The Boss Crush

by Penny Wylder

  “What are you wearing?”

  “A dress, obviously,” I say with a giggle. “It's green, strapless—”

  “No,” she says, cutting me off. “I don't want to hear about it, I want to see it. Send me a pic.”

  “Kira, no, I'm practically inside already. I'm not going to stop and take a picture of myself.”

  “Come on, Dalia. How can I tell you how you look, if I don't see it for myself? Take a quick one, it doesn't have to be perfect.” I hear her pop the cap on a champagne bottle, and the fizzle as it explodes out the top.

  “What are you doing? Is that champagne? Are you celebrating something?” I ask.

  “I might have just landed the head nursing position at Regency.”

  “Oh my God, Kira, when did this happen?”

  “Earlier today.”

  “Congratulations!” I yell, causing the other people walking past me on the sidewalk to whip around and stare at me like I'm crazy. Lowering my voice, I keep talking. “I'm so happy for you.”

  “Thank you, I'm excited. I worked really hard to get here, and it finally paid off. But we can talk about me later. Right now, I want to see the dress you picked.”

  “All right, fine, one sec.” Taking a second to look around, there are people everywhere. I groan quietly to myself, wishing the street was empty. But that's never going to happen, this is New York, the city that never sleeps. Holding out the phone, I click the camera button, and snap a quick picture. Hitting send, I ask, “Did you get it?”

  “Yup, got it. You look freaking amazing. Seriously, good choice.” She pauses, and I hear the smile in her voice as she asks, “So. . . Have you thought about any baby names yet?”

  “No, not yet. I haven't really had the chance to talk to Lyle about it. I kind of promised his sister I'd give him some space so he could focus here.”

  “You what?” She lets out a loud grunt, and I can hear her grind her teeth. “Why the hell would you tell her that?”

  I can't tell her the truth. I don't want to get into it right now. “I don't know, she said he's been distracted, and I thought—”

  “No, you don't take orders from her. She might be your boss, but that doesn't mean she can rule your entire life. You do what you want. He's the father of that baby, you two have a lot to figure out.”

  Kira says it with such conviction that I know she's right. I know it, but I still feel like I don't really have any control over this situation.

  I can hear the music, the soft violin and deep cello swirl together, making its way down to the street. Looking up, there's a figure in one of the windows.

  Broad shoulders, striking jaw line, thick arms, and a powerful stance. I can't see a clear face, but I don't need to. There's no doubt in my mind who it is.

  His silhouette is unmistakable, just like his touch is unforgettable.

  I can feel him as he watches me cross the street and walk to the front entrance. His eyes are on me the entire time, every step of the way.

  “Kira, I got to go. I'll text you later.” Hanging up the phone, I run my hands down the front of my dress and take a big breath.

  It's fine. We'll be professional. This is work.

  I've been doing my best to give Lyle space, to let him get control of the stuff here, and not overwhelm him with any baby talk. We'll get there, he just needs a couple weeks, and then things will settle down.

  At least that's what Sandy promised. She said it's busy season, and Lyle will be all mine very soon. But until then, his head needs to be on business, not on me.

  And she threatened your career, so there's that too. . .

  Pushing away any nerves I feel, I walk into the room like I own it myself. The clients I've been working with are all happy, drinking and laughing. And I laugh with them, doing my best to not seem distracted by Lyle and this pregnancy.

  I want them all to think that they're on the top of my list, that their projects are all I think about. It's how I make them feel special, something I don't think this company is very good at.

  I bet it's been the issue all along. That's the reason most of their clients are one and done.

  I catch Lyle out of the corner of my eye, he's still watching me. Nothing's changed at all with him. His eyes fuck me where I stand, and my body ignites, getting wet when I don't want it to.

  My client James cracks a joke, so I pretend to find it funny, doing what I can to ignore Lyle completely.

  But it's hard to ignore a man that looks so good. Wearing a jet black suit that looks like it was made for his body. It captures every essence that makes him a man. The way it holds his muscles, trapping them like a rogue shark in a net. They bulge and throb, thickening with every movement, threatening to split the threads.

