Like a Boss

by Sylvia Pierce

Ellie murmurs her agreement, tightening her fingers around mine. “Maybe even two more, just to be sure.” Then, gazing up at me with heat and desire and happiness blazing in her eyes, she says, “Because I don’t want to forget any of this.”

  Chapter 16

  Ellie

  After two weeks undercover, I don’t know who I am anymore, and it’s not just the cross-dressing or the secret identity that’s to blame.

  Heck, it’s not even mostly the cross-dressing or the secret identity.

  It’s the woman in the mirror, the one grinning her cheeks off as she stuffs her hair under her hideous man-wig and glues fuzz to her face. It’s the lightness in my step and the pleasantly full feeling in my chest and the way I was able to talk to my father on the phone for an entire hour last night without feeling like a disappointment to the Seyfried name.

  And it’s not like my father’s lovingly disapproving attitude toward my job or my apartment or the general state of my life has changed. My father is a sixty-five-year-old man who’s worked in finance since Reagan was president. He’s past the changing age and firmly set in his ways.

  Insanely, I’d thought the same thing about myself a few weeks ago—that my future was set.

  Variations on a theme—like getting blacklisted from the Barrington Beat if my exposé doesn’t hit the right notes, or smoky-eye articles giving way to hard-hitting coverage of another shadow trend—I could envision. But nothing like this.

  A complete reversal in course.

  A change of the heart.

  A revolution of the spirit.

  I am no longer a shower-avoidant, lair-dwelling, loner wordsmith. I’m a social creature who leaves my apartment every day, works hard at two jobs I’m enjoying the heck out of—finance on the clock and investigative journalism on the sly—and I’m dating the man of my dreams.

  Jack and I are dating. We haven’t said the words or slapped on labels, but the way he touches me, the way we laugh together, the way we can’t keep our hands off of each other no matter where we are or whether or not I’m wearing a fake mustache at the time—all signs point to a swiftly developing relationship.

  Maybe even a serious one.

  I mean… Christmas together in the Rockies? If that’s not boyfriend-girlfriend-level stuff right there, I don’t know what is. Since our “retreat” last week, we’ve been spending even more time together, stealing away to his apartment or mine after work, sneaking in flirty texts or calls, diving deeper into the waters of intimacy than I ever have before. Especially this early in a relationship.

  But I’m not scared. Or anxious. I’m just…happy.

  Jack makes me happy. I like who I am when I’m with him and who he is when he’s with me and how the world looks when his hand is in mine and the taste of him lingers on my lips.

  And yes, he also makes me seriously horny. Crazy horny. Legendary levels of epic horn-dossity.

  The thought inspires a full-body shiver I can’t suppress, even though I’m in an elevator full of suits headed back up to the office from lunch. Good—let them think I’m lacking the manliness to suppress displays of bodily weakness. I’m too filled with excitement (and yes, maybe a touch of terror) to care.

  As much as I want to dwell only on the positive, there are mountains left to climb before we run away to frolic in the Rockies.

  Sooner or later—like, before Christmas—Jack and I are going to have to give this thing a name, come out of the closet, and figure out what to tell my brother—who, there’s no doubt in my mind, is not going to be happy that Jack and I are hooking up.

  I’m almost ashamed of how happy I am, especially considering the fresh dirt I keep uncovering on S&H and how not great this company is going to come across in my article if I’m not careful. Which is a shame because there are so many good things happening here, too—great things—and dozens of amazing people doing their best to make responsible and creative financial choices for their clients.

  Yes, S&H has flaws and failings, but they’re the same flaws and failings so many companies struggle with. They’re all going to experience growing pains, and at least Ian and Jack are open to evolving.

  Eager to evolve, in fact.

  It’s what I keep repeating to myself when I get anxiety sweats while I’m pouring over the detailed database records. Jack and Ian want to know. They want to change.

  They want to stop things like the scene unfolding this morning in the far corner of the office.

