Romance: The Boss Page 5

  But of course I don’t say any of that.

  “I learnt that…Congresswoman Connolly is…an exceptional politician. And that…sometimes, you need to go above and beyond for your boss,” I tell them instead, avoiding all eye contact with the billionaire president.

  “Elaborate on ‘above and beyond’?”

  Crap.

  That was a complete lie.

  Think fast, Lauren. Think fast.

  “I believe that…you need to be available for your employer 24/7. You’re a PA. A crutch…of sorts.”

  A crutch of sorts? What am I even saying?

  “And you’d be willingly to do that?” he asks abruptly, the same air of authority in his voice as he had in the bar.

  He looks at me inquisitively, the steel-blue eyes once again dissolving into mine.

  “Excuse me?” I gulp, going redder. I’m losing focus again.

  “You’d be willing to make yourself available to me 24/7?”

  Why does that sound like more of a come-on than a business question?

  Oh, maybe it’s because we fucked once.

  But I can’t tell by his tone if he remembers that or not.

  How many women has this guy slept with in order to not recognize me?

  Either way, this is not going well.

  “I…yes…would be available.”

  Was that even a sentence?

  Why can’t the floor just open up and swallow me already?

  “Good.” He nods, turning away again to look at my resume.

  My replies to the rest of the panel’s questions come out just as stunted.

  This is definitely up there as one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, if not the most.

  There’s no way I’m getting the job.

  Mr. Fancy Face sitting over there has blown it for me completely. And to think he may have been my boss…

  “Well, thank you for coming along today, Miss Swift,” Bill finally says, putting me out of my misery. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, getting ready to make a dash for it.

  But just as I get up from the chair, my heel twists on one of its legs, throwing me back down onto the table.

  I lock eyes with the billionaire instantly.

  No…this moment, right here, is now the most humiliating experience of my life.

  “Lauren, are you all right?” he asks, a hint of personal worry in his voice that makes me think he does recognize me.

  “Yes, thanks. Nothing broken but my pride,” I joke, only to once again be encountered by dead silence.

  “Have you two met before?” Robyn asks abruptly, her stare going into overdrive.

  I guess she picked up on that personal tone too.

  I look back at the billionaire uneasily. Fuck.

  “Robyn.” He chuckles, turning to her. “What on earth makes you say that? Of course not.”

  Robyn hurls me a look like she doesn’t believe him and wants me to confirm it.

  Who is this woman, his mother?

  Why the hell does she care so much anyway?

  “No, we’ve never met before. Thanks again for the interview,” I utter, before racing the hell out of there.

  As I walk out, I half expect a panel to open up beneath me, dropping me down a long chute that leads straight to a water tank where a great white shark is waiting to devour me.

  But that, of course, would be ridiculous.

  Outside the door, Penny is waiting.

  Has she been standing out here this entire time?

  Eavesdropping, no doubt.

  Well, at least someone got some entertainment out of it.

  “If you don’t hear from us tomorrow then you’ve been unsuccessful. Mr. Townsend makes decisions rather quickly,” she says incisively, walking me back down the hallway, over the air bridge, and past the main desk to the elevator. Jeez, someone’s in a hurry to get me out of here.

  “Okay,” I reply, but she acts like she hasn’t heard me, turning hard on her heels before marching away with the same stick still firmly wedged up her ass.

  “What a happy workplace,” I mutter and count the seconds before the elevator door opens and…

  I’m free.

  I lean over and press the big G for the ground floor, sighing loudly when the doors finally close.

  That’s another interview that’s crashed and burned, and not for the usual reasons…

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Thank God it’s Friday,” I sigh, falling facedown onto the bed.

  Today I had another boring hospitality shift, a gallery opening in Brooklyn.

  I spent six straight hours serving platter after platter of hors d’oeuvres and topping up champagne flutes while pretending to laugh at several guests’ attempts at comedy.

  Some people really shouldn’t tell jokes.

  But then again, they were some of Manhattan’s finest. They think they can say and do whatever they want without anyone batting an eyelid.

  And most of the time, they’re right.

  But surely you’d think that having to put up with that alone deserves a ten-minute breather between rounds.

  Well, not according to my supervisor, the rude, angry twit that he is.

  “Hey, where you at?” Brooke shouts, the front door slamming behind her.

  “In here,” I mumble, turning my head gauchely toward the open door. She laughs when she sees my sprawled-out figure on the bed.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? I’m resting. Today was awful.”

  I grunt and lightly punch the pillow.

  “Anyway,” Brooke continues. “Time to turn that frown upside down. It’s open mic night at the Globe, remember?”

  The Globe has become our regular Friday night dive. It’s a small but trendy licensed venue downtown that accommodates for both yuppies and ordinary folk.

  Every Friday they have an open mic night where writers, musicians, comedians, or anyone who just wants to talk about a topic can get up and speak.

  “I don’t know if I’ll go. I don’t think I can be bothered,” I say sitting up, still exhausted from work.

  “Oh come on,” Brooke begs. “You sound like you need a drink and I really want to go. Can’t you just come for a little bit?”

