Hot Boss

by Anne Marsh

  She dumps her stuff on my desk and rolls her eyes. “Stop being so weird.”

  “Is everything okay?” What I really mean is, are we okay?

  Hazel flips up the lid of her laptop. “Was kissing me that bad?”

  There is absolutely no good answer to that question. If I was a gentleman, I’d have acquired a very specific case of amnesia and wiped that handful of minutes from my brain. I definitely wouldn’t be sporting wood beneath my desk because, yeah, kissing Hazel was every bit that good.

  Her mouth twitches. “I thought we had chemistry.”

  “Uh.” Nope. I’ve still got nothing.

  She punches a button and PowerPoint springs to life on her screen. God bless a well-organized piece of software. “And while I’m annoyed you sprinted out of your own house as if I had some really nasty case of the cooties, I’m willing to work with you on this.”

  “What?” Hopefully my brain comes back online soon.

  “You. Me.” She gestures impatiently between us. “I think we could be the answer to each other’s problem. I’ve made a deck with my plan.”

  Plans are good. I’d prefer us to execute a plan of my devising, but I’m happy to listen to Hazel’s pitch. Plus, we both live and breathe slide decks, anyhow—it’s an occupational hazard. She flips the laptop around so I can see the screen and then plants her ass on my desk. Still, the title of her presentation catches me by surprise:

  Hazel and Jack:

  Friends with Benefits

  There’s a fairly standard template for pitching. You hit the basics—company info, your concept, the problem—and then you start unpacking your proposed solution and why it’s going to be a financial winner. The first slide has company info—Hazel’s name and phone number. I already know this. I can’t quibble with slide number two, either.

  The Problem:

  No sex

  “Yes, no sex is quite the problem.” I lean back in my chair and kick my feet up on my desk. Look at me, pretending to be all relaxed.

  Hazel’s gaze drifts over my crotch. “Exactly. You’re not having it. I’m not having it. This means that we’re missing out on a number of key health benefits. Sex has been known to lower blood pressure, reduce the risk of heart attacks, improve bladder control—”

  I hold a hand up. “Sex is healthy. Got it. Move on before I have an aneurysm.”

  Hazel mock-glares at me and moves on to the next slide.

  The Solution:

  Jack and Hazel have sex!

  I take a moment to make sure that no one innocently passing by in the hallway will get an eyeful of Hazel’s presentation.

  “Did you put this on the company server?”

  Hazel taps an impatient finger on my desk. “No. I’m horny, not stupid. Next slide.”

  Market Size:

  Two

  She looks at the slide and then at me. “You should know that I’m not interested in sex with two guys. Or a guy and a girl. I find I have focus issues.”

  “Hazel—” The pain in my dick intensifies. Why is she so goddamn direct all the time? “You need to stop saying sex.”

  “I didn’t think you were this uptight.” She slaps her palms on my desk and leans forward. The problem with this is that the front of her bodysuit gapes and I can tell she’s not wearing a bra.

  “I’m not uptight at all. I’m desperate.”

  Very, very desperate.

  “Why?”

  “Because I haven’t had sex in months,” I growl. “Pretend it’s Lent, you gave up chocolate and now I’m devouring a box of Godiva in front of you, but you still have to act civilized.”

  She nods decisively. “I think the potential size of the opportunity is huge. I’m up for sex one to three times a week. I say this because I know you like to plan your week. Next slide.”

  The Competitive Advantage:

  Hazel is easy

  I can honestly say that I’ve never spent much—any—time thinking about how hard it would be to seduce Hazel. If I had, however, I’d have assumed that she’d make her date work for it. Hazel understands what she’s worth and that kind of self-confidence is sexy. I try to imagine myself dating her, taking her out for dinner and doing couple things. We’ve been friends for years. We talk. We spend time together outside of the office. But the kind of nakedness that comes with sex and emotional intimacy? Not a chance.

  But whether or not I could date Hazel, one thing is certain and I say it out loud because we both really, really need to be on the same page here. “Nothing about you is easy.”

