Bachelor Boss

by Sara Ney

  Ah. Definitely from the south side of the building.

  Interesting.

  Phillip checks each doorplate, glancing at the numbered offices as he strolls by. Hangs another left in the labyrinthine maze that is the thirtieth story.

  I’m still behind him, feeling quite like a stalker, slowly trailing along, half-eaten croissant and water bottle in hand, staring at the back of his head. Dark, short, wet hair, a bit longer on top. Expansive shoulders. Strong upper arms. Phillip is tall and rugged, unlike so many of the men in this city. Metrosexuals aren’t my type, so I’ve practically given up dating. A man who takes longer than I do to get ready on a Saturday night? Intolerable.

  Phillip slows, nodding politely at Monica in graphic design as she impolitely gawks through the glass windows of her design space, a spare desk crammed against hers.

  Someone must have started a group chat, because several younger women rise from their cubicles like prairie dogs and peep their heads over the short walls to watch Phillip amble by. I hear their subtle murmuring, the low-key whispers. Who is that? Oh my God, he is so cute. Please let him come to my office, please let him come to my office…

  Ladies, get it together, says the look I shoot them from behind my wall of glass. They’re embarrassing the creative department!

  Phillip stops, framed in the doorway to my office. Checks the sheet of paper against the number posted next to my door. Takes one step toward the mega-desk, then another, then—

  No.

  No, no, no.

  He cannot be my officemate for the rest of the week. Cannot. I won’t stand for it! How am I supposed to live like this, holed up with this cutie of a guy who smells like mountains, and who I wouldn’t mind giving up my single-lady status for?

  I groan when he walks all the way inside, shrugging the laptop bag off his shoulder, dumping it onto his desk chair—as if he’s done it a million times before.

  I stand in the threshold, clutching the croissant to my chest. Stare, slack-jawed.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  He glances over at me as if he’d forgotten I was behind him, already unzipping his bag. “Please don’t say this is your office.”

  Chin up, Spencer. Chin. Up.

  I tilt it jauntily, summoning some false bravado, and waltz past him to plop down in my chair. Heft my legs and prop them up, entwining my fingers behind my head as if I own the place. “Okay, I won’t say it.”

  My officemate is the puker.

  The puker is my officemate.

  Phillip stands frozen at his desk but makes no move to sit his butt down; he’s stiff and rigid and miserable.

  I gesture toward his chair like we’re starting a meeting. “Please, do have a seat.”

  I swear, he narrows his eyes at me, an insult no doubt on the tip of his tongue. He bites it. “I will, but not because you told me to.”

  “Please.” I make a show of fanning my arms out theatrically. “Be my guest.”

  Phillip’s nostrils flare, but he does not sit. “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Like—any day now.”

  Now there is no mistaking the blue eyes sliding into slits in my direction. “Let’s get a few things straight.”

  “A few things straight?” I lift my eyebrows. Purse my lips. Make a show of shuffling some printer paper; it’s blank, primarily used for doodling, sometimes for printing—neither are things I plan on doing right now. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “We just have to make it through the next four days. Can you not…” His voice trails off as he chooses his words, hand moving airily about. “The farce isn’t necessary.”

  “What farce?”

  “You don’t have to pretend to be nice. I know you’re not.”

  “I am nice!” I gasp, insulted. “Why would you say that?”

  He ignores me. “Furthermore, we should lay down a few ground rules before you get too comfortable.”

  “I’m not the one who has to worry about getting too comfortable—you’ve already worn out your welcome, pal.” I emit an unladylike snort. “You’re the one squatting in my office, or need I keep reminding you? By all means, lay down some ground rules. Just what we need.” I urge him on with a wave of my hand. “Go. Please proceed.”

  It’s obvious he’s already exasperated by this conversation based on the slouch of his shoulders. “I’d prefer to keep the door open while I’m here, if you don’t mind. I don’t want anyone thinking anything inappropriate is going on.”

  Like that would happen.

