by Lindsey Hart
Philippe stares me down. “I especially found the Dutch oven part to be entertaining.”
“Oh, god.”
“And the part about bending the laws of physics. I have to say…you have quite a creative imagination. The creativity it took to think of shoving cake ingredients up my ass—”
“Please,” I beg. “Please. Don’t—just—don’t.”
“I could go on. You did.”
“I know.” I seriously wish I could bend the laws of physics myself and stuff my own self up my own ass. Or just disappear. That would work for me too.
“I actually have a proposition for you.”
My head snaps up again. My vertebrae hurt from that one. I think I might have given myself whiplash. “Is it something along the lines of how I stay working for you while you hate me for life and give me the most terrible, horrible, menial work as punishment for the rest of my days?”
“Nope. You can do better than that.”
“No. I can’t.”
“You think that’s what you deserve?”
“Yes. Undoubtedly, yes. If I could take back you seeing and reading it, I would.”
“It wasn’t all bad. You did express some sort of sympathy for me, which makes me believe you truly are a good person who was venting like a comedian on stage because it was amusing, and was what it took to get through the day.”
I give him an are you for real? look. This is not my boss. Philippe Wilson is not nice. He does not give second chances. He breathes fire and shoots lightning bolts out of his ass (thank god I didn’t write that in my journal of sin). He does not give out propositions.
“I have a wedding coming up.” He actually winces. “My mom, who you already know, is eager for me to find someone. She’s afraid I’m going to live the rest of my life alone, which to her, is the greatest crime on earth. She wants me to be happy, and she thinks the only way it’s ever going to happen is if I try and fulfill myself with someone else. Marriage. Kids. My sister, fortunately, is going that route. It diverted attention from me for quite a while.”
“Shit,” I breathe because I can see where this is going. Straight. Down. The. Pooper.
“My thoughts exactly. My mom is a very bubbly, outgoing person. She likes to pry into my personal life more than I think is necessary. It makes me a little bit…well, aggravated. She caught me at the wrong time just over a week ago and cried. Mom-tears are enough to bring any man to his knees. I might have mentioned something about bringing a date to the wedding in front of my sister because she needed to know, but it was mostly to satisfy my mom. I was going to beg off of it at the last minute and tell them it fell through…that my imaginary girlfriend got busy. I was just trying to use a distraction because I didn’t want to hear another lecture from my mother. Well, it backfired. It was the absolute worst thing. I should have just snapped that I’d be happy to die alone. Instead, I tried to pacify her. She actually cried because she hadn’t had a chance to meet my girlfriend yet. I told her it was because I didn’t want her to scare her off, and at the wedding, she’d be preoccupied with my sister, so it would be the safest time for an introduction then.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did.”
“Your poor mom!”
I know Lynda. She’s nice. She means well. She is a little overbearing and, well, motherly, but she is a mom. I’ve often wished my own mom was more like her. Like she cared. I mean, I know she cares. It’s just that it would be nice to have a motherly mother once in a while. But I could see how it would get old. I think. Maybe.
“Don’t,” Philippe growls. “I know, okay. It wasn’t nice. I’m not nice. I was mean. I am mean. I’ve been a Grade A asshole, but now I’m stuck with this. This problem. I need a date for my sister’s wedding.”
“No! Your mom knows who I am. She’s not going to believe it!”
“Why not? We’ve known each other for three years. We could say we kept it a secret because we didn’t want it to get around the office. It would appear clichéd and unprofessional. You’re my assistant, and I’m your boss. It wouldn’t look right, so we didn’t tell anyone. It’s new. Like the last couple of months new.”
“It’s not going to work.” My mind works fast, trying to come up with a feasible protest. “I mean, I’m not rich.” Please kill me now.
“It doesn’t matter,” Philippe snorts. “My dad built this company from nothing. My parents weren’t rich either. It was just the last decade that things really took off. My parents were never like that. My mom still drives the same car she’s had for the past decade.”
“Why do you drive the overpriced, overrated lime mobile then?” Damn. I should have sucked that one back.
Philippe looks oddly amused. Like he almost likes having someone tell him how they really feel. “How would you know if it’s overrated? It’s quite fun to drive, actually.”
“I don’t know. For myself, I’d rather have the new house, but whatever. I’m sure you have that too.”
His eyes narrow. I guess I’m pushing my luck here with the honesty thing. “If you’re done with the running commentary on my life choices, I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”
“If this is a do-it-or-get-fired thing, you might as well just fire me.”
“It’s not. But I am willing to give you something if you help me out.”
“I go to the wedding and pretend to be your nice, doting, sweet girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger and who sees through the tough front you put up to the sensitive, soft, caring, sweet man beneath, and you pretend you never saw the journal?”
Philippe rolls his eyes. “Something like that. I’m also willing to throw in a three dollar an hour raise. And more comprehensive benefits.”
I think hard about it. “No.”
His really beautiful eyes bulge out. “No?”