  Hazel shrugs. “I’m a sure thing. You don’t have to wonder whether or not I’m going to put out at the end of the night. I also don’t require romantic dinners, compliments, presents or fancy dating scenarios, although foreplay and discretion are not optional. It would all be very simple.”

  “So you just want me to show up, bang you and go? How exactly would this merger work? Because this sounds like a merger and not a start-up.”

  Hazel decides to ignore me and instead clicks through to her next slide. It’s optimistically entitled The Product: Features and Benefits. It’s also a bullet point list of sex acts.

  “Those are what I’m best at,” Hazel announces. “Although I’m flexible.”

  I can’t decide if her presentation is a train wreck or a porn manual. It’s definitely the most unique pitch I’ve ever heard. I gesture for her to move on to the next slide because I suspect that if we don’t, she’ll either review the list out loud or propose a demonstration.

  Hazel points to a new slide labeled Traction. “The Hazel-and-Jack product already has some traction. The Saturday-night kiss proves we have chemistry and that there’s market interest, although you may want to conduct some A-B testing.”

  I blink. “Are you telling me to go kiss another girl?”

  “I’d be the better kisser.” She says this with the utmost confidence.

  Which is still sexy.

  Robert knocks on the door and I jump, then give serious consideration to throwing myself over the laptop. When I motion for him to come in, he cracks the door just wide enough to stick in his head. He nods at Hazel politely before focusing on me. It’s suddenly 110 degrees in my office.

  “You have the Salas Group in five minutes.”

  He withdraws, shutting the door behind him.

  “I’ll wrap up,” Hazel says. I catch a glimpse of slides outlining the business model, financial forecast and potential other investors in our hookup. I don’t want to know. She stops on the final slide. Usually, the people pitching us end with a thank-you slide. Sometimes they throw in quotes from other investors or industry experts about how fabulous they are. Hazel has included screen caps of texts from previous boyfriends.

  Attesting to her abilities in bed.

  Does she screenshot all her text messages?

  “Well?” She beams at me as only Hazel can.

  Am I supposed to clap? Whip out my dick? Call down to Legal and have them write up a contract? Because that feels a little too Fifty Shades of Grey to me.

  “I’ve never been pitched quite like this,” I say cautiously. She wants to be friends...with benefits.

  “Knee-jerk reaction?”

  This is familiar. I shoot to my feet because I do my best thinking on my feet. “Not a chance. This could never work.”

  Hazel promptly steals my chair. Her fingers tap out an impatient rhythm. “List the cons. One minute—go.”

  If she insists. I grab a dry-erase marker and stride over to the whiteboard. When I turn around, Hazel’s stolen my chair.

  Reasons Why Jack and Hazel Could Never Work

  1. Dirty little secrets suck

  2. We see each other every day

  3. We’ll never leave work

  4. People will question our judgment

 
5. Someone’s gonna walk in on you bent over my desk and there will be questions

  That last one doesn’t quite fit and the words trail up the side of the whiteboard, but the point has to be made. Hazel cranks her head to the side, reading along.

  “Do you only do it bent over the desk? I could be on top. We could do it cowgirl style in your desk chair.”

  She’s completely, totally unrepentant. “This is our office.”

  Hazel looks me in the eye. “I won’t make anyone here uncomfortable. No one will have to choose between Mom and Dad when we stop having sex. And I won’t back your crap deals just because you have a pretty face.”

  I scrub a hand over my face. Robert knocks on the glass wall again and makes an urgent wind-it-up gesture. I’m behind schedule. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “We could not do it at work.” Those are Hazel’s eyes watching me. They look into mine before traveling over my face and down my chest. Pink flushes her cheeks. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels slightly off-balance here.

  Or not.

  She crosses one leg over the other. “There are no legal reasons why your penis and my vagina should be off-limits to each other. In fact, there’s only one reason that matters. Do you or do you not find me attractive?”

