Romance: The Boss Page 8

  “With your boyfriend?”

  Well that’s a highly curious question to ask…and absolutely none of his business.

  “No, but thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Townsend. Oh, and for the wine. It tasted like silken air.”

  Silken air?

  What?

  Focus, Lauren, you’re almost out of here.

  “My pleasure, Lauren, and please call me Clint when it’s just us. Mr. Townsend sounds far too formal coming from you.”

  Coming from me? What does that mean? Does he remember me?

  “Okay…Clint.” I smile and get ready to leave, but then decide to do a double take. This might be the only time to ask him something personal ever again.

  “Why did you invite me in?” I ask candidly. “I mean, what was in it for you, just some company?”

  He laughs softly and takes another sip of his wine. “Yes, just like I said, I wanted you to do me a kindness.”

  “Really? That’s all? There’s nothing else about it you want to add?”

  I’m really digging for an omission to the one-night stand. If we’re ever going to admit it to each other, then this is it.

  We’re alone and not at work; it’s the perfect time.

  But from the expression on his face, he seems more puzzled than confronted.

  “Is there something you’re expecting me to say? You’re my PA, Lauren. You’re my first point of contact. I need to know a few personal things about you and vice versa. Trust is very important in any business relationship, remember that.”

  Well I guess that settles it: he doesn’t remember me.

  I should feel relieved, but instead it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

  I fake a smile and walk down the hallway to the front door.

  “Oh, and Lauren,” he calls out, just before I reach it. “Thanks for tonight. I appreciate your honesty. See you Monday.”

  “That’s okay,” I tentatively call back before I grab the handle and launch myself into the corridor outside.

  As I lean my back against the door, I partially ventilate, trying to process everything that just happened in there. The way that he had looked…the questions we had asked each other…did it all just really happen?

  Did I just sit down with my billionaire boss for wine and a deep and meaningful chat?

  When I plunge into the biting air outside the apartment complex, everything becomes stunningly clear.

  I like him.

  I really like him.

  How am I going to get through the rest of the year with a racing pulse, weak knees, sweaty palms, and a stomach full of butterflies every time I see him?

  I’m totally screwed.

  Chapter Seven

  Just what I need bright and early on a Monday: Elsa Huber with her royal-like stare and scintillating blue-green eyes.

  She’s wearing body-hugging yoga pants and a pink tank top that’s been half cut to reveal her enviable slender waistline. That blueberry bagel I ate earlier now seems like a bad choice.

  An exceedingly glutinous bad choice.

  As I run my hands self-consciously over my size two pencil skirt, I scold myself for not opting for the fruit salad at Miguel’s.

  I wonder if that is what Elsa thinks too: that I need to lose a bagel, or two.

  She’s standing by the water cooler in Clint’s office like the picture-perfect Victoria’s Secret model that she is. Not a smear of makeup, her solarium-tanned skin glowing and unblemished.

  It’s barely eight thirty—I can’t believe she wakes up looking like that.

  But then again, she does look like the kind of woman who would regularly detox and get facials.

  I bet she doesn’t even believe in sugar or caffeine; she probably drinks only herbals teas and ghastly green smoothies with kale and chia seeds and every other green vegetable you can think of.

  I hate her. I don’t even know her, yet I hate her.

  I guess my American sweetheart personality has its boundaries.

  “So you’re his PA?” she says, holding up the glass of ice water to her pouty plump lips. “Good, brunettes aren’t his type.”

  Bitch.

  “Excuse me?” I feel my body tense up at her statement.

  What is that supposed to mean?

  Is she saying I’m not attractive enough for someone like Clint, or that I’m attractive but because I’m a brunette he’d never go for me anyway?

  Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, duchess, but he has gone for me and from what I can remember, he enjoyed it.

  Thoroughly.

  “So you’re the model?” I solicit, mimicking her tenor, the burrow of an unscrupulous smirk on my lips. “Good, that’s his usual type. Good luck with that.”

  Once the words leave my lips, I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked.

  She hadn’t been expecting me to backchat her and I certainly hadn’t planned on doing it. After all, she is potentially my boss’s girlfriend. Shit.

  But before Elsa even has a chance to respond—and by respond what I really mean is explode, judging by the furious look on her face—Clint strides ardently into the office.

  “Elsa, I see you’ve met Lauren. Great, isn’t she?” he asks rhetorically, looking firstly at me then at Elsa, whose nostrils are flaring like a bull seeing red.

  “Oh, just peachy, Clint,” she replies, leaning forward to stroke his arm like she’s claiming her ownership over him.

  I swear I feel my heart stop.

  My mood sinks as I stare at her hands that are now running down the length of his chest. I feel my stomach vomit on itself.

  I really hate her.

  Elsa turns back to me, simulating the same kind of smile that Bill Meagher had given me when I first walked in for the interview.

  “We were just getting to know each other.” Her eyes are on me but she’s really speaking to Clint. “You were right. This one does have some fire.”

  Now I know my heart has skipped a few beats.

  He’s talked about me to her?

  He’d told me in the bar that I had fire and he liked it. So does that mean he does remember me, and worse, that he’s told her about that night?