  Lyle is power.

  He is dominance.

  He is perfection.

  The skin on his face is smooth, there's no hint of a five o'clock shadow. There's a sheen of aftershave glistening as the lights hit his flesh. My thighs clench, ready and eager to feel just how smooth his face is.

  His eyes are crisp, clear, and vivid. Staring directly into my soul as he smiles and taps his glass against another gentleman’s I've seen around the office. His smile isn't directed at the man, it's directed at me.

  Stalking across the room, he starts to move in my direction. He walks with strength, his legs long and firm. The people in the room split as he moves through, giving him clear passage as if they don't have the right to stand in front of him.

  It's intimidating and incredible to watch. You can actually feel the energy.

  He stops in front of me, his eyes licking up and down my body. “You look amazing, Dalia,” he says, tilting his head as his eyes gleam.

  “Thanks,” I say, bashfully looking away. “You don't look so bad yourself.”

  “I'm going to take that as a compliment.” He tips his glass in my direction and throws back the rest of his drink. Hissing as the scotch burns the back of his throat, he sets his glass down on a passing waiter's tray and snatches up a flute of champagne. “It's a night for celebrating.”

  “That's why we're all here, right? For you and Sandy to celebrate?” Holding up my glass of water, I smile. “This is a big night for you guys.”

  “This isn't just for Sandy and me.” His lips crinkle as his lids lower, and he leans in really close, almost resting his lips on my ear. “This is all for you.” His cologne swirls up, and I inhale his scent, making as much room as possible for it to fill my lungs.

  Holy shit he smells fucking incredible.

  Pulling my face away, I force my body to let go of his cologne and inhale clean air. I need to think straight, I can't let him take over all my senses.

  Flicking my eyes between his, I take a small step back. And he notices. He doesn't say anything, but I see the question on his face.

  “Me? Why me?” I ask, tapping my fingers against the outside of my glass. The surface is cold, droplets of condensation slip effortlessly, chilling my hand.

  I notice the coolness of the water because my skin is so damn hot. I'm on fire already and he hasn't even tried to touch me yet.

  “Because you deserve to be recognized.” Lyle looks out into the room, fanning his arm from wall to wall. “All of this is for you, it's to celebrate you, and everything you bring to this place.”

  Shaking my head, I swallow hard, and rest my hand against my throat. The lump in my throat goes down slow, making my jaw push out to give it more room. “No,” I say with a hiccup of air. “I didn't do anything. I just did my job, that's what you guys hired me for.”

  His eyes follow the muscles of my neck as I swallow, moving over my chest and back to my face. I catch the little twinkle as it bursts in his eye, and I know exactly where his head is going.

  Biting down on his bottom lip, he smirks. He's been caught, and he likes it. He drops his eyes, and licks his lips.

  “And you did your job beautifully.” Lyle's eyes penetrate me. “It's almost like you were meant to be here, like we w
ere meant to find each other again.”

  An intense burning strikes me down, and as I look just over Lyle's shoulder, I see Sandy giving me the Devil's stare.

  Too close. We're too close right now.

  “Excuse me,” I say, my heart racing inside my chest, and my stomach filling with a million butterflies for two different reasons.

  I love the way he's flirting with me, and I hate the way she's glaring at me. It's like she knows when we're together, as if it's her sixth sense.

  Turning, I scurry to the bathroom, leaving Lyle to wonder if he's frightened me off or if I'm just freshening up for him.

  The door shuts behind me, and I walk to the sink, gripping the white porcelain as I hang my head. Sandy is holding my career in her hands; she can end it or make it explode in ways I could never dream of.

  Out of nowhere, the door flings open, slamming against the wall. Sandy takes long, angry steps inside, her eyes black, and set on me.

  “You lying fucking whore,” she barks through clenched teeth.

  Peering at her through the mirror, I furrow my brows. “What did you just call me?” Spinning on my heels, I turn to face her.

