Faking It With the Boss

by Nikki Chase

  Faking It With the Boss

  Nikki Chase

  Copyright © 2017 Nikki Chase

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is for mature readers. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some.

  All sexual activity in this work is consensual and all sexually active characters are 18 years of age or older.

  Contents

  Faking It With the Boss

  1. Claire

  2. Ben

  3. Claire

  4. Ben

  5. Claire

  6. Ben

  7. Claire

  8. Ben

  9. Claire

  10. Ben

  11. Claire

  12. Ben

  13. Claire

  14. Ben

  15. Claire

  16. Ben

  17. Claire

  18. Ben

  19. Claire

  20. Ben

  21. Claire

  22. Claire

  23. Ben

  24. Claire

  25. Ben

  26. Claire

  27. Ben

  28. Claire

  29. Ben

  30. Claire

  31. Ben

  Epilogue

  Preview: Accidental Husband

  1. Tessa

  2. Luke

  3. Tessa

  About the Author

  Faking It With the Boss

  Claire

  “Claire Abigail Madsen,” comes the stern voice from my phone over the car speakers as I navigate through the hectic Las Vegas morning traffic flow.

  I grimace. Oof. The full name. That’s not a great sign.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound chipper. “How’s it going?”

  “Where are you?” she asks. “Your father and I already ordered mimosas.”

  “I’m in the car, can’t you hear it?”

  “Oh, is that what that awful rushing sound is?” she asks, and I can just hear the frown on her face.

  “Yeah. I’m on the freeway. I’ll be there before you know it.”

  “I just don’t understand how you manage to be late every single time. Are you late for work? No. Are you late to see your friends? No. But a lovely brunch with your beloved parents? Late. Every time. Without fail. I’m trying very hard not to get my feelings hurt, but—”

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I overslept,” I cut her off, rolling my eyes.

  “Didn’t you set an alarm?” she scoffs.

  “Yes. Of course. But I slept through it at first,” I say, relieved that at least I’m not lying to her this time.

  It’s not an excuse. It’s a real reason. Of course, that’s never really enough for my mother.

  I can hear my father’s booming laughter in the background. As usual, he couldn’t care less that I was going to be tardy.

  Mom, however, is a little bit more on the neurotic side. “How is that even possible? Are you not going to bed at a reasonable hour, Claire?”

  “Well, no. Not really,” I reply. “I worked late again last night.”

  “Oh, honey. That’s so bad for your health.”

  I grin, stifling a laugh. “I have to pay the bills somehow, Mom.”

  “But couldn’t you, I don’t know, just tell your boss you won’t work at night or something? I worry all the time that one of these days you’re going to get mugged while you’re walking to your car late at night,” she complains.

  “It doesn’t work that way. I can’t just tell my boss what to do,” I explain, getting frustrated as I change lanes carefully. “He makes the schedule. It’s his world, I’m just working in it. Besides, I—”

  Suddenly, a shiny black Porsche convertible jerks into my lane in front of me on the freeway, and I have to slam on my brakes to narrowly avoid scraping his back bumper. The tires of my little old Volkswagen squeal. I yelp in fear, gritting my teeth and slamming on the horn.

  The convertible speeds off as I lean out the window and shout, “Watch it, buddy!”

  “What was that? What happened? Oh my God. Claire, are you okay?” Mom asks, her voice urgent.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. It was just some asshole, cutting me off on the freeway.” My blood still runs a bit cold, but my heart rate is slowing down to normal.

  “Be careful, honey! You never know what kind of jerk might be driving that car. Road rage is the number one cause of fatalities on the road, you know.”

  “Thanks, Mom. That’s very comforting to hear,” I answer, grateful she can’t see me rolling my eyes again. “I’m going to let you go now, okay? I’ll be there soon. I need to focus on the road.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  “Bye.” I hang up.

  The convertible has sped away and disappeared into traffic, and I ride along nervously gripping the wheel, eyes wide. Nothing like a near-miss to wake you up in the morning.

  I begin to get lost in my thoughts again until I happen to look up at my rearview mirror. I realize with a jolt that the convertible has ended up behind me somehow, and is now tailgating me closely.

  The guy driving looks startlingly gorgeous with his dark hair and designer aviator shades. A strong, clean-shaven jaw. A straight nose. It’s not fair that so many beautiful features should belong to the same person.

  If I weren’t too annoyed at his erratic driving, I would’ve ranked him at the top of the attractiveness scale. But he looks like the kind of cocky guy who knows exactly how hot he is anyway.

  I watch him nervously as I pull off onto my exit . . . and to my horror, he follows.

  In fact, he continues to follow me, no matter which way I go.

  There is no way this is just a coincidence.

  What’s this guy’s deal? Is he stalking me?

