Boss I Love To Hate

by James, London

  “I am. You think I’m boring and predictable,” I groan. “I mean, I guess I am boring and predictable.”

  She lets out a long breath. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, hon,” she says. “More than anybody else I know. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for just cutting loose and having fun. When you’re dealing with as much as you are, spontaneity kind of goes out the window.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “I know so.” She squeezes my hand again before letting it go. “But there is a cure for that, you know.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “Calling that gorgeous hunk of a man, and then getting together with him,” she quips. “I mean, if he forgives you for giving him a fake number and all.”

  I laugh and feel my cheeks flush. There’s a small part of me that feels bad about giving Sawyer a fake number – I don’t like to lie. In my life, I’ve always tried to be as honest as I can be. But still, I’m not looking for a hook-up. I’m not the kind of woman who sleeps around or has sex just to have sex. I’m not a prude, and I’m not the ‘waiting for marriage’ type, but to me, sex isn’t meaningless. That intimate connection between two people is special and should be valued, and I don’t think Sawyer does. At least, not in the way I do. He never did back in school, and I have no reason to think he does now.

  “Even if it’s not Sawyer, I want to see you go out with somebody, hon,” she continues. “I don’t even remember the last time you went out on a date. You really need to take some time for yourself. You need to cut loose and have some fun.”

  “I really do. More than you know,” I chuckle sadly. “It’s just that there isn’t any time for me. Between taking care of my dad, work, and the advocacy stuff I do, it takes up all of my time and – ”

  “I get that, Berlin. But when are you going to make time for yourself? You have to make time for yourself somehow,” she presses. “I don’t want to see you end up alone. Sometimes you have to be a little selfish – and that’s not a bad thing.”

  I feel the frown pulling the corners of my mouth downward. “I just don’t have that luxury, Gabs. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  “Do you though? Wish you did?”

  “Of course. I don’t want to spend my life alone,” I reply. “Why would you even ask that?”

  “Sometimes it just seems like you kind of – hide – from anything even approaching an emotional attachment,” she shrugs. “It’s seemed like that since the day I met you.”

  “Hiding?”

  “Well, yeah,” she tells me. “You just seem to avoid any kind of connection with anybody. It’s like you’re afraid of it.”

  “I don’t think I’m afraid of it…”

  My voice trails off as I realize I don’t have an answer to that – not anything that makes any sort of sense anyway. I guess I’ve never really stopped to think about it – not that I have the time to think about romance or relationships anyway. Between work and taking care of my dad, I just don’t have time for it. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  But sitting here with Gabs and hearing what she’s saying, it feels like something inside of me clicks, and a door opens. And for the first time, I start to wonder if that’s all just a story I’m telling myself. Yes, my obligations are real, but have I been shielding myself from the possibility of developing something emotionally with somebody?

  Gabby laughs softly. “See what I mean? You’re so afraid of it; you can’t even come up with a good excuse.”

  A small smile touches my lips. “Shut up.”

  “People can change, Berlin,” she says softly. “Give Sawyer a chance to show you whether he has or not.”

  “Going to be kind of difficult since I gave him a bad number,” I observe.

  “He’s one of the most famous men in the city,” she shoots back with a giggle. “If you can’t figure out how to track him down, you’re a lost cause, hon.”

  * * *

  After leaving Gabby at the café, I trudge back to my office to find half a dozen new case files sitting on my desk. As if I don’t have enough on my plate as it is. But it’s the job, so I drop down into my chair and pick up the first file.

  It takes a minute, but I familiarize myself with the first two – a drunk and disorderly and a petty theft case – pretty routine stuff I can usually plead down with the prosecutor’s office, but it’s time consuming because they’re usually looking to extract every ounce of blood they can. Even more so if I have some newbie assistant DA who thinks they’re the second coming of F. Lee Bailey and wants to make a name for themselves by grandstanding and trying to make a federal case out of something so petty. Newbies can be the worst.

  As I’m reading over the third case file on my desk, my mind starts to wander, and everything Gabby and I talked about floats through my head. Which, of course, brings it straight back to Sawyer. Had I judged him too harshly? Could he have possibly changed? Was my judgment of Sawyer a means of – as Gabby said – hiding away from emotional connection or attachment?

  I have to admit, Sawyer’s presence in the borough board room was different. Oh, he was as beautiful as I remember him being. He’s a gorgeous man; there is no question about that. But his bearing and demeanor were different. He seemed more mature than I remember him being, and he carried a sense of gravitas that was new to me – and honestly, he wore it well.

  I lean back in my seat and take a sip from the cup of coffee on my desk, then frown – cold and bitter. I let my mind wander aimlessly. Not so surprisingly, it immediately finds its way back to Sawyer. I know his family is filthy rich but famous? I guess in the sense that rich people are often thought of as famous, it makes sense.

  In Sawyer’s case though, given the fact she also said he’s a staple in the tabloids, infamous might be a better word for it. I remember him getting his face in the gossip rags a few times back in school, but it wasn’t anything that interested me, so I tuned it out. The goings-on in the lives of celebrities – or pseudo-celebrities – aren’t anything I care about.

