Boss Man Bridegroom

by Quinn, Meghan

“What were they supposed to use to trim? A machete?”

  “Seems like that would be the only thing that would cut through the ‘nest of curls,’” Rath says while using air quotes.

  “Stahp it.” I laugh out loud. “You know the terms.”

  “I know that term because as I read it, it burned into my brain, and I gagged on my own saliva.”

  “Ugh.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Of course, that’s all you could focus on. What about the innocent touches, the way the heroine sticks up for herself despite how much lower in class she is, or how even though their love is forbidden, they still go for it anyway?”

  He flips the pen in his hand. “Couldn’t get past the nest of curls.”

  I throw my hands up in the air and stand from my chair. “You’re impossible.” I pack up my bag, and he does the same. We leave the papers where they are so we can tackle them Monday morning and then together, we head to the elevator.

  We both reach for the button at the same time, our hands colliding.

  “Oh, sorry.” I nervously laugh. “Looks like we’re both eager to get the hell out of here.”

  “Yeah,” he says, standing next to me, one hand in his pants pocket as he rocks on his heels.

  Feeling awkward, I say, “Your hand was soft. What kind of lotion do you use?”

  He gives me a quick once-over, shakes his head, and then on a sigh, answers, “Aveeno.”

  Does his cock smell like it too?

  Err . . . I mean . . . no.

  His cock scent should not be the first question that comes to my mind after finding out what lotion he uses . . . for his hands.

  But then before I can stop it, an image of Rath spread out on his desk, pants hanging by his ankles, cock jutted forward, pouring lotion in his hand crosses over my mind and I light up in flames, my body heat skyrocketing.

  Where the hell did that come from?

  Linus.

  He’s really getting his nipple twisted now.

  “Aveeno huh?” I say, trying not to make it seem like I was just envisioning his cock . . . or wondering what it smells like. “Because of Jennifer Aniston?”

  Does he rub himself out with his Aveeno lotion to Jennifer Aniston? Oh Jesus, I want to ask so bad. So bad that it actually hurts holding in the question.

  So painful, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “No, because it works,” he simply answers. The doors open and we step in, our shoulders bumping against each other.

  Because I’m awkward, I deliberately go to bump him, or more like I sideswipe him like a linebacker but fail miserably and topple into him so we both crash against the elevator wall.

  “What the hell?”

  “Oops.” I laugh. “You would think I was on a rocky boat. Just trying to playfully bump into you.”

  My hands fall on his chest so I can push myself up and instead of standing tall right away, I lean into him for a few seconds, my palms flat against his pecs. What would he do right now if I gave him a little squeeze? You know, just a little, tiny, wink-wink to his pecs. Would he even notice?

  Of course he would notice. He’s as stiff as a board right now. Any “wink-wink” would be absolutely noticeable.

  Instead of getting off him, I look up and laugh. “Look at us, making a business sandwich, our clothes being the meat.”

  “Were you drinking when I wasn’t paying attention?”

  “It would make this moment less painful if I was.” I push off him and stumble back as the elevator starts to move. He catches my hand and steadies me.

  “Seriously, are you having a stroke or something?”

  I’m having a bout of the sillies, if that’s something.

  “Damn these heels,” I say. “They always get wobbly at night. I think they turn into rubber like Cinderella turns into a pumpkin.”

  “She doesn’t turn into a pumpkin. Her carriage does.”

  “Well,” I huff, “who knew boss man know-it-all was an aficionado on Disney princesses?” I hoist my purse on my shoulder. “Guess I won’t be challenging you at Disney trivia anytime soon.”

  He releases me and cautiously steps away. I don’t blame him. I don’t know what’s going to come out of my mouth next and frankly, I’m just as terrified as he looks.

  “Working past nine, not good on you. Noted.”

  “Might be best.” I agree with a nod.

  Chapter Thirteen

  RATH

  “I missed you.” Warm arms wrap around me, followed by a kiss to the cheek. “God, you look good.” Bram steps away, observing me, his lip print still on my face. I wipe it off quickly and walk into his apartment.

