Bachelor Boss

by Sara Ney

  Or help when she has a question.

  I’m helping her now, hand braced on her desk as I reboot her computer after it froze up, the dreaded whirling rainbow spinning round and round against the backdrop of her beloved design project, curser disappeared for good.

  Control-alt-delete.

  Force quit. Shut down. Restart.

  I hover over her, the two of us transfixed, watching the screen come back to life after my hands contorted across her keyboard, pushing this button and that to bring the whirling to a screeching halt. Everything goes black then, seconds later—springs back to life.

  Thank God.

  Spencer exhales with relief when a familiar icon pops up on the monitor, the rectangular box for her password glowing. She tilts her head, glancing up at me and beaming. “Oh my goodness, thank you so much!”

  “All I did was restart it.” I feel my damn self blush.

  We both know she could have called IT and they would have handled it, but she came to me. We both know all she had to do was restart the computer, but she didn’t—she came to me.

  “I could kiss you right now! I was freaking out.”

  Kiss me right now, kiss me right now.

  I clear my throat and avert my eyes. Do not look at her mouth, do not look at her mouth.

  That sweet, smiling mouth with those full, pink lips and straight, white teeth.

  Fuck.

  Like an alley rat, I scurry back to my seat. The last thing I need is an erection after getting a nose full of her musky perfume, or her seeing it.

  She’s not watching me, so I readjust the hardening dick in my pants.

  Spencer smells so fucking good, and if she knew she was turning me on the entire time I was pressing keys on her keyboard, she’s great at hiding it. Would not put it past her to purposely flip her hair so I could smell her shampoo, or lick her lips so I’d stare at her mouth.

  Like a dog with my tail between my legs, I hang my head on my side of the mega-desk and pretend to work. For the first time since moving my shit into Spencer’s space, I’m the one without focus. I’m the one daydreaming. I’m the one with the overactive imagination.

  Or am I?

  I watch her under the black rim of my glasses, the glare on the lenses from the overhead fluorescent lights masking my wandering gaze. What if she’s interested, too? Then what?

  Or. Perhaps she’s just one of those really nice people who likes mothering people, bringing them food and small trinkets to make life easier. Like lint brushes and granola.

  As much as I hate to admit it, Spencer is a sweet girl who means well, and for all the bickering we do…

  It kind of turns me on, too?

  Easy women are not my thing. Never have been. Bitches aren’t either, but Spencer isn’t really an asshole—just goofy and playful and determined as fuck.

  Like me.

  “Stop watching me,” she tells me without looking up, tapping away like a maniac—something I have not seen her do in days.

  “I’m not.” I totally am.

  She looks up, a lopsided grin on her face. “Stop.”

  “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “You’re not the boss of me.” She’s parroting our first argument from three days ago.

  “Spencer, you’re always bossy.” Also, stop working. I want to waste time and flirt with you and hear whatever outlandish shit you want to say.

  “If you would stop staring while I’m trying to work, we wouldn’t be arguing. Take a picture—it lasts longer.”

  “I’m trying to take a mental picture. This is a National Geographic moment—you out in the wild, actually working.”

  “Wow Phil, those are some harsh words. Harsh.” Spencer rubs her upper arm as if she’s been scalded. “That burns. Burns me deep.”

  An eye roll and she’s back to ignoring me in favor of the design layout on her screen. I want to see it, inspect it further. Get an idea of how good she is at her job.

  I roll my seat away from my desk and rise. Move around the desk to stand behind her.

  “What are you doing?” So suspicious this one.

  “I want to see what you’re working on.”

  “My God, please—go sit down.”

  “Can’t. Already up.”

  “I cannot work with you standing over me. It’s weird.”

  Yeah, it kind of is. Feels super intimate all of a sudden, especially when I bend to get a better look at the screen without the glare and catch a whiff of her ponytail.