  “Sorry isn’t good enough anymore, Ms. Rivera.” Will Pool, Lulu’s pompous, moldy human potato of an advisor, talks loud enough to ensure the people showering in the gym downstairs can hear him. “If you leave this office again without bringing in a doctor’s note for your deathly ill son, we’re going to have to let you go.”

  The stricken look on Lulu’s face is all the convincing I need to start across the room.

  “Please, Mr. Pool,” Lulu says in a much softer voice. “My son isn’t deathly ill. I told you sir, he—”

  “Then why do you keep leaving?” Will cuts in with a condescending sigh. “You say you can’t live without this job, and yet you keep making excuses to go home before your work is done.”

  “They’re not excuses, sir.” There are tears in Lulu’s eyes now, but I can tell she’s fighting them with everything in her. “It’s my son’s school. They have a zero-tolerance policy for—”

  “My tolerance is close to zero at this point, as well.” Will’s upper lip curls into a sneer. “If you leave today without that note, don’t bother returning.”

  “But… I have to pick up my son. He’s my child. I can’t just leave him.”

  “Of course not.” Will nods curtly, as if the matter is settled. “Go ahead and pack up your personal belongings. You’ll need to turn in your employee ID card before you leave. Your email and database access will be terminated immediately.”

  “Are you firing me?” Lulu’s voice is shaky, her shoulders sagging with the weight of this awful news.

  “Mr. Pool, why don’t we take this to a conference room for further discussion,” I suggest, coming to stand in front of Lulu, shielding her from some of the prying eyes watching this train wreck unfold. “Preferably with Mr. Holt involved. I’ve been talking with Lulu about her situation and I—”

  “And the last time I checked, Mr. Webb,” a sharp voice cuts in, “you’re neither Lulu’s supervisor nor a member of HR, so I’m not sure what your interest is here.”

  I turn to see Blair—the human splinter stabbing deep into the tender flesh of my otherwise copacetic new life—coming in fast from my right, inspiring in me the irrational urge to grab Lulu by the hand and make a break for it.

  But this kind of trouble isn’t something either of us can run from, so I roll my shoulders back and stand my ground.

  “No, I’m not part of HR,” I admit coolly. “But the Federal Family and Medical Leave Act entitles employees to up to twelve weeks of leave to take care of sick relatives without losing their jobs. Lulu’s son has food sensitivity issues that require Occupational Therapy, but due to the demands of her job, she hasn’t been able to get him to his appointments.”

  I glance at Lulu, who nods eagerly, seemingly emboldened by my presence. She’s not alone in this, and I refuse to let her or anyone else be bullied and intimidated.

  “Yes, Eric’s right,” Lulu says. “Like I said, Mr. Pool, he’s not deathly ill, but Matteo absolutely has a medical condition that needs treatment. That’s why I spoke to you a few months ago about working from home on Thursdays. If we could make that happen, I wouldn’t need to take leave at all. I could get Matteo to an extra therapy session every week, still get my work done while I’m home with him, and hopefully the problem would be resolved in a few months. I can already see improvement in Matteo’s eating, even with just the Saturday morning visit.”

  Mr. Pool lets out an unimpressed breath as his flat brown eyes shift Blair’s way. “Ms. Keneally, you’re the expert on federal policies, but when I was coming
up, employees were expected to balance work and family without costing the company money and inconveniencing their superiors.”

  “When you were coming up, women stayed home with the children so men could focus on their careers. Is that what you mean?” I ask, my voice every bit as sharp as Blair’s. “Because if it is, then I regret to inform you that the world has changed, and it is the responsibility of employers to—”

  “You’re out of line, Eric,” Blair cuts in, her pale face marked with blotches of red near her cheekbones. “Mr. Pool and I have discussed Lulu’s situation in great detail.”

  I bet you have. I think back to that call I overheard last week—Blair and Will talking about some kind of deal they’d made. It must’ve been about Lulu.

