The Boss's Son Box Set

by Sierra Rose

  “Calm down. I’m sure it is,” she replied, trying not to smile. “I mean, it’s water.”

  “Not all water is the same!”

  “I’m sure it’s very special, she consoled, patting his arm.

  “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “Can I have your number?”

  “Of course you can!” Marj boomed as she came up to join them with Beard Boy in tow.

  Marj seized the man’s phone and punched in Britt’s number as Britt blushed and fumed.

  “She’s also free tomorrow night. Aren’t you, Britt?”

  “Actually I—“

  “She’s trying to think of an excuse so she can sit at home and watch HGTV, Chris. Just ignore her. Call her tomorrow to make arrangements.”

  “I believe it’s time for us to go home, Marj. Keys?” Britt challenged.

  “I’m going to stay a little longer. We’re having fun, aren’t we, Duckie?” she asked Beard Boy.

  “Duckie?” Britt inquired.

  “She can’t remember my name so she calls me Duck Dynasty. I think it’s the beard.” Beard Boy said indulgently.

  “Is your name, like, difficult?” Britt asked, puzzled.

  “It’s Joe,” he said, petting Marj’s hair fondly.

  “Well, sorry, Duckie, but Marj and I have work tomorrow. I’m sure you have her number by now. Good night.”

  Britt seized Marj’s arm and marched her to the door.

  “Why did you do that?” Marj demanded.

  “You’re drunk. You’re acting like an idiot. We’re going.”

  She pouted. “You’re no fun.”

  “My pretentious date said I was. He thinks I’m a riot.”

  “Good for him. You’ll be seeing him tomorrow night. He’s cute.”

  “Yes, he is, but he’s not my type.”

  “Your type cheated on you. Let’s try my type.”

  “What, breathing?” Britt snapped.

  “Maybe you need MORE to drink,” Marj accused.

  “Keys.”

  Marj handed over her keys with a grumble and they went back to Britt’s apartment. She made Marj stay over so she wouldn’t drive home. She didn’t call Jack like she had said she would because she didn’t want Marj to overhear.

  “Can’t call. Marj staying over,” she messaged him.

  “So what? Call me!”

  “Can’t. She could hear.”

  “So don’t call me Pookie Bear while she’s in earshot.”

  “U know what I mean we r not public.”

  “We should be,” he answered.

  “No. Makes me look bad, dip pen in office ink etc.”

  “Do u wear a bonnet? Is it 19th century?” he messaged back.

  “No. Sensible. Not smart to date boss.”

  “Not ur boss. Dad is ur boss.”

  “I want to be with u. Every1 can know.”

  “No, please,” she replied.

  “If u don’t want 2 tell Marj I will tty 2mro,” he answered.

  “Ty. Nite,” she sent and washed off her makeup, relieved.

  Chapter 5

  Britt tried to think of ways to get out of the date with Chris. She couldn’t tell him she had a boyfriend because, obviously, she didn’t have a boyfriend, plus there was the fact that Marj and Beard Boy were going to see each other later in the week. He could conceivably tell Duckie that Marj’s friend claimed to have a boyfriend and then bingo, Marj knew. So she figured she’d have to suffer through the date, tell Marj he was a dud and that might get her friend off her back about being single for a while.

  She dressed in skinny black pants, a sparkly top. She touched her Trina Turk tunic fondly, recalling nostalgically how Jack had teased her about its being too short to wear in public. Britt put her hair in a ponytail. She liked it that way, no matter what Marj said about it. She met Chris at an Italian restaurant down the block from Tamarind, where she’d met Jack. It gave her a pang of guilt, like she was cheating on him.

  Chris was wearing skinny jeans, arguably tighter than her own pants were, a vintage-looking bowling shirt and a leather jacket that had seen better decades. It was way too hot to be wearing a leather jacket so she assumed he was suffering for the sake of some misbegotten style choice. She complimented him on looking nice.

  “Thanks. You look nice too. I was hoping for another dress like the red one you had on last night.”

  “It was blue,” she said flatly.

  “No, I’m positive it was red. I have an excellent memory.”

  “It’s my dress, Chris. I bought it. It’s blue,” she insisted.

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken but it doesn’t do to argue with a lady,” he said smugly. She already wished she hadn’t come.

  “So, are you ready?”

  “Yes,” he said and they went into the restaurant.

  It was fisherman themed, with fishnets hanging from the ceiling and great wooden oars on the walls. Britt looked at the menu and forced herself to be cheerful. Being churlish would only make it seem like a longer evening.

  When the waiter brought them waters and a basket of bread, Chris waved it away.

  “No, we don’t need bread. I’m gluten free,” he explained. “Do you have any gluten free pastas?”

  “No,” the waiter said shortly, still holding the offending basket of bread.

  “None at all?” Chris said in disbelief. “Also I’ll need a Coulson’s Springs water. Organic if you have it.”

  The waiter snorted as he walked away.

  “I don’t really know what I’ll eat here if it’s not gluten free pasta.”

  “Salad?” she suggested. “You picked it. I assumed you ate here.”

  “No, it’s just close to my apartment and cheaper than Tamarind.”

