by Sara Ney
Bachelor Boss
Sara Ney
Bachelor Boss
Copyright © 2020 by Sara Ney
Editing by Caitlyn Nelson (Editing by C Marie) & Jennifer Van Wyk ( JaVa Editing)
Proofreading by Julia Griffis
Cover Design by Letitia Hasser
Formatting by AB Formatting
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
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Contents
1. Phillip
2. Phillip
3. Spencer
4. Phillip
5. Spencer
6. Spencer
7. Phillip
8. Spencer
9. Phillip
10. Spencer
11. Spencer
12. Spencer
13. Phillip
14. Humphrey
15. Spencer
16. Phillip
17. Spencer
18. Phillip
19. Spencer
20. Phillip
21. Spencer
Epilogue
Other Titles by Sara Ney
About the Author
1
Phillip
“I swear to God, Humphrey, if you don’t take a piss soon, I’m going to stop bringing you to the dog park,” I threaten as my dog takes his sweet-ass time, sniffing bushes and fences and the concrete sidewalk.
He’s supposed to be peeing.
Humphrey has other ideas.
Never one to take direction or learn obedience, my Basset Hound meanders at a glacially slow pace, taking up most of the sidewalk with his wide ass. He halts, wags his tail, then goes still again.
Fuck, he sees something; now there’s no way he’s going to listen.
The little bastard strains against his leash, gagging and choking and gasping for air as if I’m the one yanking on him and not the other way around.
Gag.
Cough.
Could he be any more dramatic?
“Come on dude, go potty. It’s freezing out here.”
Thing is—he doesn’t actually know any commands, though not for lack of trying on my part. I’ve taken Humphrey to training several times with little luck. For a Basset Hound—a dog with a supposedly even and mild temper—he’s inopportunely stubborn. Humphrey occasionally responds to one command and one command only:
Lay down.
Know why? Because he’s always laying down.
“Go potty,” I tell him again.
Humphrey does not go potty.
“Dammit! I’m serious. Go. Potty.” Now I’m getting stern, infusing my tone with discipline so he knows I mean business.
The dog wags his tail.
“No, stop it.” I point to the spot on the ground I believe would be a fantastic location for him to take a piss. “I said go potty.”
We continue like this until I’m good and late for work, the dog begrudgingly walking and peeing at the same time, not bothering to stop or lift his leg while we make our way back to my house. I live in a brownstone in an up-and-coming area of Chicago that’s great for families because, to be honest, I thought I’d have one by now.
I’ve had a few steady girlfriends, despite them all discovering I’m not their soul mate and dumping me for another man. At the ripe old age of twenty-eight, it’s discouraging, but that hasn’t stopped me from looking for The One. Or hoping for The One. She hasn’t shown up on my doorstep, so instead of dating, I’m carrying not the toddler I thought I’d have by now, but an ungrateful dog up the stairs to my front door, because the shithead refused to budge from sniffing crap in the shrubberies outside.
Nosey turd.
“You made me late for work.” He wags that outlandishly long tail again as I scratch behind his floppy ears, watching with satisfaction as he savors the feeling of my nails against his skin. Fur. Whatever. “You always make me late,” I lecture, softening my tone.
It’s a fact, and not a fun one.
It’s also a fact that I could probably wake up earlier every morning, but instead, I hit snooze to snooze and snooze and snooze, both the dog and me dozing and dozing and dozing longer than we should.
Making sure the dog is situated, I thumb through the apps on my phone, find the one for a car, tap, swipe to confirm. Race around my place, locking up, shutting off lights, and bound back down the stairs to head to work.
“You’re late.”
The hall monitor of our office doesn’t glance up from his desk, inconveniently located in the first cubicle on the block, his chair swiveling in my direction as my feet hit the smooth, cold, marble floor in the lobby.
I haven’t even stepped four feet inside the place and Paul Danbury is riding my ass. He’s not actually a hall monitor, simply someone who won’t mind his own business. What Paul is is an executive assistant who hasn’t learned that monitoring employee comings and goings, tardiness, or absences is not his job. That’s my boss’s job, and last time I checked, her name isn’t Paul—it’s Patrice.
“You’re late,” he says again, as if I didn’t hear him the first time.
I barely conceal a sneer. “Really? You think I didn’t know that?”
“I mean—it’s not a great way to start the week.”
“What’s your point?”
“Last week you were late twice.”
I try to walk past him without commenting, really I do. But Paul is neither my boss nor human resources, and this is none of his damn business.
So I don’t walk past him. I swivel on my heel, look him in the eye, and, like a grown-up, say, “So?”
“It’s a bad habit to get into.” Great. The last thing I need is Paul reporting me to management, or HR, or someone else in the office who has a grudge against me—I’m sure there are plenty who would love to see my ass get canned.