  I mean…it could. But it won’t.

  But it could.

  Ugh, why is he so attractive yet annoying?!

  “You wanna keep the door open? Fine, but you’re going to regret that when Karen from sales sticks her nose in here twelve times a day.” I honestly wonder how she hasn’t been fired for rarely working, but that’s HR’s problem, not mine. Karen is a delight, and I welcome the intrusion.

  “At least she won’t get the wrong idea.”

  “Wrong idea about what, exactly? That we’re working at work, in an office where we work? It’s not like I invited you here.”

  I swear his face gets red. “You know what I mean.”

  Yes, I know what he means—but I’m supremely aggravated by the fact Phillip is so full of himself. Does he honestly think I’m not capable of keeping my hands to myself while he’s using my office? That he’s so irresistible and good-looking I’m going to hit on him all damn day?

  If anything, I should be the one paranoid about him! Men can be pigs sometimes, and I do not know this guy from Adam. He’s a complete stranger. For all I know, he’s a total pervert and I’m stuck with him for almost an entire week.

  It’s not like management gave us a choice; we all do what we have to do to be team players, so I’m not about to complain to my boss.

  I have a large office, thus I was automatically selected to play hostess to whomever was booted from their space so their carpet could be replaced.

  Okay fine—it’s not that large and impressive, especially not with these two desks rammed inside.

  “We’ll keep the door open, Your Highness, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Karen likes to chatter, strolling by on a regular basis throughout the day with news or gossip or donuts. Stick a hot guy inside my space? I plan to see Karen wearing a path in the carpet from her door to mine just to flirt with Phillip.

  Good-looking, conceited Phillip.

  “Also,” he goes on, “I’d prefer not to make small talk. I have work to do and am on deadlines, so…” He avoids my incredulous gaze as he starts unpacking his laptop bag, removing the computer, a few pens, and a calculator.

  He’s the only one with deadlines? Pompous jerk.

  “Just so we’re clear—I have nothing to say to you.” Unless it’s to give the jackass a piece of my mind. “And since we’re sharing rules, I want to put it out there…I don’t expect you to get me coffee unless you’re getting some for yourself.”

  Phillip’s spine stiffens. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, I don’t expect you to get me coffee unless you’re getting some for yourself.”

  His hands go up to stop me from continuing to speak. “No, no. I heard what you said, I just…won’t be getting you coffee. Ever. I’m not your secretary, and this isn’t Working Girl. I won’t be making you copies, or sending emails for you, or doing you favors. Entendido?”

  “Is that Spanish?”

  “Yes.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, I understand.” Pause for dramatic effect, because he’s being a drama llama, then add, “Friends get their friends coffee.”

  “We’re not friends. I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Spencer, and I like traveling to exotic locations, indie films, indie books, and iced lattes with extra ice—would it kill you to grab one for me on your way in every now and again?”

  So rude.

  “It might.”

  I give him the heaviest eye roll I can must
er. “Drama, drama, drama.”

  “I’m not getting you snacks, food, or any kind of caffeinated beverage.”

  I shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  Phillip gets comfortable at his desk, cracking his knuckles (shudder), flipping his laptop open, and waiting for it to power up. Types in his password. Clicks away at his keyboard with obnoxious, robust taps that will probably drive me nuts within the hour. No—the next minute.

  Click.

  Click. Click, click, clickety click click click.

  Click. Backspace, backspace.

  Oh my God!

  What could he possibly be working on?! He’s been in here less than six minutes! I prefer to ease into my work, warming up by hitting the breakroom, checking my social media, texting my mom and a few friends first. Maybe I’ll take a lap around the building to get the creative juices flowing—take advantage of the walk to clear my head, chat with a few people along the way—but I never, ever just get straight to work.

  Who does that?!

  I watch Phillip while using my laptop as cover, its black screen concealing me while I ogle his work ethic incredulously. What is wrong with this guy? Just look at him, working—making us all look bad!

  “Stop watching me,” he tells me without looking up, tapping away like a maniac.