  I’m so sick of not knowing either way, and I’m ready to blurt that out when Clint notices the look of affliction on my face, brandishing a wink while Elsa still has her back turned.

  “Indeed.” He grins, still watching me carefully. “I need someone with some backbone around here. Bill just doesn’t cut it these days.”

  “Pfft, as if Bill has ever had a backbone,” Elsa jeers, spinning back around to him. “He’s all talk, like a hissing pussycat who’ll then curl up on your lap as soon as you give it a treat, unlike you, Clint. It seems near impossible these days to even get a dinner date with you.”

  I decide at that point that three is definitely a crowd and dump the wad of documents I’d originally come into the office to deliver. “They need to be signed and dated ASAP. Bill wants to send them off on the next courier,” I say in my best office voice, determined not to let Elsa see that she’s upset me. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

  I don’t wait for Clint to answer, but the look on his face just before I walk out tells me he hadn’t anticipated me to be so short with him. I’d even go so far to say that he looked almost hurt by it.

  But why should I care how he reacts?

  He’s treated me like crap these past two weeks and for no justified reason.

  I know Friday night was an exception; I saw his sensitive side again and he opened up to me about some things, which was nice.

  But it still wasn’t appropriate, from a professional perspective. And I certainly didn’t buy his whole “just to keep my company” speech either.

  There was more to it than that, I just don’t know what…

  What does he see in Elsa Huber anyway?

  Sure, she’s breathtakingly gorgeous – with perfect longs legs, flawless skin, perky breasts, a tight butt and sex appeal - but she has the p
ersonality of a spoiled brat.

  But again, why do I care so much?

  Yes, I slept with Clint once, but it was meaningless. A one-night stand with no strings attached.

  Elsa has every right to claim her ownership over him. A billionaire like him must have plenty of avid female admirers; I’d be worried too if I was his girlfriend.

  If that’s what Elsa is.

  Burr, even just the thought of them together makes my insides churn again.

  It’s almost like I’m enraged by it and by Elsa’s perfect perfectness. Just because she survives purely on oxygen and watercress to maintain that size-zero supple body, doesn’t mean we all have to.

  Well, I like my size two-four figure.

  It suits me.

  Hell, it is me.

  I’d look disproportional if I was thinner or fatter.

  Oh what is wrong with me? Why am I going on like this? I sound like an immature schoolgirl again. I’m twenty-six years old, a grown adult.

  So what if I’ve shared a couple of private moments with my sizzling hot billionaire boss? That’s all they were, moments.

  Now it’s time to get a hold of myself again and take the high road, the mature and professional high road that this job requires of me.

  “I need to get off this floor and get some air,” I say aloud and, without even bothering to tell Clint, march straight down the office aisle and toward the fire exit stairs that lead to the rooftop.

  Meeting Elsa has left too much of a bad taste in my mouth.

  Chapter Eight

  “New York City is the center of the investment industry in America, Lauren. What do you expect him to do? Just drop everything and go with your opinion about whom he should be directing his time to?” Brooke sighs, taking a handful of popcorn before passing me the bowl.

  “I expect him to follow through on his obligations!” I shout, frustrated with how she isn’t seeing my point.

  “He’s a wolf of Wall Street, babe. The only obligations they need to follow through on are the ones that will make them the most money. Trust me.”

  “That’s not true. I don’t think Clint is really like that.”

  “Oh, so he’s Clint now? Don’t be so naïve. Remember that Wall Street guy I told you I dated for a few months last year?”

  “No.” I pout, a piece of popcorn wedged in my mouth.

  “Yes you do. His name was Rick Montana.”

  Rick Montana? I’ve honestly never heard of him.

  And I’d remember a name like that—I hate the name Rick. In high school there was this football jock Emmett was friends with called Rick, and he was a total slime ball. The worst kind of bully and the complete opposite of Emmett, which had always made me wonder why there were friends in the first place.

  Rick was tall and stocky and was the kind of guy who would trip you up in the hallway, slap the books out of your hands, or pull your bra strap so hard that when it snapped back it would leave a red welt. If that weren’t humiliating enough, he’d spread a nasty rumor about the kids he really didn’t like, with almost the entire school shunning them for a week because of it. Can you imagine, an entire school not talking to you for a week? It was the epitome of meanness.

  “Anyway,” Brooke resumes, “he dumped me because the dress I wore to the Starling Bright Foundation’s benefit last year wasn’t expensive enough. And this is me we’re talking about here! My walk-in wardrobe is a showcase of Valentino ensembles and Jimmy Choo shoes! It’s primal wolf behavior, my friend.”

  I cross my arms and lie back on the couch.

  The only reason why we’re even having this argument is because Clint has cancelled several meetings with the CEOs of two charity organizations that I believe are worth capitalizing in.

  It’s really ticked me off; he has all that money and power and is deliberately choosing to direct it away from a good cause.

  It’s insufferable.

  “Seriously, he dumped you over that?” I ask Brooke, somewhat skeptical.

  “Uh-huh,” she chides, taking the bowl away again and scoffing down more of the way over-buttered popcorn we’d made on a whim.

