Beware of the Boss

by Leah Ashton

  Lanie took a step backwards and promptly walked into a tall stainless steel bin. Some sensor contraption obediently flipped the lid open, and the unexpected movement made Lanie jump and bump her hip—hard—against the benchtop.

  ‘You okay?’ Gray asked.

  ‘Other than it being far too early in the morning for me to be co-ordinated?’ she replied, raising a pointed eyebrow.

  Nicely covered, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. The last thing she needed was another confusing beside-the-taxi or shirt-off moment.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all. He’d already walked off again, continuing his monologue.

  Lanie rubbed the small, rapidly forming bruise on her hip as Gray described how this section of the house was secured separately from the rest and about some nifty automatic heating and lighting system he’d had installed so that Luther would be comfortable. Plus there was a Luther-sized door to the landscaped pool and garden that Lanie could now just see in the very early rays of sun.

  At the end of his explanation, in front of a neat row of hooks hung with multi-coloured leads, Gray finished with a flourish, ‘So Luther is totally fine whenever I go away.’

  But Gray wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at Luther, who had stretched himself out, oblivious, at their feet.

  ‘You don’t sound all that convinced.’

  This whipped Gray’s attention back to her. ‘Of course I’m—’ he started. Then, suddenly he crouched down and rubbed the big dog’s head right behind his ears. He looked up to meet Lanie’s gaze. ‘No, you’re right. I hate leaving him behind. Leaving him here is better than boarding him, but not much.’ Another pause. ‘I’ll give you a list of walkers I’ve used before, and a couple to avoid—’

  ‘I’ll look after him,’ Lanie said. She’d assumed she would be, anyway. Another invisible line on her job description: Responsible for the care and walking of Mr Manning’s red setter as required.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Lanie nodded. ‘No problem. Although I’d rather take him home to my place, if that’s okay? Easier than coming here twice a day.’

  Gray smiled, again—a big, genuine smile—and Lanie found herself smiling back almost as hugely. It was impossible to do anything else in the presence of such high-wattage charm.

  But then his brow furrowed. ‘Do you have any experience with dogs?’

  His obvious worry for his pet was beyond endearing. Luther rolled onto his back, baring his pale golden tummy in a silent plea: scratches, please.

  ‘I grew up with a collection of my mother’s small, fluffy lapdog terrors—honestly, anything Luther throws at me will be child’s play. Besides,’ she said, dropping to her knees to administer the demanded tummy-rubs and directing her next comment to the dog, ‘Luther and I have an understanding—don’t we, mate? I am the thrower of the ball—but he owns it.’

  She grinned as she darted a glance at Gray.

  ‘That’s about right,’ he said. ‘He’ll also love you for ever if you walk him down at North Cottesloe beach. It’s his favourite.’

  ‘I know,’ Lanie said, slowing her hand’s movement down to a glacial pace.

  Gray’s brow had refurrowed and he looked at her quizzically, as if she’d just said something very odd. ‘How do you know?’

  Lanie blinked. Her hand had gone completely still, and Luther writhed about on the floor a bit, apparently hoping to somehow wring another pat from her listless touch.

  ‘Because I walk down at North Cottesloe beach. All the time.’

  ‘Really?’ Gray said. He was so close to her, kneeling by Luther’s head.

  He bumped his shoulder slightly with hers as he stood, and reached out to steady her. Instantly her skin went all tingly and warm.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, quite firmly. ‘I walk most mornings. I see you and Luther a lot. You wave.’

  At some point Lanie had stood too, and Gray dropped his hand from her upper arm.

  ‘Oh...’ Gray said, no longer in concerned-and-rather-adorable-dog-owner mode, but in vague-when-it-comes-to-everything-but-Manning mode. ‘To be honest the beach is kind of my time out. I don’t really pay attention to much at all.’