  I have this bad habit of caving every time Brooke pleads for me to do something with her. And it turns out that tonight is no different.

  “Fine,” I murmur. “I’ll stay for one hour. But that’s it.”

  “Great!” She beams. “The cab will be here in twenty. Chop chop!”

  I watch her eagerly dash off to get ready, throwing her work heels across the living room behind her.

  Like I said earlier, TGIF.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Oh come on! Who do I need to blow around here to get a drink?” Brooke is notoriously drumming her nails on the bar again, trying to make a show of being unimpressed.

  “Brooke!”

  “What? The bartenders are taking forever!”

  I smirk at how completely out of her comfort zone she looks here. She probably feels similar to what I did when I first walked into the Red Peacock Bar, only in the opposite way.

  “There’s no Mike or Paulo at your every beck and call here, huh?” I tease, knowing it will make her mad.

  “Oh shut up. You loved them too, just admit it.”

  “Never.”

  I click my tongue at her and glance up the other end of the bar, where the lone bartender is still indolently talking to the same guy he poured a beer for like five minutes ago.

  He’s a lot older than Mike is and doesn’t have that youthful charm that most women want to ogle at when they order a drink.

  “Mike was cuter though,” I say, winking at Brooke. “Seen him lately?”

  “Absolutely not,” Brooke whirrs. “The master can’t fraternize with the help.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, more than baffled by her statement. What is that supposed to
mean? That’s one of the weirdest analogies I’ve ever heard.

  “Mike is a bartender,” she sighs vigorously. “I can’t be seen being intimate with someone like that.”

  And I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is she serious? I know Brooke can be a prude, but this is another aspect to her entirely.

  “He’s a bartender, Brooke,” I state firmly, tightening my eyes on her so she knows I’m serious. “What’s wrong with that? You like who you like.”

  But she reels away and shakes her head, like she can’t believe she needs to explain it to me. “Look, you don’t get it, Lo. I have clients who go to the Red Peacock Bar. If they saw me hooking up with Mike, it would affect my reputation. That’s just how it works. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, honey, and I’m a dog-eat-dog kind of girl.”

  I want to tell her how ludicrous that sounds and if that’s what she truly believes, I couldn’t be more disappointed in her.

  But then I see her resolve soften, giving me a weak smile like she knows that’s what I’m thinking.

  “Speaking of cute men,” she then coos, deliberately changing the subject. “I take it you haven’t heard from your billionaire yet?”

  “Nope,” I chide, deciding to let the conversation slide too. “Miss Stick Up Her Ass said I’d hear on Thursday if I was successful. It’s probably for the best, though—it would’ve been way too inappropriate.”

  Not to mention awkward as all hell.

  “I think it would’ve been sexy,” Brooke’s tone has gone lascivious again. “Honey, I would’ve aced that interview if I knew Clint Townsend was going to be my boss. I still can’t believe I didn’t recognize him at the bar that night. Absolute fail by me.”

  I look at her like she’s crazy. “Would you have still aced it if you’d previously slept with him?”

  Actually, I don’t know why I bothered to ask that. I can already hear her answer before she says it.

  “Are you kidding? Especially if I’d slept with him! More nookie for the Brookie.”

  “But what about your whole ‘master doesn’t fraternize with the help’ thing? Technically you’d be the help in the situation.”

  “No, I’d be an exception.” She winks candidly, and it‘s moments like this that make me realize how immature Brooke still is when it comes to men.

  Here she is, a successful businesswoman and manager of a high-end bank with some of the wealthiest clients in New York, yet she continues to think of guys as dispensable toys.

  I can’t help but think that perhaps underneath that painted rouge, she’s completely different—a hopeless romantic hiding away so that she doesn’t end up getting hurt by someone.

  “Friend to friend,” I say, making sure it comes out laxer than I would’ve otherwise said it. I don’t want to upset her—well, not tonight anyway, when clearly she just wants to get loose. “I don’t think you’re that slutty.”

  But she just laughs it off, shifting her focus back to the bartender, who is finally heading our way.

  “A bottle of your finest white wine with two glasses, pal,” she quips, her classic Brooke Sawyer smile back in full swing.

  I shake my head at the bipolarity of it all and decide to nab one of the beat-up black leather lounges near the stage before someone else does.

  “See you over there,” I say to Brooke, but now she’s too busy flirting. That girl is literally always on the prowl.

  I guess “fraternizing” with the bartender of the Globe isn’t breaking any of her usual social rules, as technically there aren’t any clients in here to see it.

  Either way, that’s some messed-up logic.

  Chapter Fifteen

  No amount of wine will get that damn billionaire out of my head.

  Brooke and I have almost finished the bottle but no matter how hard I try not to think about it, that embarrassing interview keeps replaying like a scratched record.

  “You should read a poem here sometime,” she says, summoning me away from my thoughts.

  I look at her like she’s crazy again.

  “Me? Read a poem? Are you out of your freaking mind?” I haven’t written a poem since our senior year, eight years ago.

