Boss of Me (A Steamy Office Romance)

by Lila Younger

  And then to have her smiling like that at me, like everything was going to be okay because she had me. It hit my gut like a ton of bricks and made me want her, to take her for my own so badly that my hand twitched. I couldn’t even begin to understand, much less process, how she could do this to me that I just nod at her and leave her there. I knew that she didn’t have a car. I should have stayed and insisted on driving her home safely. But I couldn’t have promised that I wouldn’t have slammed her up against my car and taken her there in the parking lot, Clarence be damned. So I go.

  The storm is definitely over, but there’s evidence of it everywhere. Garbage has been turned over. There are branches and leaves strewn across the road. I drive almost recklessly back home. The smell of her, the touch of her, it preoccupies me so much that I miss the turn to my apartment and have to circle around the block. This isn’t good. Already she’s making me lose my head. But I don’t want to give her up either. Something about that experience changed me. I’ve come out of that elevator a different person than the one who went in. Somehow, Chelsea makes me want to give up the rat race. I’m even contemplating the kids, the little house in the suburbs, the whole nine yards. It’s ridiculous. I know it is.

  And yet you’re still thinking about it.

  It was just one kiss. It didn’t mean anything at all. There was nothing more to it. But even I have to admit that my words were hollow. I have to fix this first thing tomorrow. I have to nip it in the bud before whatever it is I’m feeling turns into something that could derail everything I’ve worked so hard for. I still want the promotion. I still want to be CEO. Nothing, not even the feel of Chelsea’s body, soft and womanly against me, can change that.

  I have a lot of trouble getting myself to sleep, and when I wake up the next morning, I feel exhausted. Still, I drag myself out of bed, throw on my running shorts and a t-shirt, and do a punishing loop that shaves off almost a minute on yesterday’s time. My legs are screaming in pain, but at least I can’t think about anything else. That’s the key to it- not let myself think. Because when I do, it wanders towards a certain PA and everything I want to do to her.

  Coincidentally, the elevator that I take this morning is the exact same one we were trapped in. I still can’t believe that less than twelve hours ago, I was kissing her and potentially fucking Chelsea on the floor. What was wrong with me? If I had gotten caught... But did I really still care about all that? A part of me wishes I did it anyways. Thinks that it would have been worth it to be reckless just for once in my life. I can still feel the touch of her soft skin, her sweet mouth, those incredible breasts... fuck. My dick is getting hard all over again. I have to think about something else.

  I have to stop this.

  I stride out of the elevator quickly, hoping that if I move fast enough nobody will be able to see that I’m at half mast. I shake my head roughly. This was crazy. I have to get myself under control. I’ve been good at denying myself all my life. There were women before who had thrown themselves at me. There were nights where it would have been easy to have a few too many beers, try a little extra cocaine on the side, live it up because I was young and finally rich enough to do it. But I’d resisted. What the hell made her so special?

  Up ahead I see Chelsea’s desk. She’s always there ahead of me, getting everything ready, and today is no different. As soon as she sees me, she gives me a smile, a secret little one that squeezes my heart. That’s why.

  “I was just about to go get your drink,” she says quickly, standing up from her chair.

  “Thanks.” I say. I make no mention of what happened last night, and I see confusion flit across her face. Suddenly a part of me is wondering again whether this is the right thing to do.

  I open the door to my office and put away my tablet. Usually I like to take a few minutes to catch up on the news before I officially begin my day, but today is different. I link my fingers together and straighten up my shoulders. I have to be hard. I have to be certain so that she doesn’t mistake what I have to say. If I give myself a loophole, I know I’ll want to take it. I close my eyes, summoning the will to end it.

  As soon as Chelsea enters, the smile drops from her face. It must be my expression. I’ve flattened it out. Neutral I hope, but it’s probably more stern than that. She carefully walks over, balancing the mug of tea for me. I wonder if she’ll keep getting it for me once she hears what I have to say. I watch her for a moment as she slowly puts the mug down.