  No. Definitely no points for that total lack of an apology. She’d convinced herself it was okay that he’d never connected her to that original morning they’d met because he’d noticed her now. He made the effort to wave. It had felt friendly—like a form of camaraderie or something. As if they were a team.

  It was that guy on the beach with his dog that she reminded herself of when Gray was being particularly unreasonable, or autocratic, or pushy—or whatever other negative phrase she wanted to use to describe her boss.

  But it wasn’t even real.

  Lanie was silent as Gray handed her a dog lead. He was saying something about how he’d go and grab Luther’s bed, and bowls and food to put in her car.

  She watched his retreating back. He was in casual clothing for his flight—a faded old T-shirt, jeans that rode low on his hips. His shoulders were broad, and he had the type of strong, muscled legs that could never wear the currently fashionable, hipster skinny-guy jeans.

  He was gorgeous and perfect—the type of guy that you didn’t forget.

  But the girl he worked with eight hours a day was evidently not worth noticing even when he looked directly at her and waved.

  Gray had made her feel invisible that first day at the beach and ever since.

  And Lanie Smith was not going to let that happen again.

  FIVE

  A makeover was not particularly original, Lanie knew. And Teagan had insisted it wasn’t necessary—but she was just being kind.

  Lanie did know—in an absent, better-get-round-to-it-at-some-point way—that she needed a haircut. And that the few suits she owned were nearly five years out of fashion and better suited to her at her race weight—not with the extra five odd kilos she was carrying now. And that it probably wouldn’t hurt to slap on some make-up each morning. There was no chlorine fog to make her eyes water and her mascara run at Manning, after all.

  So—a makeover it was.

  Lanie twisted to slide the skirt’s zip closed, then fussed for a few moments, tucking and plucking at the cream silk blouse.

  She smoothed her hands down the fine wool fabric of the skirt, enjoying how it felt against her palms. The price tag dangled just above her hip, and she traced the sharp edges of the thick card with her fingers.

  It was silly to delay the inevitable, but she wanted to enjoy how the clothes felt for as long as possible. Right now, before she turned to face the mirror, she could pretend she looked as good in this outfit as the mannequin also wearing it on the shop floor.

  She wouldn’t say she hated to shop—not exactly. She appreciated beautiful clothing, and was regularly tempted to try on the clothes displayed in shop windows—although she rarely did.

  Like Gray, she had a tendency to shop in bulk—but unlike Gray she didn’t do it in the name of efficiency. It was more that clothes and Lanie just didn’t get along.

  The way she imagined she’d look when she first saw the dress, or top or jacket on the rack and the way she actually looked never quite matched.

  But this part she liked. Before she turned to face the mirror. The possibility that this outfit might look as amazing as she’d hoped.

  ‘Come on, Lanie!’ Teagan knocked on the change-room door impatiently. ‘How does it look?’

  Lanie shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. She was being ridiculous. Melodramatic. ‘Just a sec.’

  She spun around.

  She looked...not bad.

  Intellectually, she knew that.

  The slim cut skirt helped emphasise what waist she had, and the delicate embroidery around the V neckline helped draw a
ttention away from her broad shoulders. She stood up on her tiptoes to mimic heels and noted that her legs looked good—long and athletic.

  Which, of course, was the thing. No matter the clothes or the shoes she was still tall, still strong and still slightly awkward. That was how people described her: athletic. Not elegant, or beautiful. And definitely not willowy—a descriptor regularly associated with Sienna.

  But I’m lucky to be so tall, to have such strong shoulders. It’s why I swim so fast...

  She flung the door open, striking a pose. ‘What do you think?’

  Teagan clapped her hands together. ‘Fabulous!’

  It took a huge effort not to raise a sceptical eyebrow, but she managed. Teagan would only argue with her, anyway.

  Her friend had a small mountain of clothes in her arms and she shoved them in Lanie’s direction. ‘Here—try these.’