  Maybe my mom was right to be worried. I press down on the gas pedal, trying to shake him off. He falls behind a little in traffic, and I hurriedly whip into the parking lot of the brunch restaurant.

  I turn off the engine and bolt from the car to the entrance, holding my little pocket knife in my hand in my purse as a weapon, just in case.

  I’m still clearly wild-eyed and shaken when I look around the restaurant like a crazy person and finally find my parents’ table. Both of them, as well as the middle-aged couple they’re sitting with, all stop talking and give me a double take as I hurry over to them and sit down.

  “Claire? What’s wrong?” Dad asks, setting down his mimosa with a frown.

  I breathlessly blurt out, “Th-there’s a guy who was following me on the freeway. I thought he was gone but then I noticed he was following me and I think I lost him but maybe not and now I’m scared he’s going to follow me home and murder me or something.”

  “Calm down. It’s okay. I’m sure it was just a coincidence,” he says, putting a soothing hand on my back.

  But as I look through the window of the restaurant, my heart sinks. That very same convertible is pulling into the parking lot. Feeling sick to my stomach, I raise a shaking hand to point at the car and mutter, “Oh my God, that’s him! He’s here!”

  Ben

  Stepping into this restaurant is always like a breath of fresh air. The western wall is almost entirely windows, and the white flowers on the bu
shes outside cast an almost dreamy light through the restaurant.

  The place gives me the same feeling as the last hint of a nice dream after a restful sleep. Few other places could make me feel this way.

  That was probably more thought than most people who walk through the doors ever put into the place, but this kind of thinking is just my job.

  As a restaurateur and a Vegas local, I need to drink in as much aesthetic theory about the city’s layout as I can. Nothing is worse to me than a place that isn’t living up to its potential.

  But this is a restaurant I can appreciate. That’s rare. That’s why I chose this place to have brunch with my parents and a couple old friends of theirs.

  My eyes pan across the brown-and-white tiled floors, taking in the planters overflowing with lush green succulents, the bronze tables, and the metal chairs until I see my parents seated at a corner table, next to two windows and a couple of paintings by local artists.

  My dad raises a hand and waves to me with a warm smile, and I can’t hold back a grin as I wave back and head in their direction. The scene looks so idyllic it could be a stock photo.

  Well, it would be idyllic, if it weren’t for the girl sitting at the table, looking at me with pure shock and terror on her face.

  She’s seated between the two pairs at the round table—my parents on the right and a couple about their age on the left, the Madsens. I know the Madsens well enough, as well as anyone knows their parents’ close friends. Castilla’s fake-blonde hair is as full and lush as always, and Harry’s white hair has only gotten whiter in the years since I left Vegas for UCLA.

  It’s nice to see them again, but as I make my way through the busy restaurant, dodging servers and weaving through tables, the girl between them keeps drawing my eyes. The light catches her blonde hair and blue eyes so well I’m starting to think she was an actress the restaurant hired to make the place look good.

  The fear radiating off her features like an aura is strange, but there’s something about her . . . I can’t put a finger on it. All I know is I can’t help but watch her. She makes the scenery around her pop effortlessly.

  I realize I’m staring, and it’s probably not doing anything to help her petrified expression.

  I get to the table and pull up a chair, giving everyone a smile. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was traffic.”

  “My, my,” Castilla nearly gushes, beaming at me. “Look at you. You’re looking better than ever! College has done you good, hasn’t it?”

  “Good to see you again, Ben,” Harry says in his usual quiet-yet-friendly tone.

  “Don’t worry, honey. You weren’t the only one running late,” my mom says, those hawkish eyes always hard to read. “We were just teasing a certain someone about that.”

  “Yes, speaking of which,” Harry says, turning to the girl, whose eyes have been growing wider and more confused this whole time. “Claire, honey, allow me to introduce you to your stalker, Ben Graham.”

  The silence that follows as Claire and I stare at each other in mutual confusion is so awkward I swear I feel a year get shaved off my life. But a second later, both my parents and the Madsens burst out laughing, leaving Claire and I completely baffled.

  “Did I miss something?” I finally ask with as friendly a smile as I can muster.

  “Ben, dear, I know it’s been so long that the two of you probably don’t recognize each other,” Castilla says, “but this is our daughter, Claire. Claire, honey, don’t you remember Ben? The two of you were thick as thieves when you were little!”

  “Oh my God . . . Ben?” Claire asks, her jaw dropping. I have to fight to keep mine from doing the same.

  I can’t believe I didn’t recognize her before now. Sitting across the table from me is Claire Madsen, the girl I used to play with when we were still in grade school.

  Dozens of memories hit me all at once. Of course it was her, how could I forget that sparkle in her eyes? There’s a liveliness in them I’ve never seen anywhere else.