  “I’m all for our bromance, but dude, kissing?”

  “I’m just so happy,” he says, slapping me in the ass with a thwack. “I haven’t seen my Rathy Poo Poo in a while.”

  “Don’t fucking call me that.”

  He chuckles and says, “Seriously, man. I’ve missed you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Work has been fucking stressful lately.”

  “Taking on more things?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Just, training and all of that.” Not that I’ve really trained Charlee at all . . . more like she’s trained me.

  I’m using the colored-coded pens for each corresponding day, doing the dishes for the both of us, watering the plants like she’s scheduled me to do. Christ, I even whistle theme songs as per the added suggestion she made, and I’m pretty sure Sir Dragomir enjoys “Wheels on the Bus” the most. His leaves seem to be shining more ever since I started whistling that specific tune.

  “Aah yes, the new assistant. Still liking her?”

  “Yeah.” We both walk to the kitchen and sit at the bar. “She’s doing a more than adequate job.”

  “That’s good to hear, given your latest failures when it comes to assistants. Maybe she can schedule more meetings where I’m involved. I haven’t even talked to you about the wedding.” He cringes. “Are you really okay with it being on your birthday?”

  “Yes. Dude, I don’t care. All I care about is you two getting married and having the best day ever.” I point at him. “And don’t get me a cake.”

  “Too late, it’s already been ordered and I got it with a picture of your penis on the top.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” I laugh. “Where would you even get a picture of my penis?”

  “Sophomore year, college . . .”

  “Oh fuck.” I laugh some more, thinking about the night I got so wasted, I ran around our frat house giving every guy not passed out a view of my “helicopter.” Yes, before I was Rath Westin, CEO of a billion-dollar company, I was Rath Westin, flings his willy around when drunk. “I thought I told you to get rid of those.”

  “I did. I got rid of them right into a safety deposit box and secured them safely in a bank to use when I need them as blackmail.”

  “And you’re going to waste that blackmail opportunity on a penis cake at your wedding? How do you think Julia is going to like singing happy birthday to my cock cake on her wedding day?”

  He scratches the side of his face. “Hmm, valid point. The missus would most certainly not like that. Looks like you just saved your nudity for another day.”

  “Can’t wait.” I laugh. “What else is going on?”

  “Invites were sent out, flowers have been chosen, so things are starting to feel official.”

  “What do you mean they’re starting to feel official? You guys already paid for the venue.”

  “Did I tell you we’re having a Venetian hour?”

  “Really? I’ve only been to one other wedding where they had a Venetian hour and it was so fucking good, I thought I was going to vomit from eating too many sweets.”

  “That’s why we decided to have one, because of you. We asked for all the exceptional pastries, so consider it a birthday present.”

  I chuckle and don’t even hide my honesty when I say, “I’m going to make a fool of myself at your wedding. People are going to ask where your best man
is and there I’ll be, huddled in the corner, pants undone, chocolate dripping down my face, in a straight-up food coma.”

  “And I’ll make sure my photographer gets multiple shots to add to my blackmail security box.”

  “Brutal,” I say, helping myself to some chocolate milk. “Want some?”

  “You know I do.”

  As I’m pouring us each a glass of some pre-made chocolate milk—not surprised there’s some in his fridge—the door swings open and Roark walks in with Sutton attached at his hip, each with an arm draped around each other.

  I remember when Roark started talking about Sutton. He was so caught up in her, I knew right then and there, he wasn’t going to be able to leave her side, and no matter how hard he tried to fight it, he finally gave in. I’ve never seen him happier.

  “Hey lads,” he calls out with a wave. “Pour me a glass, will ya?” He turns and asks Sutton, “Want some chocolate milk?”

  “I’m good.” Confused she asks, “Is that what you guys drink now?”

  “Yup,” I answer, handing out the glasses. We clink them together and start guzzling, the sweet chocolate flavor hitting the right spot.

