by Cat Carmine
That voice.
It sends shivers down my spine. I stand up quickly, embarrassed about being caught off guard, and I almost bang my head against the filing cabinet. I spin around quickly and almost turn over on my heel.
Off to another great start.
Mr. Godrich is standing on the other side of my desk. He glances at the tulips and then again at me. A slight recognition seems to dawn in his eyes. “Oh, it’s you.”
To my disappointment, he doesn’t sound thrilled to see me.
“Claire. Claire Hearst. Your new secretary,” I add, in case that part isn’t obvious from the fact that I’m standing behind the secretary’s desk, rummaging through the secretary’s filing cabinets.
His expression doesn’t change. “Right,” he says. “I hope you’re better than the other ones.”
“I hope so too,” I say earnestly.
He cracks a small smile. Well, he cracks what would be considered a small smile for normal people. On Mr. Godrich, I’m pretty sure it’s the equivalent of a full-on belly laugh. The man is nothing if not stone faced.
He stands there for a minute, watching me. I don’t really know what else to do so I go back to filing. Finally, he turns and goes into his office.
“I would like some coffee,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir,” I answer automatically, just before his door closes.
Shit. What kind of coffee does he take? Is there coffee here at the office or I’m supposed to go out? And if I go out, where do I go? Starbucks? Something fancier? Does he drink espresso or drip coffee?
Oh God, I don’t want to fuck this up. I grab my purse and hurry out towards the elevators. I’m hoping to ask the receptionist for the inside scoop but she’s nowhere to be seen.
An idea occurs to me. I run back to the office and go through the filing cabinet. Grant had said all the expense receipts got put in here. I flip through the file folders until I find one crammed haphazardly full of receipts and start rifling through them.
Bingo! There are dozens of receipts for Aroma Coffee. Always the same order — medium cappuccino and a blueberry oatbran muffin. The address on the receipt puts it two blocks south of here.
I race over there as fast as I can, fully aware that Mr. Godrich is not going to be very patient. I order his coffee and muffin and grab a couple of sugar and sweetener packets on my way out, just in case. I get myself a moccaccino and a ginger cookie too because, well, I could use the pick-me-up.
When I’m back in the office, I knock lightly on his door.
“What?” he barks.
I take that to mean come in, so I ease the door open. He glares at me from behind the desk, as if I’ve interrupted him from something terribly important.
I set his coffee down on his desk and he grunts. I tell myself that means thank you.
He takes a sip and grimaces. “You forgot the sugar. That’s very bad, Claire.”
I flush at his words, but I reach into my coat pocket and throw the sugar packets and a stir stick down on his desk. He looks bemused.
“Alright. Very good. Next time please put it in the coffee though.”
I stand there, wondering if I’m supposed to wait to be dismissed. He sets about stirring a single packet of raw sugar into his coffee and he doesn’t seem to be paying me any more attention, so I start to walk out.
Just before I reach the door, I remember the muffin.
“Oh, here you go,” I say, dropping it on his desk in front of him.
He peeks into the bag. He hesitates for a second, then looks up at me.
“You did very good, Claire.”
I can’t help but flush at his praise, even if it’s for something as stupid as getting his coffee order right. I’m embarrassed to admit that his words are like honey to me, coating my whole body in their liquid warmth.
“Thank you, sir,” I whisper, and then scurry out.
5
Claire
After a couple of weeks, I start to ease into my new role. Working for Mr. Godrich is stressful, but it’s not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I feel like I’m mostly starting to get the hang of things. I manage his calls — which primarily means not putting any of them through to him — and handle his calendar. I’ve also gone through several months of neglected filing.
And I can’t deny that the bump in pay has been glorious. For the first time in months, I’m actually caught up on everything I owe to April and Vanessa. I no longer have to slink around my apartment like a criminal. Amazing what a difference that’s made to my home life.
I stare at the screen and remind myself of that generous paycheck as I try to figure out what’s going wrong with this stupid mail merge I have to do. Every time I try to sort it, it loses half the information, and it’s five thousand names long so sorting it manually isn’t an option.
I rub my eyes and try to Google a solution but I’m distracted by the ping of my instant messenger.
> Coffee.
That’s it. That’s all I get. When Mr. Godrich wants something, he usually doesn’t even bother talking to me. I get a one word instant message.
“Please,” I mutter to myself, rolling my eyes as I slip on my coat. Would it kill the man to say please? Actually, it might. He doesn’t seem like the type to beg.
He seems like the type to expect the begging to come for others.
A little shiver runs up my spine, and I pull my coat tighter. I’ve barely seen him over these past two weeks, since he stays holed up in his office most of the time. Unfortunately that hasn’t done anything to dampen my completely inappropriate feelings for him.
At Aroma I get him his usual cappuccino with one sugar, and a moccaccino and ginger cookie for myself. Hey, it’s on the company card. I deserve a little sugar.
I head back to the office and then knock gently on his door.
“Yes?” he says, sounding bothered, even though I’m bringing him the coffee he asked for.