  My gut twists as I try to connect the dots.

  Blair continues. “Lulu’s repeated absences for alleged family issues is—”

  “What’s alleged?” I ask with a huff. “The school calls her to come collect Matteo because he’s been sick. That’s a verifiable fact.”

  “As I was trying to say,” Blair continues, surveying me with a smug disdain that’s even more infuriating than open hostility, “there are factors at play aside from Ms. Rivera’s absences. Factors her supervisor and I discussed at length before deciding on a strategy for handling this situation. Lulu’s termination is not up for discussion—particularly with you, Mr. Webb.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.” Lulu lifts her arms, palms to the ceiling with fingers spread wide. “What factors? I’ve never had a bad performance review and—”

  “We can discuss this in my office, Lulu,” Blair says. “I, for one, don’t believe in airing dirty laundry in public.”

  Then I really hope you’re not a Barrington Beat reader, because laundry day is coming, sweetheart…

  Blair steps back, motioning for Lulu to precede her.

  With one last mournful, but grateful, glance my way, Lulu hurries around the corner and down the hall. Mr. Pool grunts, staring down his nose at me as he thanks Blair for her professionalism—his tone clearly inferring that I am the foil to her competency and class—and then I’m alone with the ambassador for female-enforced misogyny.

  More than anything, I want to call Blair on her sins, name every law she’s bent or broken with her discriminatory hiring practices, point out all the legitimate employee concerns and complaints she’s dismissed or buried, and wipe that self-righteous expression from her face.

  Instead, I bite the insides of my cheeks and keep my mouth closed. I can’t tip my hand or give her the chance to cover her tracks, not until I’ve got all the evidence I need and am ready to run with this story.

  “Listen up, Eric, because I’m only going to say this once.” Blair steps closer, until only a few inches separate her pointy red pumps from my leather dress shoes. “Keep your focus where it belongs—on your work and your work only—and we won’t have any problems. Pull over into my lane again, however, and I won’t hesitate to run you off the road.”

  I hum in mock thoughtfulness. “Unless you’re asking me to do your work for you, right? The way you did on my first day in the office, when you thought I’d be an easy mark?”

  Blair’s blue eyes narrow into frosty slits. “You don’t want to start this with me, Webb. I’m not the kind of enemy you can afford to make. Between your whiplash-inducing fast-tracking and the gaps in your resume, I already have enough red flags to recommend a review of your work history. Keep pushing and I’ll put the review wheels in motion, and you can be damned sure I’ll find a dismissal-worthy offense.” Then, in a voice so low and menacing it makes me shiver, “One way or another, I always do.”

  I balk at the threat, rocking back on my heels. I haven’t been suffering from any delusions about Blair’s character, but I hadn’t considered she might falsify evidence to get rid of me.

  But she would—and evidently has in the past. There’s no way I’m misinterpreting those last words.

  For a moment, I’m too shocked to speak—reeling as I wonder how on earth this woman fooled Jack and Ian into thinking she was a decent human being.

  Blair takes advantage of my silence to drive her point home. “Stay out of my way, and keep your mouth shut about things that don’t concern you. Or you’ll regret it.”

  “No, you’ll regret it,” I say in a quietly hostile voice I barely recognize. “I won’t be bullied, Blair. And I won’t stop standing up for people you’re steamrolling for your own selfish reasons. Get your act together and start treating people with fairness and compassion or you’ll be the one sitting in a ditch, wondering how you managed to total your once promising career.”

  Her cheeks blanch before flushing redder than before. “Fine. We’ll play it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Before I can remind her this isn’t a game—people’s lives are hanging in the balance, and Lulu and her family will suffer needless hardship if Blair insists on going through with the firing—she spins on her heel and stomps away. I’m tempted to follow her and eavesdrop on her meeting with Lulu, but that’s not going to help the situation. I have to go over her head.

  But first I need to make sure I have all my ducks in a row.