  ‘You know,’ Teagan said through the door when Lanie was back in the change-room, ‘it seems a shame to waste all these outfits just on Grayson Manning.’

  ‘They’re not really for Gray,’ Lanie said carefully. She absently assessed the charcoal-coloured shift dress she wore—not good: it made what shape she had disappear entirely—before meeting her own gaze in the mirror. This and her upcoming visit to a hairdresser and beautician wasn’t about looking good for Gray. It was about her not feeling invisible any more.

  Teagan made a dismissive noise. ‘Whatever. You look hot. You should come out with me one night.’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘And you can’t use the early-morning training excuse any more.’

  ‘It wasn’t an excuse,’ Lanie corrected gently. ‘It was a fact. I was training to make the Australian team—not the local swimming carnival.’

  ‘But you’re not training now,’ Teagan said—not unkindly, but with some emphasis. ‘And you definitely need to start dating men who aren’t swimmers.’

  Lanie grinned at Teagan’s tone as she tugged the dress off over her head. ‘You make it sound like they have gills or something.’

  ‘It’s all that waxing they do,’ Teagan said, and Lanie could just imagine her friend’s look of distaste. ‘It’s not natural.’

  Lanie laughed out loud. ‘Fair point.’

  She grabbed the next piece of clothing from the hook—another dress, this one in shades of chocolate, with a peplum detail at the waist.

  ‘Although,’ Teagan continued, ‘I reckon I’d be happy if you dated anyone. It’s been far too long. It can’t be good for you.’

  Lanie laughed again, but it was a touch more forced.

  ‘What? A date a month keeps the doctor away or something?’

  She stepped into the dress and tugged it upwards a little roughly.

  Teagan snorted. ‘Honey—a month? That would be awesome. But I reckon we’re talking a year since that guy...what was his name?’

  ‘Dominic. And it’s not been a year.’

  Although as she contorted herself inelegantly in front of the mirror to do up the back zip, Lanie did the calculations. Teagan was right—it had been a year. Fourteen months, actually.

  And it had hardly been some amazing love affair. A guy she’d met at the swim centre. A good handful of dates over a month or so. He’d stayed over a night or two—but then she’d ended it.

  She’d wanted to focus on her swimming—in fact she’d needed to. She’d known how hard she’d have to work to make the team and she hadn’t been able to afford any distractions. Especially the distraction of a relationship in which she felt they were simply going through the motions.

  Swimming had come first. Always.

  Dress finally on, she pushed open the door to show Teagan.

  ‘Oh, this is definitely my favourite!’ her friend gushed.

  Lanie turned this way and that in front of the mirrors that lined the wall across from the change room. She still looked like a tall, slightly gawky Amazon—but the dress worked her curves for all they were worth. ‘It’s nice...’

  Teagan rolled her eyes. ‘You’re a lost cause, Lanie-girl,’ she said. Stepping forward, she reached out to grab her hand. ‘But I meant it before—you need to get out more. You’ve worked so hard for so long, you deserve to have some fun.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ she said, and ignored Teagan’s raised eyebrow. ‘But for now I’m focussing on exorcising Ms Invisible, okay?’

  * * *

  Gray kept staring at their hands.

  One was young, pale and perfect. Tipped with subtle pink polish, the fingers were laced through her husband’s much larger, much older fingers. His nails were cut short and straight across in a neat contrast to the skin of his hands, which looked slightly oversized and baggy, scattered with the occasional sunspot—gained golfing, Gray could only presume, as his father hadn’t exactly spent his working days outside.

  Their hands lay linked on the crisp white tablecloth, between the fine china and sparkling cutlery of the table settings.

  Tasha laughed musically at something Gordon had said, staring up at him with adoration. Gordon smiled back—a familiar smile. Loving and equally adoring.

  Gray had seen it all before.

  He looked back at their hands. Somehow it was their hands that surprised him.

  He shouldn’t be surprised. Tasha was wife number seven.

  Yes, seven.