I plaster on my best smile anyway and nudge the door open.
“Your coffee, sir.”
He grunts and doesn’t look up.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath as I turn to go.
“Excuse me?”
I freeze. Shit. I obviously hadn’t meant for him to hear that.
“Nothing, sir.”
He doesn’t say anything else. His eyes don’t even leave his computer screen. I wait for a moment but he seems to have forgotten all about me so I turn to leave.
“That’s one, Claire.”
I turn back. “One what?”
He finally looks up. His eyes lock onto mine.
“One warning. You won’t get another.”
His gaze burns into me, scorching every part of my body and leaving me feeling more exposed than if I was standing here naked. I could swear sparks are flying back and forth between us but I seem to be the only one reacting. Mr. Godrich is as stone-faced as ever.
After another few seconds of this he looks back at his computer screen. A rush of breath goes out of me.
“You may go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Just like that. Dismissed.
Back at my desk I try to go back to my mail merge, but my mind is elsewhere.
The hardest part of this job so far — well, other than this damn mail merge that’s giving me grey hairs — is Mr. Godrich himself. Those smouldering eyes, the way he barks orders at me — it makes it hard to concentrate on doing my job. He takes very few meetings here and most of the staff know not to bother him, so it’s usually just the two of us in here. He keeps the door to his office closed a lot, but even through the closed door it’s almost like I can feel him, radiating heat and masculine energy.
It’s highly distracting.
He hasn’t tried to do anything untoward with me — no strange rules, no sexual overtures, nothing like what I read about online.
There is a part of me — a teeny, tiny, minuscule part of me — that can’t help but be somewhat disappoin
ted. That part of me wonders if maybe I just don’t turn him on the way those other women did. Maybe that’s why he hired me in the first place. Maybe he doesn’t want me coming in with no panties on.
I mean, not that I would if he asked. Just hypothetically speaking.
I can’t deal with this mail merge anymore, so I decide to do some mind-numbing filing for awhile. The half-assed filing system that was in place when I got here is no longer working, so I’ve started the long and tedious process of recategorizing everything. Soon I have file folders spread out all across my desk. I try to start sorting, but I keep forgetting which pile is which. I realize post-it notes would make this job much easier, but my desk is low on office supplies.
I hesitate for a second but then go and knock on Mr. Godrich’s door. He doesn’t answer so I knock again and finally hear a beleaguered “Yes?”
I look in on him. He’s sitting behind his desk and rubbing at his eyes, a gesture that, for a second, makes him look more like a little boy than a CEO.
“What?” he says, looking up at me.
“I need office supplies.”
“Like what?”
“Post-it notes. Highlighters. File folders.”
He stares blankly at me and I wonder if any of these words have any meaning for him.
“You know, post-it notes? Those little sticky papers that you can write notes on?”
He rolls his eyes. “Claire, I understand what a post-it note is. Actually…” He rummages around his desk for a minute and then pulls out a sad limp half-stack of post-its. “Here!” He looks strangely proud.
I frown. “They’re the yellow ones.”
“Of course they’re the yellow ones. Is that a problem?”
“Well, they’re basically the same color as the file folders. So it makes them hard to see.”
“I see. So you would prefer…?”
“The bright green ones. They’re my favorites.”
His mouth twitches into something almost like a smile. “I wasn’t aware one could have a favorite post-it.”
I blush as it dawns on me how stupid I sound to be standing here, talking about post-it colors with a man whose time is probably worth a thousand dollars a second or something.
“Can I just put some things on the company card?” I ask, wanting to get out of his office as quickly as possible now.
He looks surprised. “Of course. Claire, that card is yours. You don’t need to ask my permission. I trust you to know what you need to do your job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I go back out to my desk and pull up the website of the office supply company. I go on the shopping spree of my organization-loving dreams, adding to my cart highlighters of every color, bright yellow in-and-out trays to put on my desk, a dozen purple pens, a mint green pen holder, and of course, lots and lots of bright green post-it notes.
Okay, so maybe working here isn’t so bad after all.
With a twinge of guilt I think of Kelly and my other colleagues from Prescott & Bailey who were let go. I feel guilty for enjoying my work here, especially when it was because of Mr. Godrich that they lost their jobs. And at the same time, I feel guilty for not being appreciative of my job, when I know most of them would probably kill to be in my position.
So, basically, guilt layered on top of guilt. A great feeling.
I open up my personal email and shoot an email off to Kelly, telling her I hope she’s doing well and that I’d love to get together with her for coffee sometime. It doesn’t completely assuage my guilt, but it helps a little.
6
Claire
On the weekend, I do everything to keep busy. I scrub the apartment from top to bottom, do nine loads of laundry, and make enough soup to live on for a month. I even go out for a drink with Vanessa and April, a first for us. Funny how it’s easier to be friends with someone once you’re not in debt to them.
When I find myself on my hands and knees, voluntarily scrubbing the bathtub, I realize something’s going on.
I’m trying to distract myself.
Despite my best efforts, William Godrich is invading my thoughts, even when I’m not on company time.
