Bachelor Boss

by Sara Ney

  Spencer laughs adorably around a mouthful. “You’re so dramatic. But cute.”

  “And sexy?” I lean forward so she can kiss me.

  She does.

  “I’m thinking we should put some clothes on and take the dog for a walk?” I set the fork down and stretch, naked, ass rubbing against her chair.

  Spencer’s eyes trail down my torso, narrowing. “No balls on the furniture.”

  A kiss on her nose. “Already a stickler.”

  21

  Spencer

  I haven’t been assigned to Phillip’s office.

  I mean, the odds weren’t that great anyway, but after deciding not to work from home (which guaranteed I wouldn’t see Phillip at all), I followed my assignment to a corner office on the north side, straight to a man named Dan.

  My desk is nudged snuggly against his, devoid of my clutter and computer, and any ornamentation—as is Dan’s entire office.

  Is he planning on quitting? The man doesn’t have a single decoration, photo, or poster on his wall.

  Beige and boring.

  I glance out the glass wall toward the cubicles and neighboring offices, noticing a glaring similarity: those have no decorations either.

  I’ve never been on this side, not even to run paperwork over.

  I’m fascinated by the differences.

  Bland office spaces. Desks and drafting tables laden with rolls of plans. Paper. Stacks of manila folders. One office has a large map displayed over the dry erase board, red tacks covering an area that must be a potential project, or one of our existing ones.

  It’s hard to tell from here, and I don’t want to be nosey.

  Sighing, I hesitate in Dan’s doorway. Is it weird if I make myself at home and start unpacking my crap?

  Also—where is Phillip? He wanted to take the dog out one last time before hitching a taxi to the office, but Humphrey couldn’t have given him that much trouble—could he?

  We spent the weekend going back and forth between each other’s places, walking the dog, grabbing food. Flirting. Having sex, making out. Playing games and watching movies.

  My throat is sore from laughing.

  My heart is full from how sweet and caring he has been.

  An ass, too—but I like it. It’s not over the top, and he’s not overbearing. It’s the right combination of douchebag and gentleman to keep me satisfied.

  The dog, on the other hand? Could use some manners.

  I glance down at my phone to see a text from Phillip: Running late. Humphrey found mud and I had to give him a quick bath.

  Me: Are you for real?

  Phillip: I know he’s cute and all, but I’m going to lose my job because of a damn dog.

  Me: I don’t think your boss is here yet.

  Phillip: It’s not my boss I worry about. It’s Paul—he loves busting my chops.

  Me: Maybe you should bring the cake with you when you come—we can bribe him.

  Phillip: I’m not sharing my sex cake with him. He’s trying to get me written up.

  Me: SEX cake?!

  Phillip: Pink and sweet, like your tits.

  I blush from the roots of my hair down to the tips of my toes. No man has ever spoken to me like that and it thrills me. I stare at that word—tits.

  Me: Are you going to be able to handle being in the office with me? You sound ready for a romp.

  Phillip: Yeah, this whole conversation is making me hard. Maybe I should rub one out before I leave the house.

  Me: Well. Enjoy that while I’m stuck at work.

  Phillip: We should have called in sick.

  Me: OMG. You are a terrible influence!

  Phillip: Did they put you in my office?

  Me: No, I’m with some guy named Dan?

  Phillip: Ah—he does the estimating. He’ll bore you half to death, you should definitely call in sick.

  Me: I’M ALREADY HERE.

  Phillip: That does seem to be a problem…

  Phillip: You should put your shit in my office and if someone is already there, tell them to go to Dan’s office.

  Me: Should I?

  Phillip: Babe. You DEFINITELY should.

  Phillip: 100%

  Me: Don’t get any ideas about screwing around—I do not want to get caught fooling around. I would die. And we’d probably get fired.

  Phillip: We would DEFINITLEY get fired.

  Me: Um, okay. So which one is your office?

  Phillip: 301-3

  Me: This feels kind of scandalous—I’m about to kick someone out.