  “Chelsea, can I speak with you for a moment?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says nervously. She picks at the lint on her skirt and I know that she has an inkling on what I’m about to say. It’ll make things easier at least.

  “About yesterday,” I start. “I don’t make a habit of kissing my personal assistants. In fact, I never have. What happened was a mistake.”

  I watch as Chelsea’s full lips part, as though she wants to say something. But I don’t want her to convince me otherwise, because I would. I would let her convince me. I nod my head towards the door, dismissing her before she could say anything else. Her face crumples for a second before she recovers, and she stands up stiffly.

  “I’ll- I’ll get back to work then sir.”

  She whirls around quickly, and I can see her shoulders shake. I hate what I’ve done, especially since I got to know her. I want to know more about her even, but I know it’s impossible. I made the right move, I keep telling myself as the rest of the day goes on and Chelsea avoids my gaze. This is how it should be. She needs to be dating someone who’ll give her a family and happiness, not a career climbing workaholic.

  But when some idiot in the break room makes a comment about Chelsea’s million dollar ass, it takes everything in me not to run in there and grab his collar.

  Chapter 7

  Chelsea

  Even though I should have known better than to get my hopes up, I’m still totally crushed by what Brandon says to me. In fact, I don’t know how I made it through the rest of my work day. I did my job like a robot, automatically returning calls, sending out emails, putting calls through. It wasn’t until I was on the subway home, swaying as the train hurtled through the dark tunnels that it really sunk in that everything was over before it’d even begun. I texted Steph, letting her know what happened. She instantly messaged me back saying she would come over with a bottle of wine. I tell her to make it two.

  “Whoa,” she says when I open the door for her. “Minnie Mouse sweats huh?”

  My Minnie Mouse sweats were saved for the worst situations. They are without a doubt the softest, comfiest pair of p.j. pants I owned, and they’d gotten me through my first breakup in junior high, that terrible time I got fired from work, the divorce of my parents, and another absolutely awful breakup my senior year of college. They were my adult version of a comfort blankie, and that was what I needed right now.

  I wordlessly take the wine from her and head for the kitchen. She’d skipped the bottles entirely and went for a box. Definitely not the fancy stuff, but hey, it’s not like I was going to appreciate the ‘fruity aroma’ or the ‘earthy tones’ right now. I grab a glass and hand it to her, then grab another and fill it up. I’ve almost downed half by the time Steph’s got hers filled up.

  “Let’s bring it to the living room,” she suggests, which is a great idea. I’ve already set up a little nest there, so that I could wallow all night. We sit down together. Steph peeks into a carton of Rocky Road, but it’s empty. I should have asked her to stop by the freezer section at the grocery store.

  “He dumped me,” I say once I’d curled back up in my spot. “Well not dumped me. But I feel dumped.”

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “He said that ‘he doesn’t make a habit of kissing personal assistants.’ And that I shouldn’t even think about it happening again. And then before I could even get a word in, he sent me back out of his office. Like we were discussing some, some stupid work request. Like the whole thing wasn’t anything more to him
like it is for me. Which doesn’t make any sense because I really thought that we’d connected you know? That sounds cheesy, but I don’t know how else to say it. We were talking serious talk.”

  Steph nods sympathetically. “Do you think maybe he was just doing that to cover his ass at work? I mean, he is your boss. He could get slapped with a sexual harassment suit.”

  “Wouldn’t I need to file a suit first? And of course I wouldn’t. Why the hell would I? I basically told the guy I wanted it. Or at least showed him,” I say, reddening as I remember.

  “I mean, I wasn’t expecting him to propose or anything, but I thought maybe we could have given it a shot. I thought that he was open to trying at least. And now he’s just shut down completely. He didn’t even make a joke about Mr. Lewis’ awful tie like he usually does.”