  This is not about whether or not I think Hazel is hot. All I want is to not screw up our working relationship. Considering how much is on the line here, she should be grateful I want to do the right thing.

  I open my mouth to point this out to her—she can thank me later—but she’s already off and talking.

  “I find you attractive.” She gives me the sort of look I imagine a surgeon gives a body on an operating table right before he dives in and starts slicing. “You have a nice set of abs, you’re tall, you have big hands. The blond barbarian look works for me in general, but I can rank order or call out specifics if you want.”

  I debate sitting down before I fall down, but Hazel’s in my chair and the only other spot to sit is my desk. I hate it when anyone sits on my desk, as it messes up my stuff. Plus, that would put me far too close to Hazel.

  Who is looking at me as if she’s sizing up a display of chocolates. Or chips. Or maybe the meat counter. When did she even notice all this about me?

  “Now do me,” she says. And then sticks out her tongue. “Not like sexy do me. I can’t help it if your mind lives in the gutter.”

  “You’re the one who brought up sex.”

  “Take a look.” She gestures at her boobs...and lower. Her grin has my dick standing at attention in my pants. “Tell me what you like about me. If you need an icebreaker, I’ll point out my favorite parts.”

  I tear my gaze away from her boobs. I do not need Hazel playing show-and-tell in my office. She watches while I try to pretend she hasn’t knocked me for a loop.

  Hazel thinks I’m hot.

  “Look,” she says impatiently. Her right foot is swinging like a metronome. “We’ve covered the fiasco that is my dating life. My sex life hasn’t been any more successful, and you’re clearly experiencing the orgasm drought, as well, so I thought we could help each other out. I like sex. I like you. We do everything else together, so why not have sex together until we’re ready to be in real relationships again?”

  “Are you messing with me?”

  The laughter she suppresses lights up her eyes, making the corners crinkle and her mouth curve. We’ve always teased each other—it’s what friends do—but everything feels different today, just that little bit off. It’s not bad—at least, I don’t think so. But it’s different and I’m not sure things are supposed to be different between us. Hazel is my constant.

  “Not really. There are walking groups, running groups, hiking groups...but the sex groups are really strange. So I’d rather just have sex with a good friend. Someone I trust.”

  I blurt out the next part without thinking. “Who is hot.”

  “Well, yeah.” Her grin is incandescent. She has a lush mouth beneath the slick of bright red color. Usually, she’s talking, lips moving, hands flying to emphasize whatever point she’s making. It’s as if Hazel’s entire body is just punctuation for what she’s thinking. Normally, it makes me smile because only an idiot would underestimate Hazel’s intelligence. Today, however, it drives me crazy because now I’m looking at her mouth, her arms, her goddamn fingers...and I’m imagining exactly how she could touch me.

  “I’m self-serving, not a saint,” she continues, as if I’m not burning up over here. “I’m just suggesting that, when we’re not in the office, we have sex until we don’t want to.”

  She’s staring at me expectantly. I sort of feel like I should start stripping like a Chippendale dancer. “So rule number one—not in the office?”

  She nods.

  “And then we’ll just stop?”

  “Rule number two,” she says. “When we’re done, we’re done—but we promise to still be friends. In fact, we should be friends first.”

  I have no idea what that means.

  “Think about it.” She hops up from my chair as the alarm on her phone goes off, reminding her she needs to be across town for a lunch meeting. Plus, the Salas Group people must be growing impatient by now. “And while you think about it, give Max’s hookup app a try. Find someone, go out for dinner.”

  “Now you want me to hook up with someone else?” Somehow I’m moving across the room toward her, and not because I’m rushing to a business meeting. My voice is rough, as if I’ve been thinking really dirty thoughts.

  She winks at me as she dances away. “I just want you to be sure I’m the best.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’VE KNOWN FOR years that Max is either a sexual deviant or extraordinarily creative in bed—and, no, I don’t want to know which—but I’ve never actually used his apps before. It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with the user experience they promise to deliver—sex in all its dirty, delicious, fun variants—but I was in a committed relationship with Molly when he launched. My involvement with his product was limited to financial advising.