  Phillip: Whoever it is, they won’t give a shit.

  Me: If you say so…

  Phillip: I do. I’ll be there in 20—keep the place warm for me.

  Nervously, I do as he says, grateful that Dan hasn’t arrived yet as it means I can avoid an awkward conversation about why I’m removing my things, forsaking anything in the drawers—those are taped up anyway, and nothing inside is absolutely necessary. All I need is my computer, my glasses, and my imagination.

  Phillip’s office is easy to locate—the floor is a giant square, offices along the wall, cubicles in the middle of the room—and I stand in its threshold, looking at the walls and ornamentation.

  Unlike Dan, he has large pieces of art hanging. They’re black and white photographs of skyscrapers, a pair of large framed prints centered in the middle of the room.

  Black desk. Potted plant—the same one I have in my office—in the corner. One desk chair (two for guests stacked outside). Another desk is obviously pushed against his, but at least I can get a feel for his vibe without having him here, watching me scrutinize everything.

  I set my things down. Pull up a chair and sit.

  Twist around when an employee from the south side—Mindy Davenport—appears a few moments later, confused. “Am I in the right place?”

  Mindy is in accounting, and from what I know of her, she’s analytical and plays by the rules.

  I push a piece of hair behind my ear and give her a megawatt smile. “You are, but if you don’t mind, I’d love to use this office instead? Phillip—it’s his office—he and I are friends.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh! Okay, sure, no big deal, I’ll just…” She’s babbling, repeating herself. “I can go. No big deal.”

  I give her another friendly smile. “I was in Dan’s office, 301-5. He’s two doors down—you don’t have far to go.”

  “Okay good. Good. Thank you.”

  “No—thank you.”

  She throws a wave over her shoulder, backing out, hitting the trim molding with her shoulder and giggling, clutching her folders. “Whoops.”

  And here I thought I was an awkward human.

  Phillip keeps his promise, arriving twenty minutes after our texts ended, panting as he approaches the office—I can hear him breathing before he walks through the threshold, ever-present laptop bag in tow.

  He bends and kisses the top of my head. “Morning.”

  He smells like wet dog.

  I keep that fun factoid to myself.

  “You look no worse for wear,” I say instead, knowing full well he’s been through the wringer with the dog this morning. In reality, his hair is sticking up in a few places. His shirt—which has come untucked a bit—has a wet spot on the front, and even though he most likely changed into a fresh one after giving Humphrey a bath, the imp managed to get him wet again anyway.

  “I don’t? I swear, I almost lost my damn mind this morning. I barely had time to change my clothes. The dog was in rare form.”

  “Where did he find mud?” In the city no less.

  “Someone had been watering their plants with a hose. Humphrey caught sight and made a beeline for it. I couldn’t even hold on to him. He broke free, and by the time I caught up, he was covered with planting soil.” He lets out an enormous sigh. “That woman was pissed.”

  “I probably would be too if a giant Basset Hound came barreling at me first thing in the morning while I was tending my garden.”

 
; The fact that most plants are going dormant this time of year isn’t worth mentioning; Phillip is frustrated enough already without me broaching mundane arguments.

  “Bet you looked pretty cute covered in mud.”

  He shoots me a look. “I mean…” Shrugs. “Maybe.” His eyes rake me up and down, noting the flirty, baby blue blouse that’s covered in bright flowers. My large, gold hoop earrings. Wavy hair. “Bet you would.”

  “Oh, I absolutely would.” I give my long hair a toss to illustrate my cuteness, letting him look.

  His mouth twists, uncertain. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  “Oh, it’s absolutely a bad idea.” The playful banter oozes out of me like honey.

  “Want to stroll with me to the breakroom? We’ll get coffee.”

  “And a bagel? With cream cheese?”

  Phillip’s brow goes up, surprised. “No! God no—why would you bring that up?”

  “I’m just saying—it’s kind of like our anniversary today, so we should relive the first time we met.”

  “Or not.”

