by Emma Hart
Again: why couldn’t I have an ugly boss?
“No, actually, I think I will check it out. Just in case. Sounds educational.” Then, as he stared at me as if he was trying to decide whether or not to laugh, I let my own grin take over my face.
“Okay, fine.” He came over to the desk and sat down on the velvet chair. “But if you hate it, don’t blame me when you’ve wasted three hours of your life planning how to murder somebody in five different ways.”
“I don’t know, that sounds like some pretty valuable information…”
“On one hand, it is. But, on the other, they already know how to solve the crime because they’ve done it once before.”
Once again, I narrowed my eyes. “Now, see, I don’t know if you’re just saying that, or if you’re really looking up from my well-being here.”
He feigned a gasp. “Would I do anything but?”
“I don’t know.” I leaned back in my chair and tapped my pen against the table. “Would you?” I punctuated the question with one raise of my eyebrows and a half-grin.
“Hey, you.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger at me, his smile shining in those wild, gray eyes. “I found your bra this morning. That is definitely looking out for your well-being, especially after the greeting I got when I showed up at your house.”
“Okay, mister.” Now, it was my turn to wave my finger. Or, rather, a pen. My bright pink highlighter waved in circles in front of his face as I stood and leaned over the table to make my point. “If we’re going to share an office, which I’m still against, by the way, then we are going to have to set some ground rules to be able to work together successfully.”
“I feel like you’re about to pull out a whiteboard and write them all down so I remember them.”
“Don’t you…” I stilled the pen and, with annoyance, yanked a pad of plain paper out from my drawer. With a little too much vigor, I opened the pad then slapped it down on my desk. “Yes, let’s do that. And, if you want, I’ll even go to reception and have photocopied a few times in case you happen to lose the original.”
Grinning, he said, “Could you get any more sarcasm in that last sentence?”
“Yes, actually, I could. Don’t test me. You might be surprised.” Or offended. That was known to happen.
Really, in the twenty-first century, you’d think everyone would get sarcasm. Nope.
“Damn, that sounds like a challenge.”
“Shut up and stop trying to distract me.” I uncapped the pen with a pop. “Right. Rule one.”
“I think I know where this is going.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his lips twitching into a smile the entire time.
Usually, I wanted to lick that smile. But now? No, no. Now, I kind of wanted to slap it off his face.
Yep. We needed some ground rules. He needed to stop talking about my boobs, and I needed to stop wanting to either, a: kiss him or, b: hit him.
I scrawled “rule one” onto the pad. “Rule one. Do. Not. Talk. About. Mellie’s. Boobs.” I underlined it several times to get my point across. “Is that clear?”
Jake leaned over the desk and looked at the pad. “Your handwriting is kinda messy there, so no, not clear at all.”
I threw the pen onto the desk. It hit nib-first, leaving a bright pink dot on the pad before it fell over and rolled onto the floor. “And you tell me I’m impossible?”
His grin was playful—boyish, almost, and it reached right up to his eyes. “I just don’t get why you’re making such a big deal out of this. It’s only awkward because you’re making it awkward.”
“You keep mentioning my boobs.”
“It’s hard not to when you answer your door without a bra, only for that bra to be on the floor.”
“You didn’t even need to be at my house. It’s totally your fault.”
Jake rolled his eyes and sat back again. “Let it go, Mellie. The sooner you accept that I’m your boss and me knowing what your boobs look like doesn’t bother me, the easier this will be.”
I blinked at him. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“I’m not saying my inner teenage boy doesn’t flash back sometimes, but…”
“Ugh!” I clamped my arms firmly over my chest. Not that it would help the thoughts inside his head, mind you, but still. I felt better. “This is why it bothers me.”
“If it bothers you, maybe you shouldn’t have listened to your friends in the first place.”
“They told me I’d never see you again,” I muttered.
“Well, that plan is going fucking spectacularly, don’t you think?”
“Are you allowed to cuss at work?”
“I’m the boss. I can do what I want at work.”
“Oy.” Now, I was the one rolling my eyes. “Look, let’s just not mention my boobs, and then I’ll be able to move on. Eventually. I hope.”
He studied me, gaze dropping to my chest for a moment. “No, you won’t. You’ll still blush every time our eyes meet.”
“I do not blush every time.”
One dark eyebrow quirked in amusement. “You sure do. Just like you are now.”
“I’m not blushing,” I lied, holding his gaze steady.
“You really, really are.”
Ugh!
I stood up and pointed at him. “I don’t have to take this.”
“Take what? That I’m right and you’re wrong?” Laughter. It danced in his eyes once again.
“No. Just…This!” Dramatically waving my arms around in a flailing fashion, I stomped once, then headed toward the door. “If you need me, tough. I’m going to find something to manage.”
“That is your job!” he shouted after me, laughing.
Oooh. I was really starting to hate him.
Chapter Seven
Upside #7: You never have to deal with man flu. Just menstruation, but that’s a license to whine.
Me: I’m not coming into work today. I’m sick.