  I remember running through backyards, pissing off the neighbors, and causing all kinds of trouble in our suburban childhood homes. She was always the more imaginative one. I could barely keep up with her mind, but I remember liking her no matter what we did.

  “I think the two of you were tailing each other on the way over here,” Harry says, chuckling, “Claire thinks you were following her.”

  “It wasn’t just that,” Claire says suddenly, the surprise and wonder vanishing from her face. “He almost got me into an accident when he cut me off!”

  “Wait, that was you?” I asked, raising my eyebrows as I remember the sight of an angry face in my rearview mirror. I honestly hadn’t given it a second thought.

  Most people make way for me when I’m on the road. That’s just how driving in Nevada i, especially in Vegas.

  “I think ‘sorry’ is the word you’re looking for,” she says, crossing her arms.

  “Sorry for not driving like a grandma late for the early bird special?” I quip, unable to keep a smirk off my face.

  She looks surprised, and a little color rises to her cheeks. She opens her mouth to say something back but she stops, narrowing her eyes at me. She’s cute when she’s angry.

  I shake my head, chuckling. I hold up my hands. “Okay, seriously, though—Claire? God, it’s been years. More than a decade, right? How’ve you been?”

  The interrupting server saves Claire, who’s struggling or words, and we quickly put in our orders and a round of mimosas.

  By the time the server bustles away, Claire is tucking a lock of hair behind her head and smiling nervously as her parents look on expectantly. I can’t help but get the impression they’re watching our conversation closer than I’d like.

  “Kind of a lot, actually. We sort of drifted apart when we were in what, middle school?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Well, I guess that means I can’t say ‘the usual life stuff’, then,” she says, and we laugh lightly before she continues. “After high school, I went to culinary school here in town. Kind of just graduated, in fact, and it still feels really weird to say that out loud,” she adds with a laugh.

  My eyebrows go up. “Culinary school, really? Wow, that’s . . . actually kind of a funny coincidence.”

  “Ben owns Mojave Blue, that restaurant on the south side of the Arts District, if you’ve heard of it,” my dad says proudly.

  I roll my eyes, even though I can’t keep a smile off my face. I’m proud of the Blue, and rightly so. It’s a successful restaurant in what I’ve always thought of as one of the prettiest parts of the city.

  Claire certainly looks impressed, as well as a lot more interested in me, suddenly. “Of course I’ve heard of it. A third of my graduating class wants to work there. How’d you get that up and running?”

  “From scratch, mostly,” I say honestly, though I don’t want to get deeper into the hows and whys and ruin a nice brunch.

  The memory of what happened with my first restaurant back in LA is still a little too fresh for comfort.

  “I’m actually looking to expand the restaurant business,” I say, leaning back in my chair as our mimosas arrive. “I’ve got a Michelin-starred chef I met in LA on board, but we just need to find the right place in downtown Vegas to get set up.”

  “What kind of cuisine?” she asks, leaning forward, one of her legs bouncing under the table. She’s interested, and I can tell she’s angling for a foot in the door.

  I take a sip of my mimosa and watch her, wondering if a foot in the door might be worth my time. “The Blue is more of a ‘safe’ venue than my plans for Ocotillo. Vegas has a reputation as the kind of place where you can get anything, but I want to bring out the local flavor. Desert cuisine. I want to give the locals something to be proud of.”

  Her eyes practically sparkle, and I can’t help but feel a sense of pride.

  “Maybe the two of you could work together,” my mom says, exchanging a nefarious smile with Claire’s paren
ts that makes me suspect this is the real reason we’re having brunch.

  “Claire’s a fabulous cook,” Castilla quips.

  “Oh, Mom,” Claire says quickly, looking mortified. “Don’t—”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, dear,” Castilla insists, “you never know what might happen. I think it might be worth a thought or two. Maybe it’ll work out well, and we’ll finally get to be in-laws,” she adds to my parents.

  This time, Claire and I both share a petrified glance, and we laugh nervously to try to dispel the awkwardness.

  “I’ll . . . review some of our hiring plans,” I say noncommittally, scanning our surroundings as I give the Madsens a polite smile. “Oh, I smell our food coming. Let’s worry about eating something good instead of making it.”

  Claire

  “Double cheeseburger and sloppy fries, hold the onions, extra mayo,” drones the disinterested voice in my earpiece.

  I’m working the line today, which means taking orders from my co-worker at the drive-through window.

  In front of me is an assembly line of less-than-stellar ingredients. A bucket of iceberg lettuce starting to turn that weird pink color that usually means it’s expired. Vats of mayonnaise and mustard. A container of pickles starting to stick together. Stacks of half-congealed “cheese” slices in a shade of orange not generally found in nature.

  I frown down at the piles of what passes for edible food here in the fast food universe and pull on a second set of transparent food safety gloves. Grabbing a squishy bun from a bag perched on a shelf over my head, I grimace at the texture.