  People like Blair may be meticulous on the outside when it comes to rules and record-keeping, and they’re experts at snowing just about everyone. But journalism has taught me one thing: no matter how good people are at covering their tracks, they always leave a paper trail. A fingerprint. Some shred of evidence ready to blow their cover wide open.

  More than sabotaging her female employees with unfair hiring practices, or falsifying reasons for termination, she’s up to something nefarious, and she’s going to great lengths to throw me off her scent. I can feel it in my bones.

  And I’m not going to stop until I expose her dirty secrets.

  Sitting down at my desk, I log out of my company email and wait for the blank login screen to appear.

  Seyfried & Holt employee emails may be monitored.

  The words are there in black and white, a reminder on the screen as well as on the waivers every single employee signs upon hiring. I doubt that waiver was put in place for emergency snooping situations like this one—and Jack would almost certainly forbid it—but desperate times call for desperate investigative measures.

  Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Especially if the forgiveness request is accompanied by solid evidence of employee corruption.

  I pop Blair’s email alias into the login screen. It takes nearly an hour and some trolling through Blair’s social media feed for inspiration, but I finally crack her password—KateSpadeAddict88—proving she’s not nearly as clever as she thinks she is.

  I’m in.

  At first glance, her inbox is relatively uninspiring, but then I click over to her trash and things get more interesting. Like, emails from someone at the Department of Justice kind of interesting…

  “What are you up to, Blair?” I murmur as I screenshot the email requesting a happy hour date be moved to a bar farther from the financial district, and go looking for more evidence.

  I don’t have anything solid yet, but I’ve always had a good reporter’s nose and right now it smells something foul.

  And where there’s stink, there’s story.

  Even before Lulu is escorted out of the office with a box full of her things and her purse hitched over her shoulder, I’m determined. After seeing her devastated face and the dejected slump of her shoulders, I’m devoted.

  Story or no story, I’m going to make this right.

  Chapter 17

  Jack

  Like Pavlov’s dog, I’ve come to expect the chime of a text notification at the end of a long day of work, and right on cue tonight, it hits.

  And right on cue I’m hard again, imagining all the filthy things I plan to do to my sweet, seductive sex kitten as soon as we’re off company property. Her every touch, every smile, every kiss makes the long days worth it. I don�
�t know how this will work after she wraps up her story and is no longer a fixture at S&H, but I have no doubt we will find a way.

  Like so many things in life, there are no guarantees. But for the first time in my life, I’ve found a risk my heart is willing to take.

  The chime dings again, and a smile spreads across my face as I glance down at my messages…

  My dick instantly shrivels.

  The messages aren’t from Ellie. They’re from Blair.

  We need to talk. It’s urgent. Followed by, I’m on my way over.

  Shit.

  I text a quick response—Already heading out for the night—but before I can tap send, I hear the clip-clop of her heels and then a sharp knock on the door.

  I briefly consider hiding under the desk, Ellie-style, but Blair’s already letting herself in.

  Schooling my features into something slightly less murderous, I nod a terse acknowledgment. “Make it quick, Blair. I have a dinner meeting with Eric, and I’m already running late.”

  In a small, watery voice that’s so unfamiliar I do a double take to check that it’s still my tough-as-nails hiring manager standing there, she says, “You may want to cancel that dinner.”

  “No can do.” I have no idea what’s going on here, but the last thing I’m interested in is wasting valuable putting-my-mouth-on-Ellie time by playing guess-what’s-bothering-me with Blair. “Eric and I need to wrap up our recommendations for the Dunn account by Monday morning, and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. So, if you don’t mind, I—”

  “Actually, Jack, I do mind.” She closes her eyes and presses her fingers to her lips. After another beat, she looks at me again and says, “Eric is the reason I’m here.”

  Oh, shit. Please don’t tell me she found Ellie snooping through the database…

  “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  “That’s an understatement.” Blair closes the door with a laugh that cuts off sharply as her face crumples. She looks a hot second away from bursting into tears.