  Hazel loaded both of Max’s apps onto my phone—the first is the now-infamous Billionaire Bachelors app that lonely boys and girls can use to find love, happiness and a relationship. As the name promises, it identifies billionaires in a twenty-mile radius, along with their likes, their dislikes and the spots where they can frequently be found. When I check my profile, I discover that I’m hot, filthy rich, pro-monogamy and most likely to be found on the beach. I’m not sure how I feel about having been reduced to a set of check boxes even if they’re not inaccurate.

  The second app is Kinkster and it promises happily-ever-afters of a dirtier and much briefer duration. There are fifteen single ladies offering hookup sex, ten willing to go down on me in various exotic or public locations and an unspecified number who would like one or both of us to dress up and reenact some very specific fantasies. I actually consider it for a few minutes, but it’s not what I want, so I close the app.

  But even though I’m not ready for love, marriage and happily-ever-after, I do want sex. I ignore the little voice in the back of my head that’s cackling gleefully. I mean, I really shouldn’t think about hooking up with a stranger. I did that a few times in college—before I met Molly—and it was fun but not terribly satisfying. Kind of like having a Twinkie instead of a Thanksgiving meal. It tastes good for the few seconds it takes to consume, but then you’re still hungry.

  The minute Hazel put Max’s stupid Billionaire Bachelors app on my phone, I knew I was in trouble. Still, I promised her I’d give it a shot, and I keep my word. I’ve already knocked the five-mile run and bathroom cleaning off today’s to-do list, so that leaves find a date. Gingerly, I navigate away from my profile—Max is definitely going to pay for that—and tap the Find The One button. I guess that’s how I know I’m using the Billionaire app rather than Kinkster—one lover at
a time. I’m pretty sure everything comes in multiples in Max’s dirtier app. I’m not a dirty-sex guy—I’ve never been a dirty guy—but it’s not as if I don’t have an adventurous side. I love sex and adventurous sex is awesome, but I’d prefer to trust the person I’m having it with.

  My phone pings with an incoming text from Hazel. Do you have a date?

  I text back: Working on it.

  The more I scroll, the more I suspect there’s a whole lot of Photoshop happening because there can’t possibly be this many attractive single people in the San Francisco area. Hazel hasn’t responded to my last text yet, but I hit her with another message anyhow: None of this is real, right?

  This time I get a response. I need a subject there, hotshot.

  I don’t even have to think. Dating profile pics. Does Max screen this shit at all?

  Hazel fires back, Max has people for that. Or an algorithm.

  Whatever he has, it’s not working. It’s like picking a watermelon at the store.

  I eye the picture on my screen. Okay. Two watermelons. Either nature has been exceedingly kind or this particular bachelorette paid a visit to the dermatological produce aisle.

  As if she’s reading my mind, Hazel texts, Don’t thump your date, ’kay?

  Duly noted.

  I’m not a barbarian. All spanking is consensual.

  In fact, I think I might be too civilized for this. I don’t really know what to say or do because this feels remarkably like picking someone out of a lineup for sex. I swipe, tap and poke my way through a blur of pictures, feeling more awkward with each photo—each woman. There’s a person behind each picture even if all I see is the outside. There’s a hairstylist who does celebrity hair, a booker for a local TV station, a software engineer, a hand model and an organic-fruit farmer.

  Holy shit, I could not be less interested. I squint at the picture currently filling up my screen. It belongs to someone named May and she seems fairly normal when I zoom in on her picture. She has shoulder-length blond hair, brown eyes, an impish smile. She’s pretty. She looks happy.

  I’m a kindergarten teacher who loves yoga, apple-picking and the ocean. Weekends are for baking and watching movies or curling up with a book with my perfect someone. Right now he has four paws, a tail and a passionate love for his squeaky bone, but I’m taking applications for new friends, as well. If you want to join me, send me a message.