  Automatically, my eyes stray down the back of her neck; she has a birthmark at her nape, a cherry red one that rises up into her dark hair. I wonder if she’s ever noticed, or if anyone has ever pointed it out, or if she’s the type of girl who is sensitive about imperfections on her body.

  Most likely? Not.

  Spencer—if I’ve learned anything about her—would tell me to piss off if I commented on it, good or bad, because Spencer walks tall and seems to give no shits.

  “If you’re going to hover, you have to tell me a secret.”

  “Okay.” I automatically agree, because I’m only half listening while openly staring at the graceful curve of her neck. “Wait—what?”

  “If you’re going to stand over me like you’re my supervisor and watch me work, you have to pony up a secret.”

  “Uh—that’s not even close to being a fair trade.”

  Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “Then go sit down.”

  I go sit down. There are no secrets I’m willing to spill to her face, despite having a mental list of them.

  I am in a secret club, Spencer, but can tell you nothing about it or I’ll lose a bet.

  Last night I dreamt of you naked. Unfortunately, Humphrey (who sleeps at the foot of the bed) was chasing squirrels in between snoring and woke me up mid-dream—but I confess you were not wearing clothes, and I woke up with a raging hard-on this morning. Thanks to you.

  Speaking of raging hard-ons: once, in high school, I passed out naked in the locker room while taking a shower, and the guys started a rumor that I have a micro-penis.

  I do not, in fact, have a tiny dick.

  Some of the assholes from high school still call me Tiny.

  Occasionally my sister does, too.

  We’re quiet for a while; I manage to focus my concentration on a development project. Schedule a meeting for the morning so I won’t have to rush in—so I won’t have to sit and covertly gawk at Spencer like a creep.

  God, I’m a pervert.

  The day drags on and I find myself watching the clock.

  Three o’clock and we haven’t spoken in an hour. Spencer ordered us lunch at noon, leaving only to grab the delivery from the lobby, returning with two brown paper bags.

  She plunked one on my desk, out of my way, fumes wafting to my nose and making my stomach groan. I polished off a hot roast beef sandwich in record time, and the baked beans and slaw that came with it.

  For a girl who likes to boss me around, she sure knows how to spoil me.

  Secret number 7: I’m going to miss her after tomorrow.

  Returning to my own office is going to suck balls come Monday. Granted, it will have nice, new carpet—but I’d rather have chatty, giving Spencer.

  11

  Spencer

  It’s not often I stay in the office working late—I usually don’t have to—but I’m on a roll with this design, and I’m afraid if I move from this desk, I’ll lose momentum.

  So here I am, moving my mouse around its pad, mind wandering as I click away and create.

  I had today and tomorrow with Phillip, and I’m already dreading the empty space on the other side of my desk. How lonely I’ll probably feel now that I’ve gotten used to his presence, how quiet the room will be without him.

  Like right now. Eerily quiet.

  Almost everyone has gone home except the owner of the company, the chief financial officer, and the secretary the owner is banging. Er—the one he’s in a relationship with? Cough,
cough.

  Until six o’clock, I could hear the carpenters on the south side hammering or pulling up carpet or whatever it is they’re doing over there (I haven’t checked). Then slowly, little by little, those sounds faded, and the only company I’m keeping is the honking cars and the train outside my office window.

  A few lights have been left on, but otherwise, only a few offices are lit.

  Numerous times, I’ve thought about music, about playing it low for background noise—company. But I started cranking away without it and I don’t want to jinx myself, so I work, head bent in the silence.

  The logo I’m designing for an industrial development outside the city is modern and sleek, a cool mix of silver and blue. I’ve added several buildings but no—

  “Hey! What are you still doing here?”

  “Holy shit!” I about crap myself, knocking over a container of pens and markers with my flailing arms. “You scared me half to death!”

  Phillip is standing in the doorway, ever-present laptop bag slung over his shoulder, black pea coat buttoned to the throat, baseball cap thrown on his head.

  Oh Jesus, he looks so cute.

