Boss Me

by Claire Adams

  When everybody else cleared out, I wasn’t sure whether to walk over to him or wait for him to summon me; he seemed occupied by whatever was on his computer. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice if I quietly snuck out. I did have tons of homework to get to. I tentatively started packing up but the phone rang.

  “Who said you could leave?” He was staring at me. “You signed a contract.”

  “You seemed busy and I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be left alone.”

  “If I wanted you to leave me alone, you would know, Aria.” With just that much, he hung up the phone and went back to typing vigorously on his laptop. What the hell was I supposed to do just sitting here? I pulled out my phone and started texting Stacey.

  “It’s weird as fuck. he’s just sitting there doing work but I’m not allowed to leave.”

  Stacey wrote back immediately.

  “Ask him if he needs anything. Offer to make him some coffee.”

  “And set feminism back a few decades?”

  “It’s just a nice gesture, nothing to do with you being a woman. He’s helping you out, be nice.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  I called him back. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Not if it is to be delivered with your clothes on.” A grin formed on his face. I rolled my eyes. “Come on, I’m just teasing. Easy on the eye roll.”

  “You can see that?” I rolled them again involuntarily.

  “And that. I’m good with the coffee, but thank you. Dinner should be arriving soon. I’ll get off my computer when it does, I promise.”

  “What? Dinner?”

  “Yep, it’s a particular kind of meal, usually served in the evenings, usually the last meal of the day.”

  “You think you are so funny, don’t you? I didn’t know we would be having dinner.”

  “Well, you do now. Tonight and every other night until I say otherwise, you’ll be having dinner with me at the office.”

  “Will I ever get to choose what I want to eat or will you always be doing it on my behalf?” I regretted saying that immediately. I was kind of being a bitch, but the best part about takeout is deciding what to eat.

  He looked a little wounded by that. “Well, I will just email you Sean’s number and you can tell him what you would like from tomorrow onwards.”

  “What are you even talking about?”

  “Sean’s my chef. He does international gourmet meals.”

  “Oh,” I said feeling stupid. “Of course.”

  Why would we be getting takeout when he had an international gourmet chef at his fingertips? For some reason, the notion made me feel extremely uncomfortable, and a little irrationally angry. I hung up, looked away from Zayden and took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure why I was so on edge. Perhaps because I had been hanging out around the office after a long day of work to entertain him, while he pretty much ignored me for most of the night thus far. What was he even trying to accomplish?

  Okay, maybe I was a little upset because I had wanted to talk to him, get to know him, and get help with my Econ paper. Not sit here staring at my phone panic-texting Stacey. The truth was I wanted us to become friends. In order to achieve my dreams of becoming a successful loan officer, having a powerful network of contacts was essential, and it was particularly helpful if my contacts were of the power and stature of one of the most successful young banking entrepreneurs in the country. Part of my reasoning behind wishing to discuss homework with him was that he could see my potential outside of my job as a teller and hopefully serve as a valuable reference someday. In fact, the more I thought about the contract that I had signed, the more it seemed to be beneficial to me rather than him.

  But this, whatever was going on right now, was beneficial to nobody.

  It was another half hour before a couple of men in black-and-white uniforms materialized as though out of thin air, and began setting up silver dishes on the mahogany table in Zayden’s office. Wouldn’t that stain? Zayden Sinclair probably didn’t give a crap about stains, though. He probably owned an entire IKEA all to himself, all furniture readily replaceable whenever he liked. Much like the women he got involved with. Disposable, just like me. I shook my head. Instead of letting my thoughts stray to needlessly upsetting places, what I needed to do was enjoy a nice dinner with an influential man and try to build on my nonexistent network.

  One of the men in the uniforms was now walking towards me.

  “Dinner is ready, Ma’am,’ he said with a smile on his face.

  Ma’am. I wanted to burst out laughing. “Call me Aria, and thank you.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Ma’am,” he looked at me nervously.

  Oh God. I did not have the energy or will to argue, as it hit me just how hungry I was. Whatever rich people ate for dinner, it had to be tasty, right? I took off my jacket and walked towards Zayden’s office. I was wearing a blue dress with a slightly low-cut neck, and black tights. Professional and hopefully alluring in a not misleading or sexual kind of a way. Most of the men in uniforms were now waiting just outside the bank’s premises, except for the guy who had come to summon me; he was holding a bottle of champagne.

  Zayden was already seated when I got there, with a red napkin wrapped around his neck and his sleeves rolled up.

  “Do you like champagne?” he asked.

  “Who doesn’t like champagne,” I giggled in a don’t-be-silly kind of a way and sat down. “I love champagne, it’s super tasty and-”

  I made the mistake of catching his eye. It was twinkling.

  “Okay, I’ve never actually had champagne before,” I admitted. “I don’t really drink other than a few beers here and there with pizza and TV. I am not a particularly exciting person.”

  He was beaming at me as though I had just said I saved sick puppies for a living.

  “I haven’t had the luxury of enjoying greasy pizza and cheap beer with some good old television in quite some time.”

  “Luxury? Are you mocking me?” Our waiter – server? butler? – was pouring out two glasses of champagne, as I tied a red napkin around my neck to match Zayden’s.

