She's the Boss (Romantic Comedy)

by Lisa Lim

  I laughed. “It’s always been a competitive sport.”

  Minutes later, the dance floor was spic-and-span and bagpipe music started blaring from the loud speakers. All around me people were dancing. The beautiful newlyweds, smartly dressed children, parents, grandparents, my coworkers, Truong and Inge, friends that I’d known forever. Closing my eyes, I let myself exist without a care in the world, spinning around to my heart’s content, tossing my head back and laughing, feeling my dress whirl around my calves. I probably looked like a complete nutter, but I didn’t care.

  Out of nowhere a drunk guy came careening by, knocking right into me.

  “Hey!” he said shortly. “Watch where you’re going!”

  “Watch where you’re going,” I shot back.

  “Oh, it’s you!” He leered suggestively. “The sexy maid of honor.” Then most unexpectedly, he began bumping and grinding on me like a complete buffoon.

  Sheesh. This man was seriously oversexed and he was giving me serial rapist red flags. I tried to walk away but he grabbed me roughly by the arm and began gyrating his hips. “Dance with me, woman!” he ordered.

  I made a moue of discontent but despite my reluctance, he refused to let me go. I floundered with an air of helplessness and that’s when I spotted Carter, cutting purposefully across the floor, advancing on us like a sheriff with guns blazing.

  My heart swelled with pride. The sight of him was arresting.

  I held my breath as Carter stood before the drunken buffoon. “I believe the lady wants to be left alone.”

  Oh my God. I almost expired on the spot. His dangerously quiet protect-the-woman soap box voice made me feel all gooey and sentimental inside. My life was turning into a rom-com slash chick flick and I had this sudden, unexplainable urge to restrain Carter, pleading, “You won’t actually hurt him, will you?”

  Carter moved swiftly to my side, putting his arm around my shoulder. “Are you OK, Kars?” He looked to me with concern.

  I nodded, making a little fluttering gesture with my hands.

  The two men continued staring at each other as if neither was particularly impressed with what they saw. Then the oddest thing happened. The drunken buffoon got himself in a guard dog position and lifted his leg over my hips as though he was about to mark his territory.

  “Please don’t pee on me,” I said with a gurgle of laughter. Then I remembered I was playing the damsel in distress and quickly summoned up some sad thoughts and adjusted my expression so I appeared somewhat, um, distressed.

  “I suggest you leave her alone. NOW.” Carter’s tone was still as courteous as ever but that courtesy cloaked an edge of steel.

  Hmm. Silently, I thought—I suggest you walk away before you live to regret it—would have been a better line.

  Eventually, the drunken buffoon backed down. He muttered something incoherent and sloped off, presumably in pursuit of hotter prospects. Or a toilet.

  What? He gave up that easily? I had to admit I was a little disappointed. I was secretly hoping the drunken buffoon would have fought harder, forcing Carter to valiantly defend the full blown attack on my virtue.

  Carter turned his attention back to me. “You seem to attract trouble,” he said with a smile in his eyes.

  “I certainly don’t invite it,” I said virtuously, the picture of injured innocence.

  Then the lights started to dim and the DJ switched to a slower tempo.

  Carter took a step closer. “May I have this dance?” His voice was deep and his gray eyes glimmered with a delivery that made my blood rush faster.

  “Of course.”

  He held me close, with his hand on the small of my back. I had no idea why he was here, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking him.

  “Your friend Maddy invited me …”

  “I see,” I said softly. “How long have you been here?”

  “The whole time.”

  “Oh.” I could feel myself turning crimson with embarrassment.

  “When you bent over to pick up that bouquet,” said Carter, his eyes flashing with amusement, “I got a good view of your badonkadonk.”

  I laughed into his jacket. “Did you?”

  “I did.” He laughed too. “An excellent view. And Kars—”

  I gave up trying to hide my face against his shoulder and raised my head. “Yeah?”

  “You could always switch careers and become a rap superstar.”

  “Damn straight!”

