Jerk Boss: A New Highland Romance

by Deana Farrady

  He studied her face like it was a puzzle to solve. She didn’t think he even noticed he was still stroking her cheek. She tried to match his nonchalance. "I only check out your set when I’m bored."

  "My set?"

  She lifted one shoulder. Might as well let him see exactly the kind of woman he’d decided to bring along to this fine dining establishment.

  "The hoity-toity people you hang around. I’m no different from the rest of this town, ya know." She deliberately exaggerated her native Western drawl. "I like to see what the rich and famous are up to. It breaks the monotony of the day-to-day. I used to follow your grandmother’s page, see what she was up to. Now that you're around, I check you out. It’s like anglophiles track the exploits of the royal family. New Highland has its trust fund babies, and, well, you guys are highly entertaining."

  She expected him to be offended; she would have been. She didn’t expect his smile to widen, like they shared a secret.

  "I’m just saying, I’m not interested in you personally, just as a, you know, local personality to follow," she said. "Like when you go to parties, it shows up in the FunTimes. And stuff about your work with wind power."

  Crap. This wasn’t working. He didn’t look put off, not one bit; if anything, he looked delighted, even charmed. He was still touching her, kind of cupping her cheek. Obviously she wasn’t stopping him, so she was at fault here too. Things were getting downright weird.

  "You’ve made it pretty clear," he said, his eyes darting between hers, "that you think I’m a jerk. I'm incredibly flattered that you stalk me online. Just don't believe everything you read in the papers. They like to stir up trouble."

  "I'm not stupid." She bit her lip. "I know you're not that bad."

  "But still a jerk? Keep up the compliments and I’ll think you’re flirting with me, Lia."

  She gave a short laugh. "Nah, I don’t flirt. I’m too busy. I’m kind of a loner, I guess is what I’m saying."

  His hand suddenly tightened on her jaw. "Lia, I’m sorry about your cat. I—I'm sorry."

  Oh, damn, dammit. Why did I have to start whining? Don’t lose it here, of all places, in front of this guy!

  But then the jerk went and asked what exactly had happened to Max, and she found herself spilling the entire story of Max’s last days, how hard the decision had been and how guilty she felt for not making it sooner.

  His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. "You miss the little wildcat."

  "Yeah, I do." And she had to blink away more tears. Nervously she fiddled with the stem of her wine glass. It was just a stupid thumb wiping saltwater away. There was no reason to get all choked up. It probably only happened because she hadn't talked to anyone extensively about losing Max before.

  Some anyone. March Ulrich. Her douche of a boss. She must be really desperate for sympathy here. Though she had to admit he was acting pretty decent about it, all in all.

  "How long did you have him?" he asked.

  "Since I was a freshman." She wiped her eye with her knuckles impatiently. "Somebody brought kittens to homeroom and Max was the scaredy cat of the litter. He was so hyper; he made me laugh. I guess I thought he could use someone...anyway I hid him in my room till I realized my folks couldn't care less if I had a cat. They hardly even noticed he was there till he started tearing up the house. Once they’d kicked him enough times, Max got good at avoiding them, and I got real good at refinishing furniture and replacing windowsills."

  "So was Max your onl—"

  She jumped back as the server set a bread basket on the table. March caught her salivating and plucked out a divinely scented braided roll and held it out to her. Realizing it was fresh from the oven, she wrapped her palms around it with a moan. She might have cradled the roll to her cheek. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

  "I don’t remember." His voice had gone husky. "Feeling warmer yet?"

  "Yeah," she said, not meeting his eyes. Warmer and illogically comforted. March was being way too nice. This whole day was turning out way too nice.

  "What are you thinking right now, Lia?"

  There was no way she’d tell him she was thinking of kissing him and a whole lot more. This entire conversation was a bad idea. She shouldn’t be sitting here becoming more and more convinced that March Ulrich was interested in her. Interesting to her.

