smile and say, “Julia, you matter more to me than any birthday. I want you to have the best wedding—”

  “Me . . . or Bram?” she asks with a raised brow, humor in her voice.

  “Both of you.” I smile. “Having your wedding on my birthday will only make it that much more special. Seriously, don’t even bat an eyelash about it.”

  “Bram said he wants to have three cakes at the wedding. A wedding ca
ke, a cheesecake for good luck . . .”

  I laugh out loud and say, “He once had cheesecake before an exam he never studied for and wound up acing it, so now he thinks cheesecake brings good luck. He only eats it before some of the most important events in his life.”

  “Is it weird that you know more about him than I do?”

  “It will soon change, which will burn my soul, but hey, that’s what happens when I hand my best friend over to my sister in marriage.”

  She rolls her eyes and says, “Well, the third cake is a birthday cake for you.”

  “Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “I will not take from your day. I can celebrate some other time, or not at all because I’m a grown-ass man and don’t need anything special.”

  “Try telling that to Bram. He was distraught about it. It’s why he sent me to tell you, to soften the blow. He said he couldn’t even look you in the eye.”

  “He’s such a drama queen.” The door to my office opens and Charlee rolls a cart inside. “It will be fine,” I whisper before Charlee sets a pot of tea in front of us along with teacups and a three-tier display of scones and treats.

  Where the hell did this come from? And why haven’t I had this every day?

  Fact: I have a weakness for baked goods—besides muffins—and will eat any baked good set in front of me. Like one-bite gobbling. Bram and Roark both know this and always tempt me with donuts and croissants and Danishes, pretty much anything with gluten in it that you would find on the breakfast table.

  “Charlee, this is amazing,” Julia says, taking in the display of food.

  Yeah, okay . . . she did a good job on this. Very thoughtful, even though it’s painful for me to admit.

  “Thank you.” She stands tall after setting everything down and says, “Bottom tier has scones baked fresh from Jenny’s Bakery around the corner. Second tier has petits fours in a variety of flavors, and then the top tier is your jam and clotted cream for the scones. I’ve paired it with a lovely afternoon English Breakfast tea. Lemon and honey are on the side. Enjoy.”