  He pressed his face closer to mine, our foreheads gently touching. “You were cute.”

  “Cute?” My breath caught in a tiny gasp. I was mortally offended. “Oh no you di-uhnt! You mean I wasn’t nitroglycerin, sizzlin’ and droppin’ more lines than a fly fisherman?”

  His mouth curled slightly at the corners. “Maybe you should just stick to your day job.”

  “Mmm.” I bit back a smile. “Maybe you’re right.”

  We danced for a while, our bodies never fully separated.

  “Thanks,” I murmured quietly, “for what you did for Truong. And Inge and Jenn.”

  “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you.”

  “I know …” I trailed off. There was a small silence and then I said lightly, “Don’t you have a plane to catch soon?”

  He sighed into my hair. “Where would I go?”

  My eyes suddenly flashed, demanding an explanation.

  Quietly, he said, “I’ve resigned.”

  “You what?”

  “I’ve stepped down as Senior VP of Operations.”

  Taken aback, all I could manage was, “Why?”

  He said nothing for a minute, then, “Me and the CEO—Ralph Kovacevich—we didn’t really see eye to eye. Never have, actually. The way Ralph wants to run the company …” He stopped and gave a bitter laugh. “Put it this way, he wants me to increase operational efficiency and profits by cutting back more jobs. In his demented world, there’d only be executives and shareholders.”

  “But you can’t just quit, Carter. That’s crazy! Reckless!”

  Firmly, but just as quietly, he said, “It’s not reckless, Kars. I’m taking a risk. A calculated risk.”

  “What sort of risk are you talking about?” I asked faintly.

  “I’m going to head my own private equity investment and advisory firm. It will focus on start-up companies.”

  “What kind of start-ups?” My mind was buzzing with questions.

  “Mainly R&D. Contrary to what you think, Kars, I don’t enjoy putting people in the unemployment line. But neither am I in favor of corporate charity. And if I want to help keep jobs here, then I have to help invent jobs that don’t yet exist.”

  “B-but,” I stammered. “What made you change your mind?”

  He gazed steadily at me. “You.”

  “Me?” I asked in wonder, my throat clogged.

  “You,” he said once more. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversations …”

  I swallowed hard and spoke almost inaudibly, “Oh yeah?”

  “I see it now. All this time … I’ve been making a living, but I haven’t been making much of my life.” He ran a finger along my cheek, regarding me with such tenderness my heart skipped a beat. “And what you said about my grandfather … you were right. He would have been disappointed in me. I owe it to him. I owe it to myself. And I’m not saying outsourcing is wrong. It’s an issue of competing interests—whose interests should be better served, ours or theirs. I’ve wrestled with this, Kars. Back and forth. The thing is … all these corporations have no conscience and the people running them, who presumably have a conscience, have no liability. So they do whatever the fuck they want. And I’m tired of the bullshit. I’m tired. I just want to do what feels right.”

  His jaded eyes cut right through me. He sounded so hard on himself, so torn. I held out my hand to put a stop to it, but he was determined to plough on. “Look, Kars. I can’t predict the future. I can only try and make this corner of my world secure. And I want you in m
y corner, Kars. I need you in my corner.”

  I stared at him apprehensively.

  Carter stared back at me and if I didn’t know him better, I’d have said that he looked a little nervous. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat. “I’d like you to come work for me.” His words seemed to hang in the air. “Be my right-hand man.”

  “Right-hand woman,” I said in a low voice, though my heart was lifting.

  “Right-hand woman,” he amended.

  “Mmm.” I concealed my fluttering emotions behind a casual expression of indifference. “Would I have my own office?” I asked with an air of nonchalance.

  “Your very own,” he said, drawing me closer. “With a view.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

  He gave me a slow and lazy grin that shined from his eyes. “Maybe.”

  “And this new job …” I coughed lightly. “Would it entail having to sleep with the boss?”

  His eyes turned warm and tender. “Only if you want to,” he said gently.