  I tilt my head, thinking. “How much would it take for you to eat rotten cream cheese again? On a bagel, of course.”

  “I threw that container away.”

  “I know, I know—I’m just asking how much it would take, if I paid you to eat it.”

  We get quiet for a few seconds as he mulls it over in his head. “Hmm,” he hums. “I would eat it for…I don’t know, a hundred bucks?”

  “One hundred? That’s it! I thought you were going to say one thousand or something. No way would I do it for so cheap. You puked, dude.”

  I rise so we can head to the breakroom and he watches me, disgusted.

  “Well how the hell am I supposed to know?!”

  “You’re cheap—I like it. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Okay, I’d do it for fifteen hundred dollars.”

  My head shakes as we make our way down the corridor. The carpet along the way is new, and fresh, smells distinctly like floor glue and fibers. “Too late—you already said one hundred. Those are the rules.”

  “I can change my mind.”

  “No you can’t.”

  “Who said?”

  I give him an authoritative, sidelong glance. “I did.”

  “You’re not the boss.”

  I smile. “Says who?”

  He gets quiet. “God, I just want to…” He leans in closer so no one overhears him. “Fuck you right now.”

  He’s given up so much for me—I’m more upset about him losing the baseball season tickets than he is, not to mention the ATV he has to keep in storage because there’s no place to park it in the city. I would have loved to take that baby for a spin in the country, but no—he went and lost the bet.

  Says he wants to date the shit out of me, and we don’t need season tickets to the Jags—not when we can sit on the back deck of his house, on the tiny porch outside his bedroom, and listen to the crowds of the stadium. See its lights at night glowing in the near distance.

  It all sounds so perfect, I can hardly wait for spring.

  “…wearing those cute pants of yours—the black ones you wore last week that drove me out of my mind.”

  “I’m not banging you at work. Ever.”

  “Never?”

  “No! It’s unprofessional. Don’t make me report this to Paul.” I pull at the hem of his shirt that’s still hanging out of the waistband of his jeans. “I’ll take a rain check on that, though. Tonight, after work…”

  “Do not bring his name up while I’m trying to get frisky.”

  “But Paul loves you now,” I continue teasing.

  Actually, he loves the dog; Paul is using Phillip so he can take Humphrey to the dog park. Calls the dog a Babe Magnet, one he uses to find dates from fellow dog lovers—not that Phillip cares. It gets his canine pal out of the house and out of his hair.

  Unreal.

  “You were saying?” He nudges. “Tonight after work…?”

  He lets the sentence trail off so I have to get closer still. So close I have to whisper my answer.

  “Tonight after work? You can bang the rules into me then.”

  Epilogue

  HUMPHREY

  “Humphrey, come.”

  I wait a few seconds before twitching my ears, having heard the command the first two times Girl firmly gave them.

  It’s never good to appear too eager, so I lower my eyes to the ground, feigning indifference.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  “Humphrey. Come.”

  Finally, I happily go, lumbering to her enthusiastically, knowing Girl is going to drop a treat in my food bowl for listening the third time.

  She loves me so much, but who doesn’t?

  “I cannot believe that dog listens to you. It’s really annoying.” I can hear Boy grumbling intermittently above me as Girl kisses and pets my head. “You and Paul, his new best friend.”

  I do love Paul, the Boy at Boy’s work, who met us at the dog park one weekend with his snotty Chihuahua, Justin Beaver. Justin might have been yippy, but Paul makes up for it with lots of pets, and Bacon YumYums.

  Those are my favorite.

  “What have I been telling you? All you have to do is use a commanding tone with him. He respects that.” Girl likes to rub in her dog-whispering success on the occasions I refuse to follow Boy’s directions, which is most of the time.

  “You had to tell him three times—I thought you said it should only take one.”

  “I know.” Girl laughs. “But he’s just getting used to me. You’ve had five years to teach him manners.”

  Manners? What are manners?

  I pant, saliva dripping from my tongue, down to the floor.

  “Ugh, I have to grab a paper towel from the kitchen—your new best friend is drooling.” Boy groans.