  I try to weigh that image I have of Sawyer – that different presence and demeanor I thought I noticed – against the idea that he’s still a fixture in the tabloids. I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character. Sure, he’s still Sawyer, but this new, older Sawyer didn’t seem to me like the kind of guy who lives his life in the eye of the paparazzi. He didn’t seem to have that air of wildness he did as the stupid trust fund kid he was back in school. He seemed to have more substance to him.

  But then, I’ve been wrong before. All I know is that I don’t have time for romance, and even if I did, I don’t think Sawyer would be the right choice for me. We come from two different worlds. I just don’t see how our conflicting worldviews can ever sync up. The simple answer is, they can’t. We can’t. Which means, he isn’t worth thinking about anymore.

  That issue settled in my mind; I turn back to the third case file I need to review but glance at my watch. Since I won’t be meeting with any clients until tomorrow, it’s getting close to time for me to knock off. As I’m pondering whether to power through this file here or take it home, I become aware of a presence in the doorway to my office. It’s large and looming, and I hear the tiniest knock against the door frame. When I look up, I give a start and stifle a gasp to keep it from escaping.

  As if my thoughts were a beacon that drew him, Sawyer is standing there; his hands slipped casually into his pockets. He’s leaning against the doorframe, a wide smile on his face. He cuts an imposing figure and looks like he just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. I quickly draw in a breath and let it out slowly to recover my wits, not wanting to encourage him by looking like some awestruck teenage girl.

  “Sawyer,” I manage, once I can keep my voice from quavering. “What are you doing here?”

  He gives me a small shrug. “I was just wondering why you’d give an old friend a bum number,” he explains. “So I thought I’d come down and ask personally.”

  I open my mouth
but find that I don’t have an answer at the ready – which is a rarity for me since I’m usually very quick on my feet.

  “Tell you what,” he goes on. “Why don’t you tell me over dinner? My treat.”

  I shake my head. “Tonight’s not good for me,” I reply. “I have –”

  The roguish grin on his face only widens. “I have this strange suspicion that no night will be good for you,” he cuts me off. “So why not just bite the bullet tonight?”

  “I have a lot of responsibilities.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” he states. “But there is something I wanted to speak with you about. Something important.”

  “Important?”

  He nods as I sit here, caught somewhere between being intrigued and terrified. As his dark brown eyes bore into mine, my breath catches in my throat. I feel my heart turn a somersault. I also start to wonder if what he wants to talk about is at all related to the meeting with the borough board the other night. His promise to talk to Compass.

  But then another thought slips into my head – he’d been a little cagey about his interest in a local community meeting, not to mention what he does for a living. But at the time, I brushed it off as a mixture of coincidence and my own heightened emotion conspiring to cast everything in a sinister light.

  Seeing him standing before me now though, and having him tell me he has important things to talk about, makes me wonder if maybe it wasn’t simply coincidence after all. But what could he have to talk to me about? And then I begin to wonder if he works for Compass in some capacity – in-house counsel maybe? Is he a lawyer, too? Is that why he was so interested in whether or not I’d actually try to get an injunction from the courts? I can’t recall what his family did to amass the fortune they have, so maybe it is in law. Maybe Sawyer works for his family law firm.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you out too late,” he urges. “I know it’s a school night.”

  I consider him for a moment and then think back to my earlier conversation with Gabby. And maybe to prove to her – and more importantly to myself – that I’m not entirely predictable and boring, I give him a nod.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “Why not? I have a few questions of my own I’d like to ask.”

  Chapter Six

  Sawyer

  “This place is nice,” she says, a slight nervous tremor in her voice. “The food is amazing.”

  “Yeah, I come here a lot,” I nod. “Best Cuban food outside of Havana.”

  I’m sitting across from her at Carillo’s, a favorite Cuban restaurant of mine. It’s a casual, family run restaurant, so it’s homey, which means there isn’t the natural tension of being in a more formal setting. Carillo’s is relatively small and done mostly in red brick and a rich, red color with black tables and booths.

  The air is saturated with the aroma of the spices they use, and the music piping in from the overhead speakers is a lively Cuban band. The rear wall of the restaurant is taken up by a mural of the Cuban flag. On the other walls are framed black and white photos of Havana and some of the country’s rural areas. Everything is neat, orderly, and clean without being antiseptic – this place oozes culture and personality.

  “Not much for cooking, huh?” she asks.

  “Not really,” I answer. “Not much sense in cooking for one.”

  She cocks her head and looks poised to say something, but then seems to think better of it and remains silent. I have a feeling her question was going to be about why I’m not married at this point in my life – or at least in a relationship. Part of me is glad she chose not to ask, simply because that’s not a discussion I feel like having right now. It’s enough for me at this point for her to know I’m single – that at least puts the ball in motion.

  “How did you find out where I work?” she asks.

  “Wasn’t that hard. Just a matter of asking the right people the right questions,” I explain, giving her a sly smile. “I’m a smart, resourceful guy.”

  “Apparently,” she grins. “I’m almost flattered you’d put in the effort.”