  “I see. Would you rather go somewhere else? Or call it a night?”

  He sighed deeply. “No. We can eat here. Maybe they have something.”

  The waiter returned with her wine and his bottle of water.

  “This isn’t Coulson’s Spring,” he objected.

  “We do not carry that brand. This is Italian, but it is organic,” the waiter said a bit pointedly, his eyes darting to her. She repressed a grin.

  “I don’t like Italian water. I only like American water.”

  “Our tap water is very American,” the waiter offered.

  “No, bottled water. Why would you carry Italian water? You’re in America.

  “This is, as you may not have noticed, an Italian restaurant, sir.” The waiter went on. “Is there something else you would like to drink. Tea, perhaps?”

  “No. We’ll just order. I’ll have the monkfish with artichokes.”

  “Very good. And you, madam?”

  “The penne rigate, please,” she said, trying to be polite and order something inexpensive.

  “It has gluten,” Chris stage-whispered.

  “Yes, I heard. I’m not allergic.”

  “Neither am I. Gluten is bad for you. Very unhealthy.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you read?” he hissed.

  “Yes, I do. Which is why I’m puzzled by the seeming trend of demonizing gluten.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. It’s terrible for your intestines.”

  “That’s so romantic,” she snapped.

  Their food arrived and she ate hers appreciatively while Chris picked at his.

  “There’s rice on this plate. Didn’t he hear me say I was gluten free?”

  “I’m fairly certain that everyone heard you. Rice doesn’t have gluten.”

  “Are you sure?” he accused as if she were trying to poison him with gluten-filled rice.

  “Fairly, yes. Ask the waiter.”

  “I’m not going to ask him. He’s obviously a dumbass.”

  “A dumbass?”

  “Yes. He is,” Chris insisted.

  “I’m a little disappointed. I thought you’d have something more original than dumbass to apply to someone in the service industry whom you didn’t care for
.” She said loftily.

  “He deserves no better label,” Chris scoffed.

  “My pasta is good,” she ventured. Her phone buzzed and she tried to ignore it, wondering if it was Jack, if she should be ashamed for hoping it was him.

  Britt realized with a sick lurch of her stomach that the person she most wanted tot talk to and laugh about this ridiculous date was Jack. But she couldn’t tell him about Chris just like she couldn’t tell Marj about Jack. It was disheartening, the way those confusion and misunderstanding sitcom plots were disheartening. She would not check her phone. She would not be that rude, tapping away at her tiny screen while she was on a date, while she shared a meal with someone.

  “Go ahead,” Chris suggested.

  “What?”

  “Check your phone. I know you want to. Is it someone better or is it your friend with a made-up emergency to rescue you?”

  “Neither. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t fake emergency someone. It’s juvenile. If I want to leave, I’ll say so, and then I’ll leave. No pretense.”

  “I respect that,” he said grudgingly.

  “Since you don’t like my water, do you want to try my wine?”

  “Okay,” he said almost grudgingly and took a sip. “Ugh, you don’t have to drink this. It’s swill.”

  “It’s good. Really,” she protested, afraid he’d complain to the waiter.

  “It tastes like vinegar. This establishment should be ashamed.” He waved the waiter over.

  “Please, Chris, don’t. I like it, really. Don’t do this,” she said.

  “It needs to be said. Mediocrity must be pointed out so it can be rectified. We are clearing the way for excellence.”

  “Chris, don’t,” she said, a warning in her voice.

  “This wine is disgusting. Did you decant it directly from the toilet tank or did you make the mistake of paying for a bottle of this garbage?” he demanded of the waiter, who looked taken aback.

  “If you are dissatisfied may we offer you a glass of a different vintage?” the waiter kept his composure.

  “Certainly not and I want it removed from our check along with this ridiculous Italian water, which does not say ‘organic’ any where on the label. Your shoddy service and subpar offerings will put you out of business if you don’t—”

  “I’ll get the manager. Perhaps you’d like to speak with her,” the waiter said.

  Britt stood, threw her napkin down.

  “That’s it. You’re rude. You complain about everything and you are stuck up and nasty to the waiter. I’m going to pay my half of the check and I’m leaving. You need to lose my number and learn some manners. And by the way, all water is fucking organic!” She threw some money on the table and stalked away.

  Britt paused by the door to the kitchen and tapped the waiter’s arm.

  “I’m very sorry about him. You don’t deserve to be spoken to like that. It’s a lovely restaurant and you were very patient. The only problem here is Chris. I hope neither of us ever has to see him again,” she said, and pressed a twenty into his hand.

  Before he could thank her, she was headed for her car, grateful that she had met Chris there and could leave whenever she wanted to. She slipped into the driver’s seat, locked her doors and checked her phone.

  “I miss you.” It was from Jack.

  All of her self-satisfied adrenaline high from ditching Chris and apologizing to the waiter and finding the courage to dump someone rude came crashing to a sick halt. She could have been home, watching TV and waiting to hear from Jack. She should have been home instead of out on a stupid date when she already had the man she wanted—sort of had him. She regretted it sharply, too sharply to reply to Jack’s text with the obvious and painfully true ‘I miss you too’. She drove home. She washed off all her makeup.