I left the lying text screen open on my phone and headed to my bathroom for a shower. I wasn’t sick. I was sick of the situation I was in and it’d only been a few days. Why couldn’t I get over it?
Oh, because Jacob Creed was my boss. Not only was he my boss, but he was handsome and, to my annoyance, disarmingly charming. His laugh gave me goosebumps and his smile started off a whole pack of butterflies in my stomach.
It was a schoolgirl crush, based upon nothing but the way he looked.
It was ridiculous, and I needed to talk myself out of this stupid crush. Except the only thing I’d ever successfully talked myself out of was a diet.
I wasn’t exactly the poster girl for self-control.
I lathered my hair with shampoo.
I was a wimp. A bonafide pussy. Why was I acting like I was thirteen instead of handling this situation like the grown woman I was?
I rinsed the shampoo.
I could handle this. I didn’t need to be sick. I could make a miraculous recovery, or use today to form a game plan. Maybe there was an answer on Google. Surely, somewhere, the in depths of the interwebs, there was a person who’d written on some obscure forum to get information about what to do when one’s boss has seen one’s boobs.
I turned off the shower and wrapped myself in a towel before twisting my hair into another one. My phone was flashing with a new text message when I walked back into my room, so I picked it up to see how successful my attempt at calling off work was.
Jake: Embarrassment isn’t an illness.
Darn it.
Me: I happen to have it chronically.
Jake: I happened to have an inappropriate dream last night, but I’m not calling off work just so I don’t have to face you.
My jaw dropped.
So did my phone.
Was he—was he serious?
Another message came through.
Jake: Get your ass to work. And are those skirts in the dress code?
Me: I am not having this conversation!!!! This is not okay!!!!!
Jake:
The dream thing or the skirts thing?
Me: WHY IS THIS EVEN A QUESTION????
My phone rang, his name flashing on the screen, and I answered it, only to shout, “I’m not talking to you!”
“Well, then, hello, whoever it is answering the phone. Can you pass me to Mellie?”
“This is inappropriate. I’m not having this conversation with you. I’m sick. I’m walking away from the phone now.” I fake-coughed twice.
I knew watching Mean Girls would help me fake-cough one day.
“Are the skirts a uniform code?” he went on, completely ignoring me.
I didn’t respond.
“You’re blushing right now, aren’t you?”
Still, didn’t say anything.
“All right, they’re a dress code. I won’t complain about it.”
Still silent.
“Mellie, you can pretend you aren’t on the phone, but I can hear you breathing. Either you’re holding it, or you’re busy.”
“Goodbye!” I shouted, hanging up.
I threw the phone on my bed. Almost instantly, the screen lit up with a new message.
Jake. Again.
Against my better judgment, I picked up the phone.
Jake: Messing with you. No inappropriate dreams.
Jake: Get your ass to work. Embarrassment doesn’t excuse you when you’re the cause of your own.
Me: If you weren’t my boss…
Jake: You’d flash me more than your boobs?
Me: You do NOT want to know what I want to say to you right now.
Jake: I’ll take that as a no.
***
I dumped my purse on the desk with a sigh. Jake was clearly already here because all of my things had been helpfully put into two boxes and set near my computer. He’d even taped a note to the computer screen that told me the new stuff was being delivered today so I had to tidy my mess.
It would have been a lot easier to tidy if he’d left me to do it. It was an organized mess. I could find everything. Now? God knows where it all was.
I was going to need more coffee to handle this.
I rubbed my hand over my chin, grabbed my keys, and left my office. Stopping only to lock it, I walked through the hotel to the bar and slipped behind it. It was still early and it wasn’t actually open yet, so that meant I could make my coffee in peace.
I hummed to myself as I started the machine and grabbed a mug.
What came out was not fresh coffee.
I stopped it and checked. It hadn’t been cleaned.
Now, I was annoyed.
I dropped my unnecessarily dirty mug in the sink beneath the bar and printed some receipt paper from the register. I wrote a quick, annoyed note for someone to clean it and went back to the office to see who had been responsible for it.
Jake was waiting outside the office when I arrived with a scowl on my face. “Wow. Did I do that to your face?”
I glared at him. “Why are you waiting outside?”
“You have the only office key.”
I glanced down at the key in my hand. “Oh. I’ll get another cut at lunch.” I unlocked the door and left him to follow me inside. “And yes, you are partially responsible for my face, as you so kindly put it.”
“What happened?”
I pointed to the boxes. “Plus, when I went to get to get coffee, the machine hadn’t been cleaned. It’s supposed to be cleaned every night.”
His eyebrows went up. “Good thing I stopped at the café on the corner, then.”
I finally looked at what he was holding. Two coffee cups and a brown bag. “What’s that?”
“Most people call it coffee. I’m calling it…a mixture of an apology and a goodwill gesture.”
“You are.”
He nodded. “One, for being a slight ass to you this morning.”
A slight ass.
“Two, because I think we need to make peace with the awkward side of our relationship. I promise never to bring up your wonderful breasts again.”
“The wonderful part doesn’t give me much hope.”