  I wonder what expression Elsa would be pulling at us right now?

  I bet she’s never even tried popcorn.

  “What a prick,” I say sharply, shaking my head at Brooke. “Wow. I wonder if Clint is like—”

  But she cuts me off. “He is.”

  “You didn’t even know what I was going to ask.”

  “Yes I did. You were going to ask whether Clint might be the same as Rick. And I repeat, he is.”

  “But you don’t even know him.”

  “Neither do you, Lauren!”

  “I know him a little. I work with him every day, don’t I? And I told you about that conversation we had in his apartment.”

  “So what? You’ve had a few moments together. It takes years to get to know who someone truly is.”

  “Not necessarily. That’s a cynical way to look at it.”

  “Maybe. But I’d rather be cynical than all mopey over my boss, whom it’s obvious I’m in love with.”

  “I’m not in love with him.” But as soon as I hear myself say it, I know that isn’t entirely true. I do feel something for Clint; I’m just not sure what it is yet.

  As the rain falls blithely outside, I can’t help but wonder if Brooke is right and if all the decorously attired wolves on Wall Street are the same in nature: greedy down to their cores.

  I don’t want to believe that about Clint, but I’m coming up to three months of working at Townsend Investments now and he’s barely given me any glimpse of his witty, good side again.

  Not since that night we talked over wine, anyway.

  Lately, things have been strictly business.

  I’ve scheduled his meetings, done correspondence, and taken notes for conferences. I’ve run various errands at the drop of a hat, both in and out of business hours.

  I’ve directed him through different routes to get to work when he’s been stuck in traffic and severe road conditions. I’ve paid company bills, which have been so exorbitant that I’ve been nervous just looking at the transactions.

  And I’ve even planned his meals.

  I could scarcely believe it myself when he’d asked me to write up a plan for his new diet.

  It’s one of those celebrity master cleanse detox ones.

  He said a close male friend insisted he try it out, but I’m guessing it was actually Elsa—not that I’ve seen her or heard anything about her since that day she came into the office, which is strange.

  Anyway, this diet is supposed to make you feel better about yourself, your body, your skin, and your life in general, so you’d think that’d be a good incentive to do it, right?

  Wrong.

  Clint has been as moody as ever on the damn thing, blasting everyone at the office over the smallest things.

  The one person I feel sorry for the most is Bill. Out of all of us, he’s the one Clint targets the most, constantly detonating on him in his office.

  An office that also isn’t entirely soundproof.

  I didn’t think I would ever come to pity Bill, due to his whole attitude toward me when we’re around each other. He barely registers that I even exist. But the look on his face when Clint tears him a new one is truly debasing.

  I wouldn’t mind Clint’s tyrannical outbursts now and then if he weren’t also re-cancelling those meetings with the CEOs. Earlier today, I’d had to call the organizations again and tell them that “Mr. Townsend apologies profusely but he has to reschedule your meeting. A business matter has come up at the last minute, which needs his urgent attention.”

  Every time I hang up that phone, I feel like I’m being cruel and letting them down. I’ve done extensive research on both organizations and they have truly inspiring campaigns.

  They could really use the backing of a high-profile figure like Clint.

  “What charities are we talking about here anyway?” Brooke asks, but wit
h her eyes still fixed on the television. “Ha ha, I love Kristin Cavallari,” she then adds. “She’s so boss.”

  We’ve started re-watching all five season of The Hills recently. I know it’s not the greatest TV show in the world, but it’s entertaining and it gets my mind of work.

  And Clint.

  Mostly.

  “One funds research to find a cure for Alzheimer’s disease. The other is for muscular dystrophy in kids,” I tell her.

  “Oh…that’s really sad. He should get on board with both of them; the American public would love him for it. I can just see the headline now: ‘Hot Billionaire Donates Millions to Help Sick Kids and Find Cure for Brain-Degenerative Disease’.”

  “I know. Why do you think I’ve been pushing him to at least meet with the CEOs?”

  I honestly don’t know what’s come over Clint. I know he’s always been an ass, but lately he’s been behaving like a royal one.

  “Call him up on it,” Brooke pitches. “Walk into that office tomorrow morning and let it all rip. From what you’ve said about your so-called business relationship, he’ll respect you for it.”

  “Maybe,” I say, contemplating the fact that she might be right.

  Maybe I should just walk into work tomorrow all guns blazing.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m lying in bed rehearsing what I’m going to say to Clint.

  First I’ll give a solid presentation for the charity organizations and how it would be unequivocally in bad taste to put off meeting with them any longer.

  Then, if that goes badly, I’ll just come straight and demand to know what his problem is.

  He’s said in the past that he likes my fire and my honesty, so that should at least give me a foot to stand on…

  Right?

  Chapter Nine

  After going through Clint’s schedule with a fine-toothed comb, I’ve finally managed to find two one-hour blocks next week for him to meet with the CEOs.

  Now all I have to do is go in there and tell him firmly that there will be no receding this time.

  So far this morning, things have been running fairly smoothly in the office, so it shouldn’t go down too badly…I hope.