  “You said you'd stay away from him, you promised me. But it looks like you just lie through your teeth to get what you want. So,” she says, pausing for a second as she smirks lightly, “you're a lying fucking whore. Looks like it's just as easy for you to lie on your back as it is for you to lie through your teeth.”

  “He came up to talk to me. What did you want me to do? Just walk away? I am carrying his baby, or did you forget that?”

  Sandy's jaw snaps to the side as she throws her finger up in my face. “Do you know who you're fucking with? Do you realize what I can do to you?” She takes a firm step in, thinning her mouth. “I'll get you blacklisted from every agency, do you understand that? When I'm done with you, no one will want what's left.”

  Our eyes are set on each other, and I catch hers as they glisten with hate and jealousy. I don't understand her. Why does she hate me so much?

  “How come you’re like this? How can you be so cruel?”

  Sandy smirks, tipping her head. “Now or in high school?” The way she says it sends a chill up my spine.

  I always had my suspicions, but hearing her actually ask me, is confirmation.

  “I knew it was you,” I say, my voice thick and harsh. “Why would you do that? What was the point?”

  I don't know why I ever doubted my gut to begin with. She's a vindictive and jealous person.

  “What was the point?” she asks as she laughs out loud. Sandy folds her arms across her chest proudly. She enjoys hurting people, and now she's displaying it like a badge of honor. “The point was to get what I wanted. I took the pictures out of your portfolio, I left you with blank pages, and I got what you went there for.” Her eyes move all around us as she holds out her arms with her palms facing the ceiling.

  She wants me to look. She wants me to know what my hard work got her.

  And now I hate her even more.

  Sandy sees the anger as it turns my cheeks fire red. It fuels her, she can't get enough of it. So, she keeps talking, watching me, studying me, drinking up the emotions she's pulling out of me.

  “They all loved my art skills,” she says with a dramatic wink. “And when you came stumbling in looking like a barely legal hussy, with an empty folder, it was great. A classic bimbo moment everyone I'm sure still remembers.”

  Tears start to fill my eyes, and I'm struggling to keep my breathing steady.

  Sandy pouts her bottom lip, pretending like she gives a shit. But she doesn't really care, she's just fucking with me. “Don't cry, the advice you gave me back then really was good, it did help. But I'm not going to apologize, when I want something, I take it. Welcome to the real world, Dalia.”

  She doesn't deserve a single tear from me.

  I'm not going to cry in front of her, she doesn't get the pleasure of seeing me hurt. Not this time.

  Because I don't need her. I don't need this job. I don't need shit from someone who would rather stab me in the back instead of doing the work herself.

  “You know what. . .” I stand taller, lifting my chin higher. “If you're going to fire me, then fire me. I'm not going to beg for my job. If my work got you here, then I know I can do better than this place on my own.”

  “Go then if you think you can do better. But just know that I'm going to make sure any place you go to knows you're a slutty, boss-fucking whore, who will screw her way to the top.” Veering her stare, she snarls, “Is that how you want people to know you, Dalia? As a boss-fucking slut?”

  Shaking my head, I'm not backing down. I don't care what she thinks anymore. Sandy isn't who I am. And I don't ever want to be her.

  “Say what you want about me, Sandy, but you're the one that stole to get here, not me. I can go to sleep at night knowing I actually have the talent. You just borrow it and call it yours.” Pushing past her, I reach for the door.

  “Dalia, you walk out that door, you better not ever look back. I'm going to warn you one time, and one time only; stay away from Lyle and I'll leave you alone. I'll pretend this conversation never happened, and we can part ways amicably. But, speak one word to my brother, and I'll end your fucking career. If you think high school was bad, you'll never come out of this.”

  “I'm having his baby, Sandy.”

  “Says you.” Her voice is cold, dead, and the look in her eyes is just as dark.

  Holding the handle firmly in my hands, I smile at Sandy. I smile and I don't think she expects to see a smile that big. Her eyes grow wide as her upper lip pulls to one side. My smile is pissing her off, and it only makes me smile bigger.