  She’s been living with us since the snow came, since the big tree got put up in the front room. Boy hasn’t had a tree since I was a puppy and yanked the bottom ornaments off it, destroyed half of them with my mighty puppy jaws.

  That big tree? It’s real.

  And I knocked it down last week.

  Give me a break! Like I was supposed to know the tree would tip over—maybe if I’d known, I wouldn’t have crawled underneath it for a nap. And maybe I wouldn’t have gone under it for a drink from the water trough so conveniently located at its trunk.

  What a fuss that caused, everyone shouting and screeching when the tree fell, smashing through the front window.

  Such a ruckus. Humans overreact to everything.

  Sheesh.

  The window was hardly a big deal—the plastic and duct tape over the shattered glass took care of it in a jiffy. I don’t know what all the cursing was for.

  On and on he went about “little bastard…couldn’t have picked a colder day to be an asshole…cost a fucking fortune…look at him sleeping…gonna take him to boarding school…always does this…”

  I don’t know who Boy was talking about, but I’m glad it wasn’t me. He sure did sound mad.

  If you don’t want the tree to topple over, make sure there’s ample room under it for a Basset Hound, that’s all I’m saying.

  The worst part about that whole thing? Neither of them would let me lick their faces when they were on their hands and knees cleaning up the shiny balls scattered around the floor. They put me in the laundry room and shut the door while they swept glass and taped the window.

  Then, when a man in a big white van came to replace the entire piece, I couldn’t play with him, either. And I heard Boy make a few tasteless jokes about the window man taking me with him when he left.

  Rude.

  Girl attaches the leash to my collar, but after she’s done and gone from the room, Boy bends down and scratches behind my ears. It’s about damn time. Wipes the slobber from the hardwood floor with a white rag.

  “Be a good boy for me, now, Humphrey. I’m giving you a job to do.”
In his hand is a small black pouch. He ties it to my collar with a ribbon then stands back to survey his handiwork. “Handsome boy.” Pets me a bit more. “Be a good boy.”

  I pant and whine, dripping more drool on the floor.

  Girl enters the room again, shrugging into a jacket so we can take our afternoon walk around the block. “Ready?”

  “Ready as we’ll ever be,” Boy says, taking my lead and going through the front door, tree twinkling in the background, missing half the pretty balls that were there when they first decorated it.

  I lumber out the door. Down the steps, the little pouch around my neck annoying me.

  I stop in the middle of the sidewalk to scratch at it.

  “No, Humphrey,” Boys tells me, and maybe I’m wrong, but he sounds a bit panicked.

  We walk on. Walk and walk and walk until I’m bored and uninterested, the white snow cold and damp beneath my paws. With it piled high along the sidewalk, there isn’t much to see from this vantage point, few tree trunks to piss on. Just cars and dirty curbs and garbage cans lining the street.

  I sit.

  “Come, Humphrey. We’re not there yet.” Boy gives me a gentle tug.

  Meh.

  Not interested.

  Ahead of us, Girl laughs. “He’s so the boss of you,” she teases.

  “No he’s not,” Boy says. “You are.”

  “Aww, babe!” Girl doubles back toward us and moves her face close to his, pursing her lips and kissing the tip of his snout.

  “It’s true.”

  I pant, the cold air and my warm breath creating small puffs of steam I’m suddenly fascinated with.

  I lick the air, trying to catch it.

  “What on earth is he doing?” Girl asks. “What a weirdo—I think he’s licking his breath.”

  “He’s a weirdo alright, but now he’s your dog, too, so—not all my problem.”

  Girl coos again. “Keep trying to butter me up…”

  I shake my head, the pouch around my neck jangling, slapping against my long, floppy ears. Like a fly buzzing around my head, it’s causing constant irritation, and I shake my head again. Again.

  Scratch.

  “Something is bothering him,” Girl observes, getting down on one knee to grasp both sides of my face and stare at my mug. “What’s wrong, Humphrey?”