  "I’m thinking about the ceiling light in Dr. Domenzich’s kitchen," she lied. "He says the LED has been flickering." When he didn't respond, she babbled desperately, "But I'm thinking he's got it confused with the fluorescent over in the dining room, those are always flickering. And he said his tile grout is chipping so I'd better check that out. Oh, and I ran out of mildew remover. I need to restock...I better write plungers down too, I had a couple reports of overflowing toilets and with all the rain and snow this season..."

  March leaned back in his seat and cross his arms.

  "That reminds me," she went on doggedly. "When I was vacuuming, I saw some dust on your ceiling fan. I’ll probably take care of that when—"

  "Tell me, Lia, were you born stubborn, or did you have to apply yourself to get that way?"

  "I don’t know what you mean." Of course she did.

  He gestured broadly. "Look around. Do you see a supply closet? It’s taken me a year and a snowstorm to get you to talk to me about something other than your job. If you think I’m going to allow you to move the conversation back to light fixtures, you’re out of your mind."

  She widened her eyes. "Why would you even want a conversation with me?"

  His eyes lingered on every feature of her face. Instead of answering, he said, "We’re very alike, you and I."

  She gave an inelegant snort—a good way to prove him wrong. "How d’you figure that?"

  "We have a lot of things in common. I look at you and I see someone...familiar."

  What a corny line. Geez. The man really had no shame.

  "Oh, yeah? You think I'm smooth like you? Nah, I’m pretty sure you were asking for the wine list as soon as you came out of the womb. I mean you literally think doors come pre-installed with locks. And I’d bet my bank savings that you can’t tell a sheet of drywall from foam board. We're not alike at all, Ma—" She broke off before she used his first name.

  His eyes gleamed. "I can assure you, Lia, that breasts gave me all the nourishment I needed as a baby."

  And of course he’d go there.

  "But you’re right," he continued smoothly. "I have no idea how to install a door, and as for drywall...you’d win the bet. But I can put together a mean circuit board."

  "I can do that, too."

  He laughed. "Why am I not surprised?" He began ticking off fingers. "You say your parents don’t care. Well, my sire considers me surplus to requirements. The fact that I inherited Susanna's estate? He hates it. He's so busy trying to compete with me that he misses the fact that he has a son. You have—you had—a demon cat that scratches anything that can’t scratch back and meant the world to you. Well, I had a maniac finger-biting turtle. I had it for twenty years. I loved that stupid reptile. I was a quiet kid who kept to myself, not the smooth talker you seem to think I am. I’ve been told by the highest authority that I’m rude. Lia, I’ll be honest with you, your sass makes me look like a rank amateur. It amuses me no end when you try not to be raunchy when it's so obvious you'd curse like a sailor if you let yourself go. And like me, you like to kiss with your whole mouth."

  About halfway into his little speech, Lia's airways clogged up. By the end, she'd gone paralyzed.

  He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. "I could live on a fishing boat. I ordered you salmon instead of herbed venison, their specialty, because something tells me you get wet for fresh-caught fish. And judging by your online profile, you hate boring routine and sappy films that end predictably. I happen to hate those things, too. Here."

  He slid her cell phone to her. When she reached for it automatically—still caught on get wet—where did the man get off saying that to her—also how did h
e even know about her and fish?—he took the opportunity to capture her hand.

  "I’d bet my savings you’re a Black Stallion kind of girl. I've been thinking we could meet up on horseback one day. You ride, don’t you? Or want to..."

  "Hardly ever, only a couple times at a friend’s house," she scoffed. She loved horses.

  "And I think about kissing you, undressing you, making you lose your composure, I'm talking about making love to you, sweet-and-sour Lia, way more than I probably should, given that you're irate with me ninety percent of the time." His thumb lazily circled her palm. "You might not be quite as hooked as I am on the idea, but judging by the way you kissed me, you’ve thought about it."

  Her mouth clamped shut, though she was bursting to giggle hysterically, sweet and sour? She fixated on their linked hands, finding strength in one mantra. Admit nothing.

  "I may flirt, if you want to call it that, but I'm not the player you seem think I am. I haven’t taken a woman to bed, hell I haven't even gone on a second date with anyone since...well since I acquired a building manager who gives me the bird when she thinks I’m not looking. This same woman—look at me, you know I'm talking about you—makes me lose sleep on a regular basis. It’s been...frustrating." He inhaled deeply. "Do you ever think what our first time together will be like, Lia? I envision it happening fast...way too fast. We'll go slower the second time. Definitely by the third....."