  Bram called me the other night, inviting me to game night. He said he had some things to talk to me about but wanted to butter me up with some snacks and games first. I’m tempted to pull him to the side and ask him what exactly he needs to talk about but I know he will when he’s ready.

  So, game night it is, and guess who’s the odd man out? This fella right here.

  “Where’s Julia?” I ask, thinking my sister would have already come out to give me a hug.

  “At a conference. She’s talking about the matchmaking system she’s created. It’s kind of a big deal.”

  “Oh, awesome. I’m surprised she didn’t tell me about it.”

  “Last minute actually, which of course she freaked out about. You know how she loves being prepared.”

  She does. “So, it’s just us then?” I ask, clapping my hands together and moving to the living room where there are pizza bites, Doritos, pigs in a blanket, the smallest veggie tray ever, and pretzels laid out on the coffee table as well as Pictionary cards, a timer, and whiteboard markers.

  There’s a knock at the door and Bram says, “And I invited Linus, who’s bringing a plus-one. That should be them.”

  The minute Bram says Linus, I get this sinking feeling in my stomach, like I might know who his plus-one is.

  “Linus, the light of my life,” Bram says, opening the door. If I wasn’t so enraptured in looking for his plus-one, I’d be mildly insulted that Bram called another man the light of his life.

  “Thanks for inviting me.” He holds out a tray of milkshakes and says, “Brought our favorite.”

  “I could kiss you,” Bram says, “But that would create some serious HR nightmare.” He looks around. “Did you bring someone with you?”

  “I did, she’s—”

  “Here I am,” a very familiar voice says, popping into my line of view.

  Fuck.

  “I was tying my shoe.” Charlee holds up a box of pastries. “Thought we would bring our bosses’ favorite treats. Pastries and milkshakes for everyone.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  There goes my relaxing night.

  Immediately I tense up and want to punch Bram in the nuts. This is why you don’t invite assistants. This exact reason. Because now I can’t be myself. I’ll have to put on a veil so Charlee doesn’t see the real me. And I’ve worked so hard at keeping that veil firmly in place whenever I’m around her.

  “Paulie’s Pastries. Oh, you know Rath so well.” Bram takes the box and lets Linus and Charlee in.

  Not even giving it a second thought, Charlee, comes galloping up to me and holds out her hand for a high five.

  I just stare at it.

  “Come on, boss man crabby pants, don’t leave me hanging.”

  “That would be awfully rude,” Roark says, a giant asshole smile on his face. He doesn’t even need to speak to me, I know exactly what he’s thinking. I can already see it, feel his gaze. He’s going to be watching me like a hawk the entire time to see how I react to Charlee. He did the same thing to Julia and Bram. He’s an observant motherfucker, one of the things that makes him great at his job, but a trait that makes him a very annoying friend.

  Reluctantly, I give her a high five, which causes her to cheer, bouncing up and down in her green leggings and black T-shirt that says Game Night Bitches. Of course, she has a game-night shirt. I wouldn’t expect anything less at this point.

  “I’m so pumped, aren’t you?” she asks, jabbing me in the side with her finger.

  “Are you high?” I ask. Her energy level is far too extreme right now.

  “High on life.”

  Linus comes up to us and says, “She was worse in the taxi, Mr. Westin. Be grateful you’re getting this version of her.”

  “None of this mister crap,” Bram says, placing the pastries and milkshakes on the coffee table as well. “Quick intros. I’m Bram, this is Rath, Roark, his girl, Sutton, this is Linus and Charlee, Rath’s EA. We call each other by our first names. Got it?” He rubs his hands together. “Now, we’re going to choose teams. Should we do two teams of three, or three teams of two?”

  “Three teams,” Roark chimes in before I can even open my mouth. “And I suggest it be me and Sutton, Bram and Linus, since Linus is the light of Bram’s life, and then see how the new boss and assistant relationship is going with Charlee and Rath.”

  The motherfucker.

  A protest is on the tip of my tongue—

  “Great idea,” Bram says, going along with it. I have a sinking suspicion I’ve been set up.