  I slosh down the rest of the wine. I’m no lightweight, but that much wine that quickly was starting to have an effect. I pour more out, wobbling the glass a little more than I should have. There might be a spot on the floor, but it’s not like I keep the carpet that clean.

  “Anyways,” I declare, “enough about him. If that bastard doesn’t want me, then I don’t want him either!”

  “Do you want to put on a movie?” she asks.

  That’s the great thing about Steph. Sometimes we just need our delusions, and she’s not going to pop them and make me ‘face reality’. At least not right now. Maybe tomorrow when I’m hungover as hell. I probably should call in sick, but I’m scared that if I pick up my phone and call him, I’ll say more than I should. I notice that she hasn’t really drank all that much of her wine and I frown at her until she sips it.

  “Yes. Something where guys aren’t tools and everything ends happily ever after.” I’m slurring just a little bit, which is fantastic. I’m well on my way to getting absolutely trashed.

  “The Notebook?”

  That was our old fav back when we were angsty teenagers, and we still pull it out from time to time to cry together about it. But do I want to be crying right now? I decide that yes, that sounds perfect. Good, old Steph. She always knows exactly what I need.

  **********

  The rest of the week was equally awful. When my crush was still a secret, I was more than happy to stay late at the office or endure the sometimes mindnumbing tasks that I had to do as a personal assistant. I always imagined a bit more for myself. Maybe I’d become a journalist, or a writer, or something beyond making coffee, scheduling dinners at restaurants that included gluten free options (or whatever it is that the client needed) and chasing down emails. Brandon had made everything bearable, but now we weren’t even friends. We were nothing. He even kept to his office most of the time, asking me to do things via email. It was like a wall had come down.

  If every week was going to be like this one, I think I better start looking into another job. Of course, I’d never intended to be at this one for very long. I had big dreams, big aspirations. I just didn’t have the right degree. But deep down, I knew that was just excuses. If I wanted to be a writer, I’d be toiling away on the weekends in coffeeshops, or hunched over my computer at home. Maybe it was just a silly childhood dream that I couldn’t let go of. But I could still be a journalist. I didn’t go to school for that, but an English degree would suffice to help me get a job writing articles, if not in a newspaper, than for blogs, or PR or, or something. Anything would be closer to my dream than this I think.

  I decide to call Steph about my idea during lunch. Brandon is at a meeting, so I feel relatively safe. She’s in charge of social media marketing at a trendy shoe company so she gets free reign to be on her phone all the time. It does mean that she’s often distracted on our lunch calls though, keeping up with celebrity shoe sightings to re-tweet and whatever. Most of the time I don’t mind, because it’s not like we’re chatting about astrophysics, but today I need all of her focus.

  “I’m not crazy right? There’s jobs out there like that for an English major right?” I ask her once I hear her stop typing away on her keyboard.

  “Sure...” she says doubtfully. “But it sounds to me like you’re just trying to avoid him.”

  “Well that’s an added bonus, yes. But I really do think that I should be putting my degree to better use. I’m going to be paying for it for the next twenty years. I might as well be working in a field where it’s useful.”

  “I thought that journalists and bloggers get paid nothing. And didn’t you just get that raise from Brandon? How are you going to pay off those student loans when you get paid like five cents a word?” Trust Steph to point out the logical thing. I fiddle with the wrapper of my chocolate bar. I’ve been eating more than a few of those lately. I should probably stop, but then I’d truly be miserable.

  “Ye-es,” I draw out. “But it’s just so awkward Steph. You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Oh come on. We’re supposed to be adults now Chel. And adults don’t just change jobs because the person they like doesn’t like them back. They act professional and move on. Which is what you should be doing. Moving on. You’re young, and single, and you should really, really enjoy it so I can live vicariously through you.”

  That was interesting. I always thought that Steph and Michael were so happy together. They’re the kind of couple that try not to do PDA when you’re hanging around them, but somehow make you feel sad and lonely anyways with their adoring glances at each other.