“No, smoking is a bad habit to get into. I have a dog that doesn’t listen to jack shit, including me.”
Paul sits up straighter in his chair, interested. “What kind of dog?”
Oh, Paul likes animals?
Fantastic.
If chatting about my lazy-ass pup is going to get my late ass out of trouble, I’ll lean into it. Resting my elbow on the top of Paul’s cubicle wall, I sigh dramatically—just like Humphrey would do.
“A Basset Hound. He has behavioral issues.”
The issue is: he doesn’t behave and lords it over me every waking minute of the day. For such a gangly and awkward animal, he sure is a dickhead.
“Oh my God, I love Basset Hounds,” Paul drawls out with a swoon. “Does he have those big floppy ears?”
“Yeah.” They’re floppy all right. I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket and click open the photo gallery. I have an embarrassing abundance of Humphrey pictures on my phone—more t
han any self-respecting man should have of a dog who won’t smile for the camera or make eye contact with it, either. “Want to see a picture of him?”
Paul nods. Fervently.
Cool.
I swipe through, ashamed of the sheer number of selfies I’ve taken with my dog, some with filters, some without, all with Humphrey’s lack of motivation.
“OMG this one of him with Santa—I want to die.” Paul clutches his chest as if it’s just too much for him to bear, this photo of my dog with Santa Claus at the fake North Pole. Inside the mall.
Yeah. I still can’t believe I took him to see Santa.
In my defense, my sister thought it would be cute, and she was in town visiting, so did I actually have a choice, or was I a victim of her sibling intimidation? She’s older than me by two years and always tries to lord the power over me the same way the dog does.
“What’s his name?” Paul asks after his fingers stop swiping across my screen. He props his chin in his other hand, settling into the subject.
“Humphrey.”
Paul gasps. “It’s too perfect. He looks like a Humphrey.”
I relax my shoulders a little, the stress beginning to leave my body. Maybe Paul isn’t such a prick after all, and maybe he won’t say anything about me being late.
“What does he love?”
“Sleeping.”
Paul chuckles as if it’s the most amusing thing he’s heard all morning. “What else?”
“Laying down.”
Paul’s brows go up. “What else?”
“Eating.”
“Dang, you’re making your dog sound like an unemployed bachelor who lives with his parents.” He relinquishes my phone and slaps it back in my palm, satisfied.
“That’s exactly what he is, a bachelor who lives at home with his one parent—me.”
Paul laughs, and I take advantage of this leeway he’s granted me, the parlay for freedom.
“He has a mind of his own. Try carrying a seventy-pound dog home from the dog park every morning because he won’t pee and he won’t budge, and is out of shape. Or he gets himself lost in the bushes on purpose.” Then I add, “Maybe I’ll bring him by sometime.”
“Yes! Do it.”
I shoot him a thumbs-up, hiking the computer bag higher on my shoulder, and shuffle toward my office.
My office.
After three years at this company, I’ve clawed my way to a corner—three years of kissing ass, busting my balls, and dealing with gossipy, backstabbing co-workers. Like Paul. Only today I was able to win him over with the help of my hound, who almost never comes in handy for anything.
I round the corner, hang another left, and head toward the corridor of offices with the best city views, mine at the end, at the glorious far end.
I give a whistle of contentment, a pep in my step now that I’ve dodged the hall monitor, and give my door a nudge with the toe of my shoe, pushing it the rest of the way open. Shrug my bag into my chair, pull my laptop from its sleeve, and center it on the calendar lining my desktop.
Blue light computer glasses.
Charger.
Then, I do what I do every workday: head for the breakroom, hands stuffed into the pockets of my brown cords as I go to scavenge for a free meal and hot beverage. You know, like I’m homeless and don’t have food at my disposal.
The room isn’t empty—a lot of people work on this floor, and at all hours of the workday, I can always expect a few of them to be snacking on something. I would know because at all hours of the day, I’ve been known to meander in for food. Or a beverage. Or just for a break, since we’re thirty stories up and it’s hardly worth an elevator ride down to the street for a ten-minute breather. Or a street hot dog.
Not worth it.
I greet Martin Duffy from accounting, an older dude wearing a bright blue shirt and a hot pink tie. Pretty sure Martin is single and ready to mingle—like myself—and the company breakroom is a prime spot for Marty to be on the prowl for the various single ladies working at this company.
A veritable speed-dating pool for those so inclined and with the nerve to hit on someone at work.
Like Martin.
“Hey Marty.” I greet him at the same time he exits the room, holding up his muffin as a salutation, cell phone now pressed to his ear. I open one cabinet after the next, searching for a mug, anything to put a bit of coffee in. Locate one in the very last cabinet.