  “You know what,” I say, my voice surprisingly strong. “Go fuck yourself.”

  And with that, I walk out.

  I deserve better from a boss.

  I deserve better for myself.

  And I deserve to be happy.

  12

  Lyle

  Where the hell did she go?

  Trolling the room, I look everywhere for her, but she's gone. I stand with a hand on the back of my neck, spinning in a slow circle, double checking to make sure I didn't miss her.

  She's really not here.

  “Lyle, you kn—”

  “I'm sorry, David, you'll have to excuse me,” I say, patting his shoulder and walking away. I don't have time for shitty small talk, I'm looking for Dalia.

  He stands still, and I can feel him watching me, offended that I'm not taking the time to have his little side conversation. I don't give a shit.

  I need Dalia on my arm. I need her at my side. That's where she belongs.

  Faces blur as I move through the crowd, searching for my girl.

  Sandy is at the small bar, hitting a bottle of vodka. She's pouring her own shots, refusing to give it back to the bartender. I debate with myself for a second if I should go slow her down or just let her be.

  Fuck it, she's a big girl, she can handle herself.

  Our eyes connect briefly, causing her to hold the glass in mid-air. There's something in the way she looks that sends a ripple of annoyance through my veins. She's pissed off at something, and by the look in her eyes, it's me. She follows me all the way across the room, stalking me like a vulture circling its next meal.

  But I'm not a dead man walking. I've never felt more alive.

  Whipping my head forward, I refuse to watch her self-destruction. Whatever the issue is, she's on her own.

  Walking in the opposite direction, I go out into the hall, Sandy's eyes still burning a hole in the back of my head. The door buffers the music as it closes, deafening the sound enough for me to hear muffled crying in the stairwell.

  Pulling the metal door open, I see Dalia sitting on the lower platform, her face in her hands.

  “Dalia.” Standing at the door, I wait for her to look up at me before approaching her. I don't want to startle her or upset her even more. I have no idea why she's cry
ing. “What's wrong? Why are you crying?”

  My poor princess. Her eyes are puffy and red, swollen around the edges. Her cheeks are streaked in tears, and black mascara is smudged beneath her eyes.

  Is this her hormones?

  I read that pregnant women get super emotional. Maybe that's what's going on here. She is carrying our baby.

  Our baby. . .

  The thought of my child in her belly does something to me. It makes me excited; it makes me want her even more that I already do.

  “You don't want to know,” she says, wiping her eyes. Clearing her throat, she uses the back of her wrist to dry her cheeks.

  “I wouldn't ask you if I didn't want to know.” Moving down the few steps, I sit next to her. “Tell me why you're crying.”

  I don't touch her, not yet. I'm afraid if I do, I'll lose it. I won't be able to control this fire inside me. And she might not be ready for that.

  “You really want to know?” Her voice teeters on erratic, growing louder and then dropping softer as more tears fill her eyes, glazing the surface like bubbles. “It's your fucking sister, she's the damn devil. That's what's wrong.”

  “She did this to you? What the hell did she say?”

  “She fired me, that's what.”

  “Fired you? For what?”

  Dalia tells me all about the confrontation in the bathroom, and how my sister had convinced her that I needed some space to focus at work, and how she threatened her.

  Lies. All my sister told her were lies. There's not a sliver of truth in any of it. And I'm fucking furious she had the balls to try and destroy my family.

  Because that's what Dalia and this baby are. They're my family.

  “Dalia, none of that is true. I'm working the same as always. I'm excited about our baby, and for us, and for the future we're going to have; absolutely nothing she told you is true.”

  She's still crying, the tears are dropping like giant raindrops onto her lap. She can barely catch her breath, heaving in gulp after gulp of air.

  “Dalia, please, you're too beautiful to cry like this.”

  “She fired me, Lyle—fired. Do you know how hard I worked for this? Do you know what I went through just to get here? And I fucking blew it. What the hell am I going to do?”