“No. I need something else. I live with my Granny. She’s the most important person in the world to me, and I love her. I actually live in her house. She’s supported herself for years, but everything keeps getting more expensive, and she’s on a pension. The health premiums she pays for her health insurance and medical benefits are insane. I’m paying for part of them because she can’t afford to. I also buy all of our groceries. I—I want you to—I want you to figure out a way to give her coverage.”
“I can’t do that!”
“You can. And you will. If you want me to do this, those are my terms.”
“I could give you a raise to make it more affordable. I could talk with our benefits person in HR and see if there’s anyone they could recommend she talk to or if she could switch to the company that provides for ours, but I’m sure we couldn’t cover her unless she were a spouse or a dependent child.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“The raise,” he repeats. His eyes narrow. “I’ll give you an hourly raise and a bonus each month for the next year so you can afford it until you figure out an alternative. If there even is one.”
“People get old…is that what you’re saying?”
“Why? Because it would be the typical asshole thing to say?”
Yes. “No.”
“People don’t always get old,” Philippe mutters. He looks like he just took himself by surprise, and I see it. Those amazing grey-blue eyes flood with pain.
His dad. He’s talking about his dad. What a piece of work I am. “I’ll do it,” I blurt, just so I don’t have to see his pain anymore. “I—we’ll need a dry run, though. Dinner. To talk about stuff and get our story straight. Or something. I don’t know. To get used to each other.”
“Should I practice kissing you?”
My mouth goes totally dry, and my lady bits do a freaking leap through the ceiling before I realize he’s kidding. He’s mocking me. “Uh, no.” I scramble to recover. “That’s not needed, I’m sure. This kind of public display of attention is gross. I think most people think so. Just holding hands would be appropriate, I think. If even that. I think we should practice looking at each other. People wh
o are into each other look at each other differently. Your mom will know if we’re faking it. And we need to get our facts in line, so we don’t give conflicting evidence.”
Philippe’s lips settle into a hard line. “Alright. The wedding is next week. I’ll take you out to dinner on Saturday in my overcompensating lime car. I’ll make it nice, and I’ll pay. Then, when the wedding is over, I’ll delete your little writing project. I promise I won’t make any copies.”
“I’m supposed to take your word for it?”
“What does it matter? I’ve already seen it. I’m not going to blackmail you with it again. More importantly, you’ll get the raise.”
I swallow thickly while my mind races. Something else is racing too. It feels like my heart. I’m sure it’s my heart. Is it seriously my heart? Why would it be my heart? Damn it. I’m in trouble. Poo stew. That’s another of Granny’s favorite sayings.
“Fine. But I need a dress. Are you going to foot the bill for it too?”
Philippe rolls his eyes. “And here I thought you were actually a nice girl underneath it all.” I can tell he’s not really serious, though.
Did he just make a joke? Philippe Wilson? I’d write about it in a snarky, dry sort of humored way if I weren’t already in so much trouble. Effing journal. Why did I ever think it was a good idea?
“Well?”
“Yes. I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday night. Send me your address. I’ll do my best to take you to a place without gluten-free bagels, strange skinny lattes, pickled beets, and cauliflower pizza.”
CHAPTER 4
Philippe
I pull up to a gingerbread-style house at twenty minutes after seven. I know I’m late, but from my experience, women usually run late anyway, even for a fake date. Oh, and I didn’t want to appear eager. Or obliging. This is a little bit like me waving my middle finger at the journal I read a few days ago.
I think Sutton gets it because when she pulls open the door, which is painted purple to match the purple shutters and purple trim, she doesn’t look pissed about having to wait for me.
I rake my eyes over my date for the evening. I told her I was taking her someplace classy, and she’s dressed for it. Sutton is pretty. Actually, if I was looking for a girlfriend and I wasn’t her boss so I could be free to notice her, I’d call her beautiful. Her auburn hair is usually done up in a braid hanging down her back or in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Tonight, it’s brushed out, and it shines around her shoulders. The red highlights gleam even though the sun is just about down for the day. She has a killer body, as evidenced by the red dress she’s wearing. It falls to her knee and is cut high around the neck, exposing none of the gentle swells of her breasts. She has a tiny waist which the dress does emphasize, and also a rather lovely behind area. Her legs are shapely, especially in the heels that she has on. She doesn’t normally wear those to work. Or anything that form-fitting.
She’s paired it with a black cardigan and has her regular black purse slung over her shoulder. As usual, her makeup is understated—hardly there at all. She doesn’t need fancy methods to define her sharp cheekbones or the angle of her jawline. She has beautiful dark eyes and nice lips. Natural. Sweet. She’s like a fruit picked right off the tree. Absolutely delicious, more so because it takes you by surprise. Fruits off the tree taste nothing like fruit in the store.
“Quit eyeing up my granddaughter!” A tiny old lady appears behind Sutton.
“No danger of that, Granny,” Sutton grinds between clenched teeth. “Remember, we talked about this. This isn’t a real date. This is a business transaction.”
“Is that what you call it nowadays? Back in my day, business transactions meant something else entirely.”