  “I’m not.”

  He looks up. “Stop.”

  “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “You’re not the boss of me,” he parrots.

  “So stop being so bossy.” And stop working—it’s not even eight thirty in the morning, I want to say. You’re making me look bad.

  “If you would just stop staring at me while I’m trying to work, we wouldn’t be arguing.”

  Excuse me if I’ve never seen anyone on this side of the building get straight to work when they sit down. Sheesh.

  “If you weren’t working then I wouldn’t be staring.” Shit. Did I say that part out loud?

  “Huh?” Phillip looks so confused.

  “Nothing. I meant—don’t flatter yourself. I’m not even remotely interested in what you have going on or why you’re typing a thousand words a second.” I huff.

  His head tilts down, eyes engrossed, plastered to his screen. “You seem like the kind of girl who likes to argue.” He sighs without having the decency to raise his head, those long fingers rhythmically beating at his keyboard.

  The kind of girl who likes to argue! How dare he be so accurate. How. Dare. He.

  “You don’t know anything about me.” I sniff indignantly. “I’m as docile as a house cat.” One that likes to argue.

  I hold back a meow for effect, knowing he’ll think it’s weird. He’s wearing a cable-knit sweater, for pity’s sake—and he hasn’t smiled at me once.

  I don’t even know if he has a full set of teeth inside his perfect mouth.

  “Docile as a cat?” Phillip snorts. “I know plenty of house cats, all of which would eat your dead body if you collapsed on the floor.”

  Dang, that’s probably true. “I, uh, can’t help but noticing you have a pet.” There. I’ve successfully changed the subject. “What kind is it?”

  My new officemate finally looks up at me, blue eyes quizzical. “How do you know I have a pet?”

  “You have hair all over the back of your sweater,” I kindly point out. How does he not know this? Is he blind? It wouldn’t take a detective long to discover his information.

  He curses, letting out a groan, then twists his body in a failed effort to see the back of his black garment. “Do I? Shit, I do.”

  “Cat or dog?”

  “Dog.”

  “What kind?”

  Phillip levels me with a blank stare. “Did we or did we not agree not to make small talk?”

  “I agreed to nothing. Are you always this bullheaded? What’s the harm in chatting before we get to work?”

  The loud sigh he emits causes a few heads in the cubicle area to turn, and I catch Francine Pepperman raising her eyebrows over her partition, because the nosey, eavesdropping woman cannot keep to her own business.

  I shrug at her through the glass and she lowers herself back down into her seat.

  “It’s a dog, his name is Humphrey, he’s a Basset Hound, and three out of five days I’m late to work because he cannot get his act together.”

  He fires off answers before I can ask specifics, describing his dog as if it were a child who won’t put his shoes on for school in the morning despite being instructed to do so fifteen times.

  “You should leave the house sooner.” An icy glare is his only reply, so I add, “Take him out to pee earlier.”

  Silence.

  “Is he the kind of dog that’s impossible to wake up?”

  Another beleaguered sigh. “I’m going to file a complaint with human resources about your incessant line of questioning.”

  “This is my office.”

  He hesitates as if not quite sure how to respond but pulls through with a respectable, “I am your guest—as you so eloquently pointed out.”

  “Ah, and therefore, I am trying to make you feel at home by trying to get to know you better.”

  “No—you’re just freaking nosey.”

  True. He has me there; I am nosey, mostly out of boredom. I don’t know if anyone knows this, but creatively marketing for a construction company isn’t exactly the most thrilling line of work on the planet. I’m basically designing signs to hang on the side of skyscrapers and postcards to hand out to the community when a large job is about to start, apologizing for the inconvenience. Please excuse our mess! kind of thing, the same message we received via memo from management about the remodeling.

  I tap a pencil on the surface of my desk, thinking. “It’s not a crime to ask questions. You’re covered in dog hair—sue me for not wanting you to walk around looking like a human lint roller.” I pull open a desk drawer and retrieve a roll of duct tape, sliding it across the surface of the mega-desk. “Here, I don’t have a lint roller, but this will do the trick. Just use the sticky side to pull off the hair.”