  I could scarcely breathe. At this point, our bodies were pressed so close together we were practically transmogrified into Siamese twins. But I was OK with that. I felt pleasurably trapped.

  “What do you want?” I asked in a small voice.

  “I just want to spend as much time with you as possible,” he murmured, holding me tight.

  “I suppose I’m OK with that,” I said, amazed that my voice was coming out properly.

  For a while all we did was stare intensely at each other, seeing nothing, yet seeing everything.

  “But right now …” said Carter, keeping those beautiful gray eyes fixed on mine, “I want to sweep you up and carry you away to a deserted cabin somewhere in the mountains and make love to you all day and all night.”

  There was silence as our eyes locked and I felt an unwilling grin spread across my face. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  The private cabin sat on twenty-three acres of forested paradise with beautiful views all around. But the only view I had eyes for happened to be stretched out in bed beside me.

  Carter pressed his mouth to the hollow of my throat. “How was it?”

  I propped myself up on my elbows, upon his chest. “A lady never kisses and tells.”

  He slid his hands along my arms, leaving a trail of sensation in their wake. “I’ll make this simple for you. On a scale of one to five, with five being ‘very satisfied,’ four being ‘somewhat satisfied,’ three being ‘neither satisfied nor dissatisfied,’ two being ‘somewhat dissatisfied,’ and one being ‘very dissatisfied,’ how did I do?”

  “Mmm.” I pursed my lips thoughtfully. “I’ll have to say you were a three.”

  Carter flopped back onto the pillow. “You were neither satisfied nor dissatisfied?” He clutched his heart theatrically. “Dagger to the heart.”

  “Well …” I snaked an arm around his waist. “All that means is that there’s more room for improvement.”

  He looked me up and down very slowly, his eyes travelling in unhurried thoroughness, making a quiver start from the top of my spine and go all the way down to my legs. “I’m always up for the challenge.”

  THANK YOU FOR READING!

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  ALSO BY LISA LIM

  Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel

  available on Amazon , Amazon UK and all the online retail stores.

  Please read on for an excerpt from Confessions of a Call Center Gal.

  Lisa Lim’s debut novel Confessions of a Call Center Gal was shortlisted for Goodreads No Young Adult Best Chick Lit Reads.

  EDITORIAL REVIEWS:

  This novel is chick lit at its best. ~Booksessed

  Finally! A snarky, quick witted, relatable book with a dash of romance! ~Chick Lit=The New Black

  Real and relatable! So many traditional chick lit books tend to go off on a tangent to a life many of us will never have—Bond Street and Fifth Avenue are not a regular part of my routine. This book felt like a peak into a normal life, not some glitzy creation designed purely for the pages of a book. ~R.O.A

  A fun mix of Bridget Jones’s Diary and The Office. ~Books Etc.

  Think Chelsea Handler plus argyle sweater wearing Chuy, plus The Office, plus chick lit. Are you already laughing? ~Precision Reviews

  A strong debut novel about real issues with lots of heart and humor. ~Chick Lit Club

  The chick lit version of “Office Space” for a new generation. ~Chick Lit Central

  Guaranteed to make you laugh-out-loud. Fans of Sophie Kinsella will love it. ~author Sibel Hodge

  A chick-lit approach to the call center. This book is a reminder that the call center predates globalization and outsourcing. ~The Wall Street Journal Online

  This novel reads like a season of The Office (with Ricky Gervais). I can really see this novel being turned into a sitcom on NBC and I’d be tuning in to every week to watch. ~Chick Litaholic

  A hilarious comedy with some snark and punk. ~Kritters Rambling

  AN EXCERPT FROM CONFESSIONS OF A CALL CENTER GAL

  Beep!

  “Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I help?”

  “G’day. Me name is Poida Woite. And I need some help with me password.”

  How awesome! An Aussie from Down Under!

  I peer at his name on my computer screen: Peter White.

  “I can help Mr. White, but first—”

  “Poida,” he interjects kindly. “Just call me Poida.”