Sutton flushes scarlet, which is actually quite alluring. I’m wearing my usual office attire—black pants and a button-up collared shirt. The sleeves are rolled up because I find that it’s the most comfortable way to wear it. And right now, my dick is doing all sorts of probably noticeable things. Please don’t let her grandma see that I have an erection. Please, god, if you have any mercy at all…
“Not that kind of business transaction! I already said, I wrote something stupid, he read it, he’s blackmailing me, I have to go on a few dates with him, it never gets mentioned again, and I get a raise. End of story.”
“You should get a raise because you do good work. You’re always looking after his punk ass.”
The corners of my mouth want to turn up. It’s a struggle to try and keep a straight face. Sutton rolls her eyes.
“Granny, please.”
“You made her order underwear!” This lady is all of five feet tall. She has a head of curly white hair, a sweetheart shaped face, dark eyes, and high cheekbones. She actually looks a lot like Sutton. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
“I did,” I confess. “But I’m busy. Busy running a company. A global company worth a few billion dollars.”
“Ha!” Sutton’s grandma chortles. “If you’re too busy to order your own dang gitch, then you’re doing something wrong. If I were her, I would have ordered wool. Would have served you right.”
I break into a wide grin. I can’t help myself. Sutton just about turns purple because it’s exactly what she wrote in her strange diary. Maybe she told her grandma that. But it’s funnier to think she didn’t.
“As it was in the middle of winter, I would have thanked her for being so concerned about me.”
The grandmother’s sparkling eyes run the length of me. “Mind you keep your concern where it belongs. In your pants.”
“Granny!”
“Well, one thing leads to another, and soon enough, bam! It’s how babies are made.”
“I know how babies are made,” Sutton groans. “We both do. And we don’t even like each other. This is an obligation. Seriously. I wrote mean things about him. Because I don’t like him.”
“Hate and love are almost the same.”
“This isn’t,” Sutton assures her. She bends and gives her grandma a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t wait up. We have a lot to discuss if we’re going to sell this thing.”
“You shouldn’t have to sell yourself to get a raise.”
“I know. I’m not. Not like that. But I could have been fired, so I’d say this is actually turning out quite well.”
“I told you to write the stuff down. Not keep it on a computer where anyone could read it,” Sutton’s grandmother scolds.
“I know,” Sutton sighs. She gives the little old lady a hug. “Do you want me to bring something back for you?”
“Cheesecake? Dinner rolls? A full plate of something delicious? If he’s paying, bring back as much as you can carry. If not, stuff it in your purse.”
“Okay,” Sutton giggles. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I swear I hear her grandmother mutter as she closes the door behind Sutton.
“Sorry. I—she wanted to meet the boss she’s heard so much about.” She winces. “Wait, that’s not what I meant. It came out wrong. I haven’t said anything like what I wrote…”
“I’m sure you have.” I grin back at her. This is actually turning out to be the most entertaining thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. “You’re lucky I have a dry, sick sense of humor.”
“I didn’t think you had one at all.” She says it softly like she doesn’t mean for it to wound me, but it does.
Because I used to be funny. I used to make jokes. I used to be tolerable. I actually used to have friends and people who liked hanging out with me.
“Philippe?”
“For the record,” I put on a brave, unaffected face because it’s what I do. “My mother named me Philippe because she has this obsession with all things history and all things classic. Now, if you will… I actually made the reservation for eight.” I point at my lime green car, which she loves to hate. “Your chariot awaits.”
“You promise you’re not going to drive like a crazy person in that? Becaus
e I know the thing probably goes fast enough to break light speeds or something.”
“And here I thought you said it underperformed.”
“Maybe I meant overcompensated.”
We reach the car, and I open the door for her like the gentleman I actually am. I always opened the door for my mom and sister. It was something my dad did. It was always second nature to me. Sutton gives me a funny look. She eyes the car like it’s going to kill her but slides into the front seat anyway.
I don’t exactly keep my promise not to drive fast, but I do drive safely. We get to the restaurant in record time, right on time for our reservation. It’s a nice place we often go to for company dinners. Sutton gives me a look as soon as she sits down across from me. There’s a bottle of wine on the table already. The waiter, clad all in black, cracks it open and pours it for us without asking if we want it. A basket of bread appears right after.
“What?” I don’t touch the bread. No matter what Sutton thinks about my gluten-free bagels and cauliflower crust, bread makes my stomach hurt. Badly. I don’t feel like spending the rest of the night in a ball, so the rolls are a hard pass.
“It’s just so—so—you that you’d bring me here. You bring everyone here. I could have made the reservation myself. I’m on a first-name basis with Janice.”
“Who’s that?”
“The hostess.”
I can feel myself practically withering inside. “Sorry. I didn’t think it had to be original as long as it served bread.”
“This is fine. You know, if you like eating food that is barely food.”
“They have steaks. Chicken. All that.”
“What if I’m a vegan?”
“You’re not. You admitted to licking the cheese grease off my pizza. Who does that, by the way?”