“What? Can’t I even compliment them on the only time I’m allowed to refer to them? Cut a man some slack, woman.”
I met his eyes and with a twist of my lips, nodded. “Fine. We’re at a truce. I think I can cope with this.”
Jake held up one finger and put both the coffee and the bag down. “You definitely will when you see what’s inside this bag.”
I sniffed. The sweet scent of powdered sugar reached my nose. “Beignets?”
He shook his head.
I wrinkled my face up and then... “Donuts?”
He grinned. Wide. “Donuts.”
I reached for the bag like a starving lunatic and dove my hand inside. Instantly, my fingertips connected with the still warm dough. I grabbed and tugged one out, biting into it and sending sugar flying all over the papers stacked in the box in front of me.
I moaned. If there was anything better than sugar donuts, it was warm sugar donuts.
Ninety-nine percent sure they were the way to my heart.
If I ever got proposed to and there weren’t donuts, I’d have to seriously consider it.
Jake watched me with a crooked smile as I inhaled the first donut. I was more than aware that I had sugar not only on my desk, but all over myself and my clothing. I didn’t care. It was so damn good I didn’t have time to pretend I was a civilized human being.
“How did you know I like donuts?” I licked my fingers.
“Like donuts? You look like you’re in a committed relationship from that display.” He chuckled and sat down. “Your kitchen smelled like them. I took a lucky guess.”
He dropped his hand into the bag and pulled one out. I stared at him as he took a bite.
“Relax,” he said. “I bought ten.”
“Clearly, you aren’t aware of just how committed our relationship is.” I pulled another out and, this time, grabbed one of the napkins and sat down before tearing into it. “Thank you,” I said.
Our eyes met. “You’re welcome. Who’s responsible for the lack of coffee?”
“Oh!” I’d been distracted by the donuts. I licked my fingers again and pulled the roster file from my cupboard. I flicked through to this week’s and ran my nail down the list. “Harley. Of course.”
Jake looked at me quizzically, so I filled him in on the mess that was Harley, including the explanation as to why I was on the floor the day he came in.
“Why not fire her?” he asked as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
I sighed. “Because she can mix drinks, and well. She’s just not so great at all the other stuff.”
“Hmm,” was all he said.
I waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, I shook it off and finished my donut.
“All right,” Jake said, standing up. “I’m going to meet with the builders, and I’ll be back after lunch. Do you need anything?”
I paused. “No… I’m good. Thank you.”
“I can get the key cut.”
“It’s fine. My uncle owns a place.” I smiled.
“All right, then. I’ll see you later.” He returned my smile, grabbed his phone, and left.
I took one look at the boxes and picked up another donut.
***
“I just—I don’t get it.” I threw myself onto the sofa and almost sent the box of donuts flying onto the floor.
Thankfully, Peyton was quicker than the box. She grabbed it and sat back, hugging it to herself. “First, watch the donuts. I got the last two pink sprinkles, and I’m partial to them.” She stroked the top of the box. “Second, what don’t you get? How doesn’t he care about your boobs? I don’t care about them either.”
“You’re not supposed to care about my boobs. You’re a woman, for a start.”
“I care about your boobs,” Chloe interrupted, tucking her blond hair behind her ear. “I think you have great boobs. Bra or no bra.”
“Usually no bra,” Peyt
on added.
“I’m not afraid to throw something at you,” I warned her. “This is awkward.”
“Ugh! Get over yourself, Melanie!” Peyton snapped her fingers. “You are a grown woman. He is a grown man. He saw your tits. So what? Steven Lawrence saw your tits five times in junior year.”
I snatched a donut from the box. Don’t tell my hips. “We were dating! It’s entirely different!”
Chloe delicately picked up a white-iced donut before saying, “She’s right. It is different, Peyt. They were dating, and Jacob is her boss. You can’t expect her to just get over that. It is partly your fault.”
“It’s just as much your fault,” Peyton reminded her, then looked at me and nodded toward Chloe. “Drunky smurf over here shook her Tic-Tacs like she was in front of a bachelor party leaving a curry house.”
I choked on my laughter. “That’s not the point. You got us drunk. It’s almost entirely your fault.”
“Look, sunshine,” she said, tearing a bite of donut off the ring so her words were muffled. “I didn’t grab your shirt and whip it up like a two-dollar hooker on overtime. You did that, so grow a pair and take responsibility for your actions.”
“You sound like you don’t want to take responsibility for yours.”
“Hey. You’re big girls. You can refuse cocktails.”
Chloe and I shared a glance. “Refuse cocktails?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“You have us mixed up with your other friends,” I continued. “But, wait. You don’t have other friends.”
“I have plenty of friends,” Peyt said.
“Friends without penises. Or benefits.”
She paused. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about your hot boss who knows what your tits look like.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help. I’m trying to slap your size-eight ass into reality, you idiot.”
“Slap mine into reality and I’m putting yours on a catapult. Right into the middle of the Gulf.” I tore my donut in two and gave her boobs a pointed look. “I always wondered if silicone would float.”