  Chapter 6

  When her phone rang, she squinted her eyes shut tightly as if to block out the fact that it was Jack’s number flashing on her screen. Gingerly, she picked it up and tapped ‘accept’ on the touchscreen.

  “Hello?” she mumbled, trying to sound sleepy.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I’m just tired I guess,” she said.

  “I did what you said, and I listened to these people and apparently their problem is I use too much slang, too much vernacular when they learned proper English. So about half of what I said was going right over their heads, not because they don’t know anything about tech but because they don’t understand how I talk,” he said. “So, you were right. I sent you a present to say thank you. It’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to send me presents!” She said, feeling her face redden into a blush although she sat alone in her apartment.

  “You better get used to it because I’m going to like giving you presents. It’s fun. Don’t panic, it’s not jewelry.”

  “What do you mean, don’t panic?”

  “I mean you freak out very easily for an accountant. I would think of your profession as being quite level-headed but you get upset over any indication that we’re in a relationship.”

  “Because we’re not. So any indication that we are is inaccurate,” she protested.

  “Let me evaluate that allegation, Britt. Do we talk and text every day?”

  “Yes, but I do that with Marj.”

  “Have we kissed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you do that with Marj?”

  “Just that one time at the Christmas party but we were both loaded,” she joked.

  “Do you think about me all the time?”

  “No, of course not. I keep my mind on my job.”

  “Right. Me, too. Like I wasn’t in any way so distracted during today’s presentation that I said your name right out loud.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “So did. One of the guys in my session went, ‘what is Britt? Is this another of your American terms?’ and I said, ‘no she’s my girlfriend’ and everybody laughed.”

  “You said I was your girlfriend?”

  “Oh my gosh, do NOT break out in a rash or something.” He laughed. “Yes, I said that because you are. And don’t give me that crap about how it’s too soon to say that or my dad is your boss or anything because, he’s my boss, too and it doesn’t have one damned thing to do with how I feel about you, Britt,” he declared.

  “Well, crap.”

  “That’s what I always dreamed you’d say to me.”

  “No, I mean, I wish you were right here.”

  “So do I, believe me. I mean, it might be awkward if I just disappeared from Hong Kong right this second because they’d for sure think terrorists kidnapped me for my superior graphic design skills and mobilize an entire national task force to get me back....”

  “I’m sure they couldn’t live without you,” she said.

  “I don’t want you living without me. That’s something we need to talk about, girlfriend.”

  “When you say girlfriend I feel like we’re on a talk show and you’re my white trash cousin with the dreads and the septum piercing who thinks I stole your microwave or something.”

  “That was extremely specific. And no I don’t mean it like ‘Oh no you didn’t, girlfriend!’ I mean it like, I’m with you. You’re with me.”

  “I want to be with you,” she said.

  “Well, look at that. A declarative sentence with clear intentions toward me. It’s almost sentimental. I promise I won’t tell anyone, so don’t freak out.”

  “You are giving me such a hard time, boyfriend.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Boring as shit, and yours?”

  “You pretty much know about my day already. So, I don’t want you to hang up. Every time we talk I feel like the salt is pouring down the hourglass too fast and I have to try to keep you on the phone because, as much as I can’t wait to talk to you, it’s like I start missing you again before we even hang up. So I want to keep talking to you. Can I—can I play for you?”

  “Pla
y what?”

  “The guitar.”

  “Are you at work?”

  “Lunch break. I’m at my hotel.”

  Britt heard a rustling as he put the phone down, then a few notes strummed.

  “Okay,” he said and she heard him take a breath.

  The intimacy of that, the illusion of closeness in hearing him inhale touched her somehow.

  “Long as I remember/the rain been comin down...”

  Britt clutched the phone so hard her fingertips hurt from the pressure. She shut her eyes and listened to him playing CCR to her from thousands of miles away.

  “My dad used to play that song, on the tape deck,” she said when he was through. “He didn’t have a CD player in his car even though practically everyone else did. One year I got him the greatest hits and he was all insulted because you have to hear the shape of the entire album to really understand the individual songs and how they—I’ll never forget rolling my eyes at this!—fit into the emotional fabric of their canon.”

  “I think I’m going to love your dad.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. He died when I was fifteen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No it’s, I mean it’s not okay, but I’m used to it now. They got divorced when I was twelve and we didn’t really see him that much after that. He was into music and he loved donuts. He sold cars.”

  “But he didn’t have a CD player in his? I bet his boss loved him driving around some old junker just to keep the tape deck.”

  “They fought him on it, but really, he just did things the way he thought they ought to be done. He had very fixed ideas.”

  “I think you inherited that.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” she admitted. “I really—I don’t think of him very often. That song just reminded me. I’m sorry. It was great, hearing you play it. It just brought back memories.”

  “Can I play you something else? Something that won’t remind you of anything sad?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re sad. I can hear it in your voice. This is one of mine. You’ll be like the sixth or seventh person on earth to hear it.”

  “You don’t have to, if you’re not ready to share it.”