  “Why not? You’ve always been a great writer. Remember when we used to go to that café in Steamboat Springs and get hot chocolates?” She sits back on the lounge insouciantly, a reflective look in her eyes as she continues. “While I flicked through beauty magazines, you absentmindedly stared out the window, jotting down lines for poems and muttering them aloud. You were so endearing.”

  “Endearing?” I repeat, raising my eyebrows at her. “More like lame.”

  “No it wasn’t. Babe, I’d give anything to be that age again.”

  “Are you kidding?” I spit, trying to imagine what it would be like if I suddenly found myself transported back in time. “I’d hate to be a teenager again. All those raging hormones and urges that come with puberty. Not to mention all the expectations your parents throw at you 24/7 about colleges and career choices. Uh-uh. I’m happy being an adult, thank you very much.”

  “Nah, I want to be carefree and young again. Ageless.”

  I’m about to remind Brooke of the time when her parents caught her masturbating and if she’d still like to revisit that moment, when I catch a glimpse of my muted cellphone flashing on the table.

  “Hold that thought,” I say brazenly to her before scrambling to answer it. “Hello.”

  “Is this Lau—”

  But even with my finger blocking my other ear, I can barely here the voice on the other line. The MC for the night has just decided to jump on stage and yell into the microphone.

  “Sorry, I can’t quite hear you,” I shout into the mouthpiece. “Hang on. I’ll go somewhere quieter.”

  I wave at Brooke to let her know I’m leaving and then make my way toward the passage at the back of the bar, leading to the restrooms.

  “Okay. Sorry about that. I’ll be able to hear you now,” I finally say while turning my nose up at the awful urine smell coming from the men’s toilet. It almost makes me gag—they really need to do something about that.

  “Good to hear,” comes a familiar male tone. “Am I speaking to Miss Lauren Swift?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” I reply, trying to pinpoint where I know the voice from. But before I can pluck it off the end of my tongue, he’s already saying it…

  “This is Clint Townsend.”

  I pause, speechless.

  “From Townsend Investments,” he continues, obviously thinking the silence on my end is due to confusion over who he is.

  No, I know exactly who he is.

  I just can’t believe he’s calling me himself.

  How did he get my number?

  “I’m calling about the PA position.”

  Of course that’s how he got it. Why else would he be calling?

  You’re an idiot, Lauren.

  “You’ve been successful. Congratulations.”

  I put my hand over the phone and try to breathe normally.

  “Oh. That’s…great,” I finally stammer, still perplexed by the fact that he’s called me.

  I mean, doesn’t he have staff for that kind of thing?

  Who could do it at a more decent hour?

  It’s almost nine o’ clock.

  Who calls this late just to tell someone that they’ve gotten a job?

  Renowned billionaire Clint Townsend, that’s who.

  “I’ll need you to start Monday, eight a.m. sharp. Will that be a problem?” he asks firmly.

  It’s interesting that he’s just assumed I’ll accept the position. But at this point I can’t think of anything else to say—my brain has gone to complete mush. I blame the two and a half glasses of wine that I’ve had.

  “Okay,” I say stiltedly, trying to steady my breathing again so he doesn’t pick up on the fact that I’m nervous and on the verge of throwing up.

  “Okay. I’ll see you Monday morning then, Lauren.”

  Lauren…the
way he says it still sounds like a soft note in a melody.

  “Yes. Monday morning. See you then,” I say before he succinctly says goodbye and hangs up.

  I stand there in the passageway like a stunned fish that’s just been hit with a paddle.

  I don’t know whether to jump for joy or cower in a ball.

  Yes, I’ve finally found a full-time job.

  But I’ve slept with the boss…

  Granted, it was before I knew I’d be working for him. But still, the whole thing is just wrong and unethical.

  Highly unethical.

  I can’t really go through with it…

  Can I?

  Chapter Sixteen

  I almost don’t recognize the young woman standing in the mirror. She has the same dark-brown hair and eyes and is the same height, but the rest of her is different.

  I glance at the light-gray pencil skirt and white silk blouse, the cut of each flattering her natural curves while her new petite black heels sit on her feet like they’ve always belonged there.

  She blinks at me with those long, slick eyelashes, blushed-up cheeks, and red lips, and for a minute I truly believe she is the most stunning version of myself that I’ve ever seen.

  “Damn girl, you’re looking F-I-N-E,” Brooke suddenly exclaims, walking into my room. “So are you excited? I know I would be!”

  But excited doesn’t quite cover it.

  Just the thought of walking into that office and seeing Clint Townsend again makes my stomach lurch into flips. And not just because he’s my boss and we’ve slept together—it’s also because I still can’t get over the two embarrassing falls I’ve had in his presence.

  “Not exactly,” I say, looking at Brooke’s reflection. “I feel sick.”

  “Oh you’ll be fine,” she assures me, putting an arm around my shoulders and squeezing them tightly. “You look gorgeous, and this is what you have experience in. You’re a great PA. You got this.”

  She flashes me a genuine smile and then goes to leave. “Oh, and he’ll practically liquefy when he sees you, by the way. Trust me.”