  Standing next to me and looping her arm through mine, Charlee points at everyone and says, “Team Skittle Pals is taking you all out.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not our team name.”

  “No?” she asks, turning toward me, hands on her hips. “Then what? The Lemon Curdies?” Roark snorts. “Pretty Pastry Players? The Historical Nancies—”

  “Rath and Charlee is fine.”

  “Or Rarlee.” She laughs. “You are my work husband after all, so why not have a couple name?”

  Because that would be massively inappropriate.

  Because I also kind of like Rarlee, and I don’t want to admit to calling ourselves that.

  Bram steps up and says, “I’m going to put you two down as The Lemon Curdies because frankly, it makes me giggle so much that my penis jiggles.”

  “Can you not say shit like that?” I ask, dragging my hand over my face.

  “Why? You told me you laughed so hard the other day that your penis bobbed up in the air a few times.”

  “Dude,” I say through clenched teeth, my face turning bright red. Charlee doesn’t need to know that I thought it was funny when I laughed and my cock bobbed up. And that the more I laughed about it, the more it bobbed.

  Things employees don’t need to know about their boss with an immature frat-boy brain.

  And it’s not like Roark is any help. He’s sitting back laughing.

  Sutton, the graceful distraction that she is, says, “We’d like to be called Team Whiskey Innocence.”

  “Oh, I like that,” Bram says, writing the names down on the separate whiteboard where we’ll keep score.

  “And I think we should be Brinus Braniacs,” Bram says to Linus. “Because we have no shame in our work relationship name.” I’m really not pleased with how “comfortable” Bram is with Linus. First and foremost, he’s my best friend . . . not Linus’s.

  “Got a tattoo of it on my ass,” Linus says, pausing Bram in his pursuit to write down the name. Suck-ass.

  Shit, did I really think that about Linus? Hell, I’m so out of whack right now.

  “Did you really? Because if that’s true, I very well might throw HR out the window tonight and propose to you. Julia is hot and smart, so she can find someone else.”

  Linus chuckles and says
, “Well, if I ever want you to leave Julia, I know what to do now.”

  As Bram sets up the game, Charlee turns to me and pokes my arm. “You’re tense. You can’t be tense if the Lemon Curdies are going to take the trophy tonight. Loosen up, Rath.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, sure. You’re fine.” She pokes me again. “What’s wrong? Are you seriously always this tense? You were more relaxed the other night—”

  “What happened the other night?” Roark asks, butting in like the asshole he is.

  “Stayed late.” Charlee rolls her eyes. “This guy actually loosened up for a second.”

  “Only for a second?” Bram asks and then laughs. “You should have seen him in college.”

  The exact thing I didn’t want to fall out of Bram’s or Roark’s mouths tonight.

  “You know, how about we don’t talk about that shit to my assistant who needs to respect me,” I say in warning.

  “Ah, are you worried I’m not going to respect you?” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Never going to happen. Not after the koi pond present. Which by the way, my grandma called me the other day and told me she hung out with Rath the fish for an hour yesterday. She’s so happy.” Charlee looks up at me with those round, mesmerizing eyes and says, “Thank you, again.”

  Hands stuffed in my jeans pockets, I casually say, “It was nothing.” Everyone around us is putting plates of food together and talking about the calorie intake we’ll be taking down tonight, giving me a small minute alone with Charlee. “If I knew you were going to be here, I wouldn’t have shown up,” I say honestly.

  “Why not?” Her eyes turn from admiration to confused. “I thought we were cool, Rath.”

  “We are,” I whisper. “But I . . .” I look over at my guys, making brief eye contact with Roark. “My friends have no filters. They’re going to say some inappropriate shit. I try to keep personal and business separate.”

  “I can understand and appreciate that.” She presses her hand to my arm and I swear to God, my entire body feels like it ignites into flames from her small touch. It’s instant and uncontrollable, as if this attraction I’ve been harboring toward her somehow came floating to the surface in seconds, like something deep within me unleashed it. And I have no idea why.