  “No, not at all! Luxury is relative,” he said looking quite disdainful. “Sometimes I wish I could enjoy the simple pleasures of life, but all this was dropped on me,” he said, extending his arms out to his sides.

  “You’re talking like you’re dead. We can totally just hang out with some Bud Light, pepperoni pizza and Netflix at my apartment one night if you like.” I laughed out loud at the thought of him coming to my apartment. Yeah, that was totally going to happen. It was polite to ask, still.

  “What is that? Some kind of recording device?”

  I stared at him in utter confusion for almost a whole minute before it hit me and I burst into full-blown laughter. Zayden Sinclair, CEO of the entire South National Bank empire, was asking me if Netflix was some kind of a recording device. What planet did he live on?

  “It’s,” I started out to explain but felt another fit of giggles coming on, which I quickly turned into a cough because he began looking somewhat offended.

  “It’s this website that stores hundreds of thousands of movies and TV shows, and you pay like 10 bucks a month to be able to stream all their content online.”

  He twisted his mouth in a comical fashion. “I’m just joking, Aria,” he laughed. “I’d rather just purchase all of the movies and shows though.”

  Well, he gave me a good laugh anyway.

  “It would probably cost over a million dollars to try and purchase every title that’s on Netflix, though,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes. “It’s just a cheap way to find entertainment for regular people like me.”

  “I see,” he frowned, clearly not liking the concept and purpose of Netflix.

  He was rich, so buying a Netflix subscription wasn’t something he would understand.

  I raised my champagne glass to change the subject. “What are we drinking to?”

  “To digital innovation,” he said, deadpan
.

  “Ha, ha,” I said, not laughing.

  “Seriously though, to these next six months,” he said, clinking his glass to mine.

  I sipped the bubbly drink and it tasted like a mixture of white wine and orange soda, something that sounds gross on principle but my God, was it delicious. I closed my eyes, letting the sweet, fizzy taste sink into my taste buds. This was why everyone made such a big deal about champagne.

  “You like it, then?” Zayden asked with a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

  “It’s a step above Bud Light for sure,” I smiled at him, and took another huge gulp.

  “That’s a shame,” he said looking at the butler. “You went through so much trouble locating the perfect bottle for no reason, Mark. Her standards are at Bud Light—you could have picked up anything bubbly from CVS next door and it would have served nicely.”

  “Noted for next time,” Mark joked back.

  There was something inherently pleasant about the way Zayden was so relaxed and friendly with his staff. Aren’t men like him supposed to be complete dickheads?

  “To both of your disappointment, I now am spoiled to be partial to nothing but the best,” I said sipping some more of the goodness.

  “Time for appetizers,” Mark said, removing the lid from one of the silver containers to reveal succulent looking sushi rolls. “Spicy tuna rolls. Sean had the fish transported from Japan only a few hours ago. It was practically fished this morning, so I hope it’s fresh enough.”

  I felt a rush of excitement flood through my veins. Spicy tuna rolls were among my absolute favorite foods. What were the chances?

  “Nah, I am sure it can’t beat the 5 dollar rolls from China Garden across the street that I’m used to,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, even though I was dying to taste one.

  When I did, I could just about cry with happiness. Perfectly soft, slightly crunchy and so, so spicy. I let out an involuntary moan.

  “Tasty?” Zayden asked, looking delighted by my reaction. “I’ll stick to plain old California rolls. I’m the victim of mundane taste buds.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said between mouthfuls. It made little sense, though. Why would he ask his chef to make spicy tuna rolls if he couldn’t handle some spice? I couldn’t be too bothered about it, however, as I was too busy putting one sushi roll after another into my mouth. I had already gobbled up an entire portion in less than five minutes. I probably looked like an uncivilized moron. Just one more…

  I had sufficiently devoured two whole portions when I heard Zayden say, “I will take it from here for the entrees, Mark. Thanks for your help tonight.”

  He handed him what looked like five 100 dollar bills and added, “Share it with the guys and thank them for me.”

  Mark took the cash, looking completely unphased, as though this was a daily occurrence. It probably was.

  When Mark left with the remaining appetizers, there was an awkward silence for a few minutes, and I almost wished I had another sushi roll there just to keep myself occupied. Zayden was looking at me straight in the eyes, not a single expression on his face. Should I say something?

  “Is that a push-up bra?”

  What? The question was so random and bizarre, I couldn’t help but snicker.

  “I don’t have to answer that question,” I said pouting.

  “Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry, as his eyes were now fixated on my breasts. “I am just a little distracted.”

  His seductive ways weren’t going to stop.

  “Let’s see what’s for dinner,” I tried changing the subject and lifted off the lids of a couple of silver containers. What the hell? The sushi could maybe just be a coincidence but there was no way that this entire dinner accidentally constituted of my absolute favorite dishes. The aroma of rich Indian spices filled the room and one small container was specifically reserved for spicy peppers.

  “You don’t look happy,” Zayden said, looking concerned.