  He’d been here before—to dinners just like this one, organised by the eager new wife, keen to establish a relationship between herself and her new ‘son’. Not that any in the past twenty years had been stupid enough to refer to him in that way.

  He knew this dinner—knew the infatuated smiles, knew he’d drive home tonight and wonder where exactly his father would buy this latest wife’s new home when they inevitably divorced. He might even wonder whether his dad ever worried that his ex-wives would bump into each other at the local, ritzy, over-priced organic grocery store.

  Gray knew the answer to that: no. His father had perfected the art of the amicable divorce. A multi-million-dollar home as a parting gift possibly expedited that goal.

  Yet tonight he was surprised.

  Because tonight his dad looked old.

  Not just older-than-his-new-wife old—he’d been that for the past three wives, quite spectacularly—but just plain old, old.

  He looked like a man with a thirty-five-year-old son who’d had said son when pushing forty himself. He looked retired. He looked like a smartly dressed, smartly groomed old guy.

  Gray’s eyes were drawn back to their hands again. Tasha was rubbing her thumb back and forth along his dad’s knuckles.

  It should have looked loving and sweet. Maybe it did.

  To Gray, it looked obscene.

  With a glance and a nod in Tasha’s direction he excused himself from the table. He wouldn’t leave—he’d done that once before, years ago, and the wife of that moment had been devastated. It had not been worth the subsequent months of that wife trying far too hard—and his father being angry with him.

  He couldn’t even remember why he’d walked out that time. This time he just needed space, some fresh air. His dad’s place was a penthouse at the opposite end of the terrace to the Manning offices. The balcony was huge, but mostly empty, with moonlight reflecting off the panes of the bifold doors and something sparkly mixed into the pavers.

  Gray walked to the railing, wrapping his fingers around the smooth, cool metal, and stared out, unseeing, to the spectacular Swan River. On the other side of the water streetlights edged the South Perth foreshore, and to his right headlights glowed as they crossed the Narrows Bridge in a steady stream.

  ‘What was that about?’

  His father’s voice was gruff, but not angry, behind him.

  Gray turned slowly and shrugged. ‘I’m tired.’

  He’d f
lown in from Singapore only hours before. His meetings hadn’t gone as well as he’d expected. He’d hoped he’d be flying home with a signed contract. He wasn’t.

  Was he different without the reassurance of his father in the background? He didn’t really believe that. He’d never needed his dad to hold his hand.

  Next week he’d fly out again, this time to Vietnam: a new resort on China Beach and a tour for potential investors of the villas already built. He was determined to be on his game. To be the Grayson Manning he’d been the rest of his career.

  ‘What do you think?’ his dad asked.

  It took Gray a moment or two to work out what his dad meant.

  Oh, Tasha. He shrugged again. ‘She seems nice.’

  He’d never met her before. His dad didn’t have elaborate weddings any more—he did Las Vegas, or Bali or—as this time—Fiji. He didn’t even bother telling his son about it.

  Not that Gray telling his dad what he really thought would have made any difference.

  Why are you doing it, Dad? What’s the point?

  He knew the answer to that question, too: Why not? I love her.

  Right.

  And that theory had worked so well the previous six times.

  For a brilliant businessman, renowned for his hard bargaining and measured decisions, Gordon Manning’s approach to his love-life made absolutely no sense.

  It went against everything Gray had been taught. He modelled his business manner on his father’s—the way he never let emotion cloud his decisions. The way he always took the time to fully understand or analyse everything. His steely, unflappable nature in the boardroom. And yet Gordon had retired and walked out of that boardroom and—it would seem—straight into the arms of sales assistant Tasha. Three months later they were married.

  Gray shouldn’t be surprised.

  But he was disappointed.

  This obsession with the idea of love—and not just any love, but insta-love—and his bizarrely unwavering faith in the idea of marriage despite all evidence to the contrary, was his dad’s quirk.