  Phillip pushes the tape back with the flat plane of his hand. “You’re funny, ha ha.”

  I know I am. Duh. “I’ll bring you one tomorrow. I think I have one lying around in a closet somewhere.”

  “Please don’t.”

  I put a palm up. “No thanks necessary.” I throw in a wink for good measure before pulling my top drawer open and rooting around for earbuds—if he’s going to sit and talk, I’ll have to drown out his noise. They must be here somewhere…

  He stops ignoring me. “Are you putting in headphones?”

  I point to my ears, which now have buds nestled inside them, cord plugged into the side of my desktop. “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “Are you serious?”

  I smirk at him. “Sorry, but you’re actually a bit too talkative and I have work to do.”

  Phillip looks stunned, then pissed, then—he smacks his hands down on the desk, affronted. “I’m the one who told you to be quiet!” he practically shouts.

  “Shh.” I hold a finger to my lips. “The door has to remain open. Don’t want everyone to hear you.”

  “Oh my God,” he mumbles, and I can hear him, because I don’t actually have any music on. “I’m so over this week already.”

  4

  Phillip

  Day.

  From.

  Hell.

  That’s what this was.

  Let me count all the ways things went wrong after I got settled into Her Majesty’s office today:

  She started calling me Puker after I tossed a wadded-up piece of paper into the trash, stating that all garbage cans remind her of me and how I tossed my cookies.

  When I came back from lunch, there was a small container of fresh cream cheese on my desk chair. Ha ha, not funny.

  Spencer Standish hums when she’s sketching storyboards.

  Spencer Standish hums when she’s using the computer.

  Spencer Standish hums. Perio
d. Not cute little songs or tunes a person would recognize—no. Her hum is more of an unquiet, out-of-tune palindrome. If she were humming outside, dogs would howl and cats would growl, i.e., terrible. Tone deaf. Dreadful humming.

  She licked her fingers after eating an orange. Sixteen times. I would know, because I counted. One lick after each bite, then she cleaned her digits one by one when she was done. Use a damn napkin next time!

  Spencer would not share her orange, and I didn’t even know I wanted a slice until I smelled its citrusy goodness wafting over and promptly wanted some. She refused—so not hospitable of her.

  Body tired, brain exhausted, I hip-bump the front door of my brownstone open, toss my keys down, shrug off my jacket, and squat, knowing that in five…four…three…two…

  One.

  Humphrey lumbers gaily around the corner, swiftly as a Basset Hound can, encumbered by long ears, a long body, and an overweight midsection. He howls enthusiastically, belting out a low bleat, on guard for the moment it takes him to realize I am not an intruder infiltrating the castle he must defend, bleary-eyed and fresh from his afternoon snooze.

  Humphrey finishes bellowing when he realizes it’s me, tail wagging, hard and hitting the coffee table, magazines sliding from its surface with every bang, onto the hardwood floor.

  One more thing for me to clean up.

  “Hey boy! Hey!” I scratch behind his ears. “Did you miss me?”

  Wet dog nose drifts to my pockets, sniffing for a treat. Surely there is one for him inside!

  Sadly, there is not.

  “Not today, boy. I’m fresh out, but I promise I’ll have some for you tomorrow.” I give him a few more pats on the top of his soft, smooth head. “Wanna go for a walk?”

  His tail thumps harder. Yes.

  “Let me take a piss and we’ll go. Get your leash!” I tell him, pointing to the mudroom where it hangs. “Go get your leash!”

  Humphrey does not get his leash.

  Lazy bastard.

  I stand, walking past him to the bathroom, and shut the door; if I don’t lock him out, his nose will be all up in my business, sniffing while I try to pee. Like a toddler who insists on being in the toilet with its mother, his body would take up half the space in the tiny room and make the simple act of peeing much more difficult.