Now here is the thing: I don’t actually drink coffee. Can’t stand the taste of it. Can’t stand the smell.
What I do enjoy is the process of preparing it, pouring it, and standing with my hip against the counter holding a hot, steamy cup on a cold day.
Basically to put off working.
I pour myself a mug, relaxing idly, eyeing up the breakfast pastries laid out on the countertop, all brought in from a company that wants to secure our business. Schmoozing us.
We’re a contracting firm specializing in residential and industrial complexes and communities—communities my good buddy Brooks, an architect, designs. It’s my job to award contracts for subcontractors on the industrial side—electrical, plumbing, heating and air conditioning. The whole nine yards.
High-rise apartments. Skyscrapers. Renovations for entire city blocks.
I award the contracts.
I’m not the boss, but if I play my cards right and kiss all the right asses, maybe I will be one day.
I nab a bagel, set my coffee prop on the counter (I’m not going to drink it anyway), and root around in the refrigerator for cream cheese. Cream cheese, cream cheese, where is the cream cheese…
Possibly some jelly? I’m in the mood for something sweet, and I’m one of those weird foodies who has to eat in order: no lunch food before I’ve had breakfast, no cake before lunch. Donuts, in my opinion, equal cake.
And today I’m friggin’ starving enough to eat actual cake for breakfast, just watch me.
It takes some digging, but on the top shelf near the way way back, I find the cream cheese. Turn the container this way and that to find the expiration date. It’s expired, but only by three weeks, so I crack the top and stick my nose in it, giving it a whiff.
My nose wrinkles the smallest bit. I mean, it smells kind of rank, but what are the chances it will actually make me sick?
Digging around for a knife, I stab it into the cream cheese and stir a bit to make it soft, the way I do at home, and—
“You’re not seriously going to eat that are you?”
Glancing up, I see a girl—young woman, to be precise—leaning against the doorframe of the breakroom, sizing me up, mouth twisted into a curve of distaste. Pointedly glancing from me to the cream cheese container I’m holding in my hand, knife in the other.
I lift them both toward her and shrug. “I’m hungry.”
“Enough to eat expired cream cheese?”
“How did you know it was expired?”
“Well, first I saw you check for the date, then I saw you sniff it—if it wasn’t expired, you would have gone straight for a knife without doing a sniff test.”
A sniff test. I hadn’t realized that’s what I was doing, but damn, she’s right. It did stink and I probably shouldn’t eat it—but what business is it of hers what I eat?
I don’t know her; does she even work here? For all I know she’s the muffin girl dropping off baked goods, or a subcontractor dropping off a bid.
“Right.” I ignore her—she’s not anyone I’ve ever met, no one I have to report to or worry about, but she is still staring at me. So I ignore her.
Although…to be fair, she is pretty damn attractive, so I’m not exactly mad about it.
Dark hair, dark blue eyes, curious stare.
I can feel her inspecting me as I smear the white-yellowish spread onto one half of my plain, untoasted bagel. A sad replacement for a donut, but I’ll survive.
“You’re not going to put that in the toaster?” She slowly comes toward me to watch.
“Nope.” N
ot with her standing there not-so-silently judging everything I do.
Now she’s at the fridge, leaning in. Reaches in and retrieves a carton of orange juice, fiddling with the twist top as I stir the cream cheese a little longer, lingering.
“Time for mimosas so early in the day?” I jest, creaming a second slice of bagel.
She semi-ignores me, grabbing a cup from a cabinet. “I would love a mimosa. I’ll just have to pretend, won’t I?” The girl pours, still not looking directly at me—but I do catch her side glance my way once or twice as I snatch a paper towel, wrapping my breakfast for takeaway.
Mmm mmm good.
“You’re not going to eat it? Not going to take a bite now?” Still not looking at me.
“I will when I get to my desk.”
Pouring herself a glass of OJ, she takes her sweet time, filling the entire cup with tart, orange liquid. Sips the top off and smiles. “I want to actually see you take a bite.”
“Why?”
She raises those dark brows at me and smirks. Gives me a jaunty chin lift. “Go on, take a bite.”
Well shit, now it’s a matter of principle. She can’t tell me what to do—she is not the boss of me.
I study her back critically. “What did you say your name is?”
“I didn’t.” Her arms cross, the cup of orange juice propped in one hand. “Take a bite.”
“Stop being so bossy.”
“I want to see if you’ll gag. That’s all. No big deal.”
If I gag? “Why would I gag?”
“Why would you gag? Are you being for real right now?” A look of exasperation and incredulousness crosses her pretty face. “That spread you just wiped on your bagel is a thousand years old.”
I barely contain my ire. “Over-exaggerate much?”
She gives me a one-shoulder shrug, waiting, still standing there, juice in hand. Daring me to bite into the bagel.