  “No, no!” I widened my eyes. “I’m just… really surprised. I adore Indian food, and spicy peppers, and spicy anything. And you said you couldn’t even handle the sushi so how come-”

  “I called your emergency contact, some Ms. Stacey Pace this morning, asking about your dietary preference.”

  “You didn’t!” I exclaimed, feeling a mixture of amazement and slight annoyance at Stacey. She could have told me. Whose side was she on, anyway?

  “I hope you enjoy dinner,” he said, looking extremely pleased with himself.

  I enjoyed dinner, all right. Very, very reluctantly, I enjoyed the best Indian food I had ever tasted, wanting to laugh and cry and hug him all at once.

  “Dessert?” he asked after we ate.

  “I think we have exhausted my capacity to eat for tonight,” I said, sounding more regretful about not having space for dessert than I intended to. “Thank you though. This was truly fantastic. You didn’t have to go above and beyond, you know.”

  “It was nothing,” he shrugged. “Really. I didn’t have to do anything.”

  He was grinning. Right. He had help. Ugh. I felt stupid. He probably did this for every girl he tried to seduce. I had made myself sound more important than I actually was.

  “I know, but I am still grateful that you took the time to learn what I liked. You’re helping me out with this whole contract thing a lot more than I’m doing anything for you already. Don’t feel like you need to put in any effort at all, even if it’s only making a few phone calls on your part. Honestly, I would have been happy just hanging out and talking, maybe asking you for some help with an Economics paper…”

  I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud so casually. Shit. I didn’t dare meet his eyes. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry… I meant like, if you were interested and had nothing better to do, I could entertain you with some amateur Macroeconomics.”

  When I finally looked at him, his eyes were shining, with a tiny hint of a smile on his lips. “Macroeconomics, huh? What is your paper on?”

  “The economic benefits of progressive taxation,” I said, my eyes planted on the silverware in front of me.

  “Isn’t that a little left of center for college economics?” He sounded genuinely interested. “When I was in college, they taught us to be a lot more conservative.”

  “Well, that’s the thing.” I was finally able to look at him without flinching again. “My professor is a hardcore Republican who doesn’t believe any good could come out of taxing the rich. He accused me of being a dirty Communist. So I am writing this paper to prove him wrong.”

  “People don’t easily change their long-standing political opinions, Aria. You are probably taking a risk challenging him like that since he decides your grades.”

  “He can’t fail me for disagreeing with him, and this paper is my one chance to show him that his way isn’t the only way.”

  “Saving the world, one Econ professor at a time?” he laughed.

  “Fine, you don’t really have to help me. I just thought it would be a fun thing to do if we are going to spend so much time together. But this is your contract, we do whatever you want on your time.”

  Dinner had been so nice and relaxed; I had almost forgotten why I was there. We weren’t just two people hanging out and getting to know each other, he was paying me to do this. We weren’t friends. We weren’t anything. I was his employee. Why did I ever think he would be interested in my stupid – I jumped as I felt his hand over mine. Suddenly, without any warning, my mind went completely blank and I felt a jolt of electricity run through my veins. His hands were strong but tender, his long, slender fingers completely engulfing mine. He was twiddling his thumb against mine and I felt a sensation in a place that had no right to react to what was happening. I couldn’t remember what I was thinking about or what we were talking about. All I knew was that I wished that my body didn’t react to his touch the way it did. I squeaked involuntarily and pulled my hand away gently.

  What the hell was that? Once more, I had tr
ouble looking him in the eye. This time for completely different reasons.

  It felt like an eternity had passed by the time he finally said, “I’ll help you with your paper. Every night after dinner we will work on it together. Okay?”

  When I met his bright blue eyes again, he was flashing me a genuine smile and my heartbeat picked up. How embarrassing. Snap out of it, woman! Agreeing to help me with homework was just one of many tricks in his big game plan of getting my clothes off, just like organizing a custom dinner with my favorite dishes. He wasn’t interested in my food choices or my paper or my world views or my economics professor. I would be an idiot to let myself believe otherwise. He had made no attempt to hide his motives behind this entire set-up, and if I let myself get confused into thinking he actually cared about me, only I would be to blame when I got hurt in the end. Staying grounded through these six months seemed like a harder task right now than it ever had before, but I had to be strong and take this for what it was to him; a game.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying not to betray my train of thought.

  “And one of these days,” he added. “I would be happy to come to your apartment for some pizza and Bud Light. We can do the Netflix thing as well if it makes you feel normal.”

  “All right.”

  ---

  When I finally got home that night, however, I started panicking. Zayden Sinclair, in my house? The living room floor was covered in magazines, and Stacey and Nick would scrutinize him to no end, and our TV was not even a flat screen. The couch was 50 years old, a gift from Nick’s now deceased grandmother. Maybe I could get him to change his mind…

  As I covered myself with blankets, my thoughts drifted away from the apartment to that moment during dinner when his thumb was rubbing against mine. Laden with desire, I softly rubbed my fingers against each other. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I could not let him have this kind of an effect on me. This was exactly what he was trying to accomplish, and I knew better than to let him have what he wanted. With the firm decision to actively block any compromising thoughts of him, I closed my eyes.

  That didn’t stop me from dreaming compromising dreams all night, though.