  “Okay, Peter,” I say amiably. “I’ll just need to ask you a couple of questions for verification.” And once that is out of the way, I tackle the task at hand. “Now you mentioned earlier on that you needed help with your password?”

  “Aye mate,” he huffs in affirmation, like pirate Captain Jack Sparrow. “I’d like to change it to Inicondi88.”

  “Now, Peter, let’s make sure that I’ve got this right. Is the first letter I like igloo?”

  “Norrr, I as in int,” he corrects.

  Int??? What the heck is int????

  “Um, you mean I as in India?” I persist.

  “Nyet! I as in ipple,” he says, agitation creeping into his voice.

  Pause.

  Now I’m even more confused. What the hell is an ipple?

  “De fruit!” His voice rises with frustration. “Ipple de fruit! I for the first letter of the ilphibet!”

  “Ohhhhhh.” I stifle a laugh. “A as in Apple. Yes. Gotcha! So you want your password to be Anaconda88?” I confirm.

  “Ibso-bloody-lutely!” he exclaims with a mixture of relief and exasperation.

  My mouth twitches at the corners.

  I reckon that they don’t speak English in Down Under; they speak Strine.

  Peter chuckles heartily. “Bloody hell, Sheila, I was beginning to think ye were a muppet. Ye dun’t know i dunny from i bottom dollar. More is the pity, the great Ozzie vernacular is fizzing ind only i galoot like ye ne’er tire of diddling me, mekin me seem silly as i two bob watch.”

  O-kay, I didn’t understand nearly half of what he was saying. Something about a puppet, I gather.

  “Puppet?” I ask perplexed. “Did you just call me a puppet?”

  “Muppet.” He emits a throaty laugh. “Muppet means idiot.”

  An idiot? Who is the idiot here? At least I can pronounce the letter A. I’m sorry but ‘A’ is not pronounced ‘I’.

  Crikey! After that call, I have this sudden urge to throw some shrimp on the barbie. Perhaps I’ll even adopt a dingo and name him
Mitch. On second thought, I’ll name him Poida.

  The next day, I find myself staring impassively at my cubicle wall. Resting my elbows on the desk, I silently brood while waiting for a call. It’s pretty slow today. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day or what I like to call ‘Singles Awareness Day.’ And all these couples are just too darn exhausted to call in after spending the night locked up in their love boudoirs, caught in the throes of passion.

  No complaints here.

  At least something good comes out of that evil day.

  “Truong, your Mikquisha is taken,” I say sullenly.

  He adjusts his silk scarf. “My Mikquisha? More like your Mikquisha.”

  “Nope,” I say despondently, “not anymore.”

  His expression softens. “Oh, what’s wrong, Maddy? Tell Mama Truong all about it.”

  After a pause, I say, “I saw him with a girl yesterday.”

  “Describe her,” he instructs firmly.

  “Gorgeous. Long stringy blond hair. A bleach-o-saurus and a tan-o-saurus and—”

  He cuts me off, “I know who that bitch is! Orange Slut with Split Ends. Her name is Tatiana Green.”

  “Tatiana Green?” I snort briefly. “She’s more orange than green. Her name should be Tatiana Tangerine.”

  Truong emits a gleeful chortle.

  “But wait!” I cry. “How do you know her?”

  Then I realize—how can he not? Truong is privy to everything that goes on in this call center. He isn’t called the ABC or the AP wire for nothing.

  Truong studies his cuticles. “Oh, I have my sources,” he says with candor. Then he whips out a purple filer and sands his nails with vigor.

  A plume of nail dust settles on my desk.

  So annoying.

  Truong also clips his fingernails in the middle of calls, which I find absolutely repulsive. I personally would never floss, pick my nose, use q-tips, pop my blackheads or shave my pits at work. That is why it is called personal hygiene.

  I’ll be conversing with my callers, and in the background I’ll hear the maddening Clip Clip Clip Clip sounds resonating in my ears, sounding very much like Japanese water torture. And before I know it, fingernail shrapnel will be zinging in all directions.

  My work space is fraught with danger!