  “We are happy,” she says when I tell her as much. “I’m thrilled to marry the guy. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to hear some crazy Hangover-like adventure you have. Or you get invited to some underground techno rave where you snort candy necklaces and paint yourself with glow in the dark paint or something.”

  “That sounds absolutely terrible. Why would I want to cover myself with toxic paint?”

  “You know what I mean,” she says impatiently. “Listen, there’s this speed dating thing going on this weekend. Francine was telling me about it. Let’s go.”

  “Speed dating?” I glance down at the third chocolate bar I’ve had today. That’s basically my lunch these days. And breakfast. For dinner I’ve switched to ice cream and wine. It’s fantastic. I’m not exactly wallowing and unable to function, but my heart is pretty bruised.

  “Yes. It’ll be fun. I already told Michael about it, and he okay’ed me going with you. It’s got over fifty guys there already so there’s bound to be at least one or two of them that are good looking. Or decent. Maybe we should shoot for decent.”

  “Boy you’re really selling this to me Steph,” I say, but I’m already thinking about the possibilities. Have I been hung up on Brandon too long? Maybe it really is like Steph says. My feelings for him send out a silent signal to all other men that I’m unavailable, so I’ve only been attracting the really desperate.

  “Sorry, sorry. Anyways, lets do it. Even if you don’t want me to be on the market, it’ll still be fun. You can help me make up a persona.”

  “Fine. I will go speed dating with you,” I say, pretend grudgingly. “As long as you promise not to pull out a string of condoms and shove them in my purse if I see someone I actually like.”

  “Deal.”

  Steph and I say goodbye. I breathe a long sigh. I haven’t seriously been in the dating game for so long. I’m not sure how answering ‘what do you do’ and ‘what’s your favourite color’ will tell me how much I want to spend my life with a guy, but my method of pining from afar has backfired spectacularly so far. The biggest pain in the butt about all this is now I have to try to find a matching bra and panty set, if I even still had one.

  I notice a shadow across my desk and look up. It’s Brandon. His face is unreadable. How much has he heard? Not that it’s any of his business, I think a little defiantly.

  “Chelsea, can I see you in my office please?” He spins on his heel and heads to the door, not even pausing to see if I’m going to follow.

  A part of me doesn’t want to go in. The other part can’t help but
listen. I stand up slowly, brushing a crumb off my dress. I walk towards Brandon’s office. He’s waiting by the door, and as soon as I’m inside, he closes it and turns the lock.

  Chapter 8

  Chelsea

  “What’s going on?” I ask, nervous. Brandon’s never locked the door to his office before. If anything, he’s always kept the door open. This was different.

  “Sit down,” he says gesturing at the chair. I cautiously walk over and sit. Brandon is pacing, agitated about something. He looks good today, in the dark charcoal suit that highlights everything about his body so well. An outfit that can make me tighten my legs together on sight on a regular day. Right now though, he looks as though he’s mad as hell, and trying to find the words for it. Have I done something wrong?

  “I don’t want you to go,” he says at last.

  I’m confused. Go? Did he overhear my conversation with Steph where I told her I wanted to leave?

  “I don’t have any plans to leave this job,” I say diplomatically. Yet, I add in my head.

  Brandon frowns. “That’s not what I meant.” There’s another long pause as he makes another tight loop in front of his desk.

  “I’m talking about your date.”

  I’m so surprised that I could have fallen off the chair. He doesn’t want me to go? After everything he’s put me through? I must have heard wrong. But I haven’t.

  “What makes you think you have a say here?” I ask, a bit angrier than I intended.

  He looks ashamed, which is more than I expected. His eyes are sad, and I really do have to fight the impulse to give in to what he says. I want to, but at the same time, he’s already made it clear that he wants nothing to do with me. The hurt I feel comes rushing back.

  “I,” he stops. We look at each other. There’s so much emotion on his face, and that tiny part of me that hasn’t given up on us is begging him to speak. He stops directly in front of me.