  And thank God he’s not my boss. If I said Holy shit you scared me to the owner or CFO of the company, I would die from mortification.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” His grin says otherwise.

  “No, it’s fine. Only a mild heart attack.” I press my hand to my heart, feeling it race. “Whew! No biggie.”

  “I think I’m just as surprised to see you here as you are me.” He steps inside, cheeks flushed from the cold weather, tips of his ears bright red.

  “I felt inspired so I kept at it. What are you doing here?”

  “I forgot my power cord.” He leans down and unplugs it from the wall. “I was all the way home before I realized it and the dog chewed up my spare.” He stands with the cord in his clenched hand, the black plastic hanging like a snake in his grip. “I guess I’ll just…”

  He nods toward the door, intending to leave. Hesitates.

  I smile, nervously running a hand down the length of my ponytail.

  Giggle.

  Oh Lord…

  “Do you want some company?” His man bag is halfway down his arm, resting on the chair.

  “No, no—you go ahead home. I only have about an hour left.”

  The last time I checked, it was already past seven, but this design is still fresh in my mind, requiring more attention. If I stay on track, I can complete this project ahead of schedule, and wouldn’t that be a first?!

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind.” The laptop bag is on the floor now, Phillip unbuttoning his coat, one toggle at a time. He plops down in his chair, palming his phone. “What should we eat? Want anything to drink? Coffee, tea?”

  “You’re going to feed me?”

  “I have to return the favor, don’t I?”

  “No.” I blush. Dammit, I’m blushing. I’ve blushed so many times in the past few days I’ve lost count. I feel like a high school kid again, but it feels good. “But if you’re ordering food, I wouldn’t kick you out of bed.”

  He looks up then, expression frozen.

  “Shit. I didn’t mean—I mean, it’s… I say that all the time. It’s an expression.”

  Phillip gulps, tapping on his phone. “I know. It just caught me off guard.”

  “Yeah, I can’t imagine you’re a saint—I’m sure some pretty colorful language comes out of your mouth.”

  Your beautiful, full mouth.

  To his credit, he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he laughs. “I can throw down an F bomb when necessary.”

  My brows arch. “When is it necessary to use the word fuck in a sentence?”

  “Did you just swear at me?”

  “Not at you—to you.” I smile innocently, pleased by the shocked expression on his face. Good. I like surprising people; no doubt he’s misjudged me a few times this week. Probably as a girl who takes nothing seriously, or one who has a shitty work ethic.

  Which…sometimes I do, yeah—sue me.

  Just don’t fire me, ha.

  “I don’t know how to feel about you saying the word fuck. It’s weird.”

  “Why? Because I’m so sweet?”

  Phillip regards me, choosing his words. “Kind of.”

  What? WHAT? Is he being serious right now? He cannot casually call me sweet like that!

  “Oh? You think I’m sweet kind of?” I’m shamelessly fishing for compliments and I don’t care.

  “I see glimpses of it.”

  “What else?” I force my eyes to the computer monitor so I appear as casual as possible, eagerly anticipating his response.

  “Uh…um. Hmm.”

  He has to think about it? Well, shit. That’s not promising.

  I wait.

  “You’re goofy.”

  Goofy? That’s not cute or adorable. That’s…goofy.

  I don’t reply because I’m not happy with that description of myself. I purse my lips.

  Phillip laughs. “Okay sourpuss, I wasn’t insulting you.” He looks down at his phone. “Medium tea or small?”

  I sniff indignantly. “Medium.”

  From beneath my lashes, I see him hiding a grin in the collar of his dress shirt. He taps a few more times and nods, satisfied, setting the phone on the surface of his desk. “Dinner will be here in less than forty-five if we’re lucky.”

  “Thanks. I am getting hungry, and there’s nothing but carbs in the breakroom—I’ve had my fill for the day.”

  “You can stop pouting. I wasn’t done listing off all your adorable qualities.”

  Adorable? That’s more like it. I perk up, straightening my back a bit.