And every time I finally find myself free of thoughts of him, something will bring him back to mind. The smell of Vanessa’s fresh-brewed coffee. An ad for Rolex in a magazine I’m flipping through. A man in the grocery store who looks just like him from the back (and disturbingly like my high school chemistry teacher from the front, but that’s neither here nor there.)
It all does nothing to help my crush, and I’m forced to admit that, despite my best efforts, I’ve got it bad. I can’t explain it. The arrogant smirk. The eyes that bore into you. The ripped body that I just know is hiding under that suit. The big throbbing … oh, my mind goes to some very dirty places.
And I can’t help but wonder why he still hasn’t done anything even remotely like hitting on me. Not even a bit of flirting, really.
By the time Monday rolls around I’m so frustrated and on edge and, yes, horny, that I abandon my usual black work suit and pull on a red wrap dress that I know shows off my chest in a borderline-inappropriate way. The dress is basically okay for an office — I mean, it’s not like I’m going in there in a cheerleading costume — but at the same time, I know I’m only wearing it because I want Mr. Godrich to take notice of me.
And that seems like dangerous territory.
But still I do it.
Because the dress is such a soft fabric, I have to wear a thong underneath, or risk obscene panty lines. And of course, the only clean thong I can find is a black lacy number that I bought for a promising third date last year — a date that had gone nowhere, I might add.
The thong does nothing to whet my sexual appetite though. The whole commute in, I can feel that thin string riding me. It’s pure torture, of the most exquisite kind.
Mr. Godrich isn’t in yet when I arrive, but that’s nothing new, since he doesn’t normally arrive until ten or so. I sit behind my desk and start to get myself ready for the day ahead, but I’m too distracted by the heat radiating between my legs. Oh God, why did I have to go and wear this stupid thong?
I squirm in my seat but that does nothing to help with my excitement. If I could just quickly take care of business, I know I would be fine but I can’t do that at work. At least not again… not after what happened last time.
Yet the more I try to forget about the sizzling fire between my legs, the more it seems to burn me. To call to me.
I have to take the thong off.
I shock myself a little with the idea but suddenly the thought of that comfort is all I can think of. No riding, no twisting, no rubbing. The dress isn’t sheer in the least so there’s no way anyone would be able to tell, and I’d actually be able to concentrate on my work instead of squirming in my seat all day.
I get up and close the main door to our area, the one that separates my cubicle area from the rest of the hallway. With the door closed, there’s no chance of anyone seeing me. Even if Mr. Godrich happens to come in, I’ll hear him turning the door knob and be able to adjust myself in time.
I quickly hitch up the skirt of my dress and slide my panties down, stuffing them into my purse. Oh God, that feels better already.
Of course, now the air against my bare pussy is something else to distract me. I can’t win today.
I slip back into my leather chair and try to concentrate on my work, but all I can think about is how naked I am under this dress. And then I think about Mr. Godrich, and the secretary who claimed he wouldn’t let her wear panties to work. I wonder what he would say if knew what I was wearing right now.
I imagine him lifting up my skirt and finding me bare. I imagine him laying my back over his desk and putting his tongue all over me. Putting his hands on me. Putting his dick…
I’m in the middle of my fantasy when I hear the doorknob start to turn.
I spin around to face the door and plaster a pained smile on my face just as Mr. Godrich
walks in.
“Good morning, sir,” I force out. The words come out in a slightly high-pitched squeak.
Mr. Godrich stares at me for a long time. I can tell that my face is beet red.
He looks around the room, as if he’s aware that something is slightly off. He sniffs the air once, twice, then walks straight into his office.
Does he know? Can he tell?
Surely not.
Right?
This is the second time he’s caught me in an awkward position. In all my twenty-three years of living, I’ve never done so many inappropriate things. A month ago, I would have been completely appalled at the thought of going commando at work and yet here I was. There was something about my new boss that just seemed to make me want to do all kinds of things I never would have done before.
I have to get it together. I take a few deep breaths and force myself to get back to work. Maybe it’s the guilt but I actually get a good chunk of work done.
After an hour or so, Mr. Godrich’s door opens.
“Claire, could you please come in here?”
My heart skips a beat. He’s never come out of his office to summon me before. Normally if he needs something, he just instant messages me.
I have a bad feeling about this.
When I go into his office, he doesn’t smile. Of course, that in and of itself isn’t cause for concern, since he very rarely ever smiles. But there’s something about the expression on his face that sends fear coursing through my body.
He gestures to the seat across from his and I sit down, careful to keep my legs crossed. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m sitting in my boss’s office with no panties on. Ack.
“Claire, do you care to explain this?”
He turns his monitor towards me. I try to figure out what I’m seeing on the screen, until I realize it’s me. Me, sitting at my desk. Me standing up, hitching up my skirt. Me, sliding my panties off. From the angle of the camera, my sex is completely exposed as I’m bent over.
For the second time today, my body goes beet red with shame. I hang my head. I can’t even look at him. I’m so going to be fired.