  Lia was just sitting there, speechless, when a discreet server set fragrant plates were smoothly onto the table.

  March gave her hand an almost-too-hard-squeeze. "Eat up. You're all chilled and I want you thoroughly warm for the next part..."

  THE NEXT PART CAME AFTER a long, lazy, delicious dinner. If this were a real date, she’d deem it the best date ever. She didn’t mind—okay, she kind of liked—his provocative comments. Which he shamelessly kept coming, even while spouting nonsense that had her laughing so hard her tummy hurt.

  March Ulrich wasn’t supposed to be funny. He wasn’t supposed to be relaxed. His humor, like her own, was sharp but earthy, and she quickly lost her wariness about saying whatever thoughts came into her head.

  Thoughts like, if you ever tell anyone I thought Spinal Tap was really some famous band, I’ll break your jaw, and I am the grossest brusher-of-teeth ever, worse than Professor Sheridan—that poor guy, his sink looks like a Crest factory exploded in it, and I wouldn’t pay a hundred bucks for a bottle of olive oil, you're out of your mind. And also, You know, Mr. Ulrich, you have a ridiculously perfect nose. You could be a nose model for decongestants and neti pots. Your nose gets to me. Sure, she may have had a wee bit too much wine.

  And she launched into rants. She told him how Cecelia took her for granted and about telling off her parents and how good it had felt to finally get her feelings off her chest and make progress toward her goals.

  To her everlasting shock, he'd turned and actually high-fived her. "Guess I should count myself lucky you didn't tell me where to get off when I called," he teased, and when she nodded, saying, "You bet your tight psoas," he laughed out loud. "That look on your face right there is the reason I'm always thinking about kissing you."

  He kept hitting her with sexy zingers like that. If we were alone I’d be setting you on my lap right now. And I’ve never met a woman who looks so riveting while she insults me right to my face. And he touched her. Her hand. Her face. Her neck. There was nothing improper about it, yet it made her shudder and goose bumps rise on her skin, even as she got hotter, not colder.

  She was forced to revise her assumptions about him. What she’d observed March Ulrich doing on social media wasn’t flirting. This was flirting. There was no mistaking it. He advanced, he retreated a tiny bit until she relaxed, and then he really advanced. He’d pause to look at her, slip in a wicked but never-snide reference to one of her body parts, usually an innocuous one, like her elbow or her fingernail, and before she could respond he’d go on smoothly about whatever they were talking about before.

  He surprised her when he said over his third glass of wine, "You’ll be glad to know I’ve decided to put the building up for sale."

  She laid down her fork with a clatter. "What? Why?"

  "I only held onto it in the first place due to you. And obviously you’re why I'm even in the building at all."

  "Me." She snorted. "Ha ha. Very funny."

  He narrowed his eyes. "What’s funny about that?"

  She was starting to wonder if she would ever understand this man. "What are you talking about? What do I have to do with what you decide to do?"

  His look held exasperation. "You heard me."

  "You're trying to tell me you moved in because I was here? Mr. Ulrich—"

  "March."

  "Ma—arch. Right. Look, I know you find me hilarious for some reason, but I don't find this funny."

  "Who's being funny? The fact is, if you weren’t around, I wouldn’t be, either. I've been lost since the day I saw you at my grandmother's funeral, crying into your cat's fur." He swirled his wine, looking down at it. "You see a jerk. Fair enough. I see myself being a stammering idiot. I had this idea I'd get on solid ground if I saw you every day. Obviously that backfired. The job has only made you pissed at me. I’d rather you be pissed at some other poor bastard. Actually, I’d rather—" He stopped, glanced up. Lia followed his gaze as a shadow fell over the table.

  "Well, well, well," said Trisha sweetly, "look who's here." The waitress glared down on them with her hands on her slim hips, slitted gaze darting back and forth between Lia and March. "So this is what's taking up all your time, Lia. How...interesting."