  “Sweet, most days. Giving—in a motherly way.” He pauses, thoughtful. “You’re funny and…”

  And?

  And!

  I lean forward, trying not to come off as desperate for his praise, but I’m desperate for his praise. Even if he thinks I’m giving in a motherly way. Relax, Spencer—he didn’t call you matronly. He said motherly—not the same thing. Chill out.

  “I’ve, um…watched how you interact with people in the office, and everyone loves you.”

  Aw, they do? “They do?” This is news to me; I assumed most people find me exasperating.

  “Yeah, they do. People gravitate toward someone outgoing. I’ve noticed when you go out into the common area, at least one person comes out of their office to talk with you.”

  I consider this new information. Come to think of it, he’s right—if I’m standing around near the cubicles, inevitably, one of my co-workers will come out of their office to chat. I’m shocked Phillip has noticed. I’m flattered, and…

  Does this mean he watches me when I’m not looking? When I walk out of this office, do his eyes follow me?

  I store this news away in my brain, mentally doing somersaults and cartwheels but schooling my expression.

  “Well. Other than you barfing in his trash can, I happen to know for a fact that Paul wants to be your friend.”

  Phillip gawks. Then blinks. “He does not.”

  I nod, holding up two fingers—scout’s honor. “He does. And I don’t mean in a ‘he wants to date you’ kind of a way, because I think he has a boyfriend, but he wants to hang out with you. Something about a dog park and your Basset Hound?”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  PHILLIP

  “…and then, my older brother and sister had to explain to me that being called Tuna Fish at school was not cool.”

  “Wait—tell me again why the hell you wanted to be called Tuna Fish?” I stab a piece of ninja roll sushi with a chopstick and shove it in my mouth whole, eel sauce catching on the corner of my mouth.

  Since the sushi takeout arrived, we haven’t done shit as far as actually working, talking instead. How we found ourselves seated on the floor, beside the desks, backs against the wall, I do not know.

  But we’re down here, laughing and
telling stories, cartons of food scattered.

  “I was in fourth grade, and a few days a week I would wear this dolphin shirt. My mom had to constantly wash it and it faded pretty quick, but I loved it. I was on a save the dolphins kick, you know? Total animal freak. Once at a water park, I swam around pretending to be a trout. I also wanted to save the wolves.”

  Oh boy.

  Spencer goes on. “So I wore the shit out of this shirt, and one of my little buddies starts calling me Tuna Fish. I think this is great, right? Running around the playground being called Tuna Fish.” We both laugh. “I mean, what the heck did I know? I was ten, and everyone else at school was using nicknames, and since I actually did love tuna, I went home and made the announcement to my family.”

  Dear God.

  “Yeah, I can see by the appalled expression on your face you’re having the same reaction my mother did.” Spencer is spooning up egg-drop soup and blowing it off to cool it. “Except Mom was too shook to tell me calling her preteen daughter Tuna Fish wasn’t going to happen. She bribed my older brother and sister with gift cards to the ski hill to break the bad news.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They said, ‘Spencer, you stupid idiot, don’t let them call you Tuna Fish.’ I was so confused. Then my sister goes, ‘It means fish, but it’s also…kind of like saying your crotch smells. Do you want people to think your crotch smells?’”

  I sputter on my tea. “Your sister said that?”

  “Brutal, those two.” She’s shaking her head at the memory, a smile playing on her lips. “I mean—they did me a favor by telling me the truth, so I went to school the next day and told everyone to stop calling me Tuna Fish, and I stopped wearing that T-shirt. Can you imagine? That name would have followed me through high school.” Her head shakes at the mere thought and she shivers. “Nightmare.”

  I agree. “I wouldn’t have wanted to ask a girl called Tuna Fish to prom.”

  A one-shoulder shrug. “I never went to prom anyway.”

  “You didn’t?” The news surprises me; if Spencer was half as cute as a teenager as she is now, I can’t believe boys weren’t beating down her door.