  “Some things are worth the effort.”

  Her cheeks flush, and she takes a sip of her iced tea to give herself some cover, but not before I see the hint of a smile touching her lips. She’s always been shit at taking compliments – that’s something I remember keenly about her – but I can see she still likes them.

  The conversation over dinner is light and friendly, if a bit strained, with everything kept on the surface. It’s the sort of awkward two people who are more acquaintance and less friend would have. Which I suppose was to be expected. It’s not what I want – I want to get to know this woman – but I should have expected it.

  “So, were you able to speak to the people at Compass?” she asks.

  I nod. “We’re talking, yeah.”

  “Do they seem open to the idea of giving the residents the extra time?”

  “It’s hard to say just yet,” I reply. “But they didn’t automatically oppose it, so there’s that. I’ll make sure to tell you as soon as I hear anything.”

  She purses her lips, but nods, obviously hoping I’d have something more substantive to offer her.

  “So what is it you do, Sawyer?” she probes. “You were pretty vague about it the other night.”

  I give her a smile. I know I’m going to have to answer that question eventually. It’s going to come out – really, all she’d have to do is Google my name. The fact that she doesn’t know means she hasn’t looked it up – which is something I’m somewhat relieved about, and yet disappointed that she wasn’t even interested enough to Google me. But for now, it plays into my hands, so I’ll keep tap dancing around it as long as I can.

  “I wear a lot of different hats,” I tell her. It’s not technically a lie. “Like I told you the other night, I like to have multiple revenue streams, so my resume is pretty – diverse.”

  “Well, what might some of the things on your resume be?” she presses.

  “Why are you so interested in what I do?” I chuckle softly. “I promise you it’s not all that interesting.”

  “Why are you being so evasive?”

  rub my jaw, unable to keep the grin off my face. She is a determined woman, and when she smells blood in the water, she goes on the attack. Such a lawyer.

  I’m not ready to give up my secret yet, though. I know that if I do, it’ll immediately fuck things up between us, and the damage would be irreparable – and I’d like to at least give myself a fighting chance. But at the same time, I don’t want to outright lie to her.

  “I don’t mean to be evasive. I just don’t like talking about work when I’m out with a beautiful woman, and I’m trying to get to know her,” I respond. “Honestly, I think what I do for a living is the least interesting thing about me.”

  She looks away as her cheeks color, and I know I’ve won this round. The best way to knock Berlin off track is to pay her a compliment. She takes a drink of her tea and falls silent again.

  “Can I ask you a question now?” I lean forward, taking the offensive this time.

  Berlin looks up at me. “Uh, sure.”

  “Why’d you give me a bum phone number?”

  Berlin shifts in her seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. She looks as if she’s been dreading the possibility of having this conversation the entire evening. She looks down at the table before raising her eyes to me again, offering me a weak, watered-down smile.

  “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know why I did it,” she tells me. “I just – it’s not like we were really friends or anything. It was just kind of weird to not only see you out of the blue like that after so many years – but for you to then ask for my number.”

  “Not making more of an effort to be your friend is a regret of mine, believe it or not.”

  She arches her eyebrow at me. “I know what you were after back then, Sawyer,” she shoots back. “And I wasn’t into that.”

  “I knew you weren’t into it early on. You were pr
etty clear about that,” I chuckle. “And yet, I persisted. Why do you think that is?”

  A sly grin touches her lips. “Because you’re a spoiled trust fund kid who isn’t used to not getting what he wants, and doesn’t like to hear the word ‘no’?”

  She says it like it’s a joke, but I can hear the iron core of truth in her words. And yet, rather than be offended, I find it hilarious and laugh out loud. Berlin looks at me curiously, a small smile playing upon her lips, as if she’s unsure whether to laugh along with me or not. Eventually, she chuckles quietly.

  “Well, that was certainly a very blunt, direct assessment of my character,” I say.

  “Sorry,” she responds, looking abashed. “I didn’t mean to sound so rude or judgmental.”

  I wave her off. “It’s fair. I mean, you hit the nail on the head. I know I was pretty terrible back then,” I offer. “But I was also a different man back then. I’m not the same man today, Berlin.”

  She says nothing, but I hold her gaze for a long moment as if I can prove that I’m not the same man anymore with nothing more than my eyes. She returns my gaze, but it’s wary. She looks at me the way somebody might look at a snake that’s coiled and ready to strike. It’s clear Berlin doesn’t trust me and still thinks the worst of me, which means I need to do something to turn that perception around. I just don’t know what that something might be at the moment.

  “So what was this important thing you wanted to talk to me about?” she asks gingerly, obviously trying to divert the conversation.

  I quickly take a drink of my mojito to buy myself a moment or two. I’ve been fully intending to talk to her about the coming issue we’re going to have all night long – although I admit it’s with about as much enthusiasm as she had about the whole bum phone number conversation. This whole issue with the Atwell is something I’m hoping we can pave over smoothly and move forward from. The more time I spend with her, the more charmed and intrigued I am by her – and I find myself wanting to know even more.