  "Trish—" she began, and March cut in with, "This is the Trisha you told me about?" and slid back his chair and stood up, holding out his hand.

  "Yes," Lia gritted. "March Ulrich, meet my friend, Trisha Faber. Trish, meet my boss."

  Trisha beamed. "It's wonderful to meet you, March. I've heard so much about you, you have no idea." She wrinkled her nose. "You're catching me at a bad time. In my day job I'm a pharmacist. All my bioengineering friends work over at Feehan, so you know I've heard all about your awards. I'm so jealous. And of course Lia's always telling me about her job working in your apartment building." She shook her head pityingly. "She has no idea what a marvelous building it is historically, all she sees is the plumbing. She's always saying how much she loves being a—" she held up quote fingers—"fix-it droid and mop-mule. I think she really believes you run her ragged over there on purpose just to make her life challenging!"

  Trisha used a loud, carrying voice, and Lia felt ready to kill her, not to mention March as he threw back his head and laughed, then dazzled Trisha with a flirtatious smile.

  "I've heard about you, too," he said conspiratorially. "I'm glad to finally meet the woman who's willing to exploit Lia's good nature without a second thought. You're a brave soul to come over here and show your face to me. Most people would stay away," he winked, "for fear of payback. They'd know I don't let anybody fuck with Lia. Not even people calling themselves friends."

  There was utter silence for a few seconds. Not only their table but all the adjacent ones were motionless. Then Trisha mumbled something about being glad they were enjoying their dinner and backed away.

  "We were enjoying it," March said cheerfully and offered his hand to Lia. "Ready to leave, darling?"

  Lia stared from Trisha's ghosting figure to March's outstretched hand. Everything she learned about this man confused her. The alcohol swirled in her head. Darling. The men she dated didn’t call anyone darling. Babe. Doll. Sexy thing. Pretty eyes. If they said darling at all, it was in the cowboy way, not the sophisticated, romantic way. She shifted. If he had tried to draw a line between them that said your sort and my sort, he couldn’t have done it better than by saying darling.

  He was attracted to her, maybe even a little infatuated, enough to defend her, apparently; some quality he’d seen in her had convinced him she’d be fun in bed or something. But she definitely wasn't
his darling.

  "This was a mistake," she muttered, taking his hand. "I don’t date my boss. Bosses. Boss." She waved her hand. "Signers of my paycheck. God, what was I thinking? I’m so, so, so, sooooo drunk."

  He nodded at the half-full wine bottle. "On one and a half glasses of wine?"

  "I don’t drink straight wine," she retorted. "I’m more of a beer and cooler kind of girl." She let him pull her up, noting the warmth of his hand. She gave him a searching look. "What you said just now...thanks. I knew she worked here, I probably should have guessed she'd come over and...well, Trish gets real mean when she's thwarted. I'm not sure why you did that, you didn't need to say anything, but I sure liked it."

  He pulled her to her feet. "Your so-called friend is pure bitch. I've dated many women like her, sadly. And I sincerely hope you’re not drunk," he said into her ear. "If you’re drunk, I can’t do what I want to do to you when we get back to your room."

  "And what is that?" she challenged. "What do you assume is happening tonight?"

  His smiled. "Oh, Lia. With you, I never assume a single damn thing."

  CHAPTER 6

  AFTER ALL THAT, IT WOULD be pure recklessness to invite March Ulrich into her hotel room. "Crap," she said as they stood outside the door. "I can’t believe I’m considering this." Have considered it. Decided.

  She couldn’t even really blame impulse. If she were honest with herself, she'd been thinking about this from the moment he'd kissed her back at the apartment building.

  His hand settled on her waist. "In case it sways you in my favor, how about this...I’ll give you a bonus if you don’t let me in."

  She frowned in astonishment. If she didn't let him in.

  "It's the polar opposite of sexual harassment, you see. I reward you for not inviting me inside your hotel room. Thus I'm exerting pressure for you to refuse me."

  "You think this is a joke." She fumbled to get the door open.

  He sighed. "A joke? Absolutely not. I’m just trying to point out that that’s not what’s happening here."