The Boss Upstairs (Orchard Heights Book 3 (standalone))

by Roya Carmen

  I bit my lip. “What’s the charity?” I asked, curious and eager to get involved. Whatever it was, I knew it would be great. It was obviously his brainchild and dear to him.

  His smile faded, and his gaze tore from mine. He inched closer, and I could smell the delicious scent of his aftershave or cologne. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was intoxicating. His soft words were almost a whisper. “It’s for parents who have lost a child.”

  My heart stuck in my throat. I hadn’t expected anything quite this dark. I couldn’t utter a single word. The only thing I could think of was what it would be like to lose Ethan. I couldn’t even imagine. They say losing a child is one of the worst things one can live through, and although I’ve never experienced it, I’m inclined to agree.

  A long moment of silence filled the tight space between us, until I finally managed to speak again. “You are wonderful.”

  He smiled shyly.

  I blushed. “I mean… you are wonderful for doing such a great thing,” I clarified. “What a great cause to be involved in. I can’t even… imagine… if Ethan…”

  We got lost in each other’s eyes again.

  “There you are,” Claudia broke in. “What’s up?” she asked, a devilish grin curving her lips.

  I knew exactly what she was up to, and I kind of wanted to punch her in the face. She was busting my balls, sort of speak. She wanted to mortify me in front of him.

  “I was just telling Gretchen about my new charity,” Weston explained.

  She smiled, and he proceeded to tell her all about it too. I stood, not quite listening, taking in every inch of him, from the beautiful perfect angles of his face, the piercing green eyes and long lashes, the sensual lips, not to mention the gorgeous impeccably pressed button shirt. His silver cufflinks caught the light at one point, and I was mesmerized by his hands, his long slender fingers, perfectly manicured.

  I was imagining all the things they could do to me when Claudia shook me out of my reverie.

  “Don’t you think, Gretchen?”

  “Uh… yeah, I guess.” I had no idea what I was agreeing to, and I realized I needed to stop ogling and fantasizing like a sex-crazed teenager, and get my act together.

  On the plus side, I also realized that the woman in me hadn’t completely died as I had originally feared.

  This realization not only made me smile.

  It also scared me to death.

  2

  My jaw is still on the floor when Rosetta invites me to sit across from her at her office desk. I’m distracted by the views offered by the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding us.

  “Feel free to take a spin, and check out the place,” she jokes.

  I raise a brow, wondering if she’s serious.

  “No, really… do it. Those chairs don’t spin for nothing, Honey.”

  I laugh. She can’t be serious.

  She studies me for a long beat, eagerly awaiting my twirl.

  Finally, I press a heel on the marble floor, and push myself into a glorious spin. I turn twice and she cheers, clapping her hands.

  “There you go,” she says as she leans in. “I do that all the time. When the boss is not around,” she whispers. “He can be a real stick in the mud.”

  I smile hesitantly. Should we really be talking about the boss like this? The interview hasn’t even started yet.

  “But he’s a real sweetheart,” she adds with a smile. “He just needs to lighten up… you know what I’m saying, Honey?”

  I smile. I like her already. I’m not sure how I feel about her calling me Honey, but she does have a good twenty years on me I imagine, so I’ll let it slide. And besides, I get that a lot. People call me Honey, hun, sweetheart, love. Donovan used to say it was because of my sweet youthful appearance. Or perhaps it’s the fact that my hair is purple, or blue, or pink. It all depends on the week. This week, it’s blue.

  Finally, she flips open a red folder… my resumé. My heart skips a beat. She scratches her head, and I study her for a long beat. Her short tight curls are greying at the roots, and her cat-eye glasses hang low on her nose. She pushes them up, pressing at their center.

  My heart pounds a mile a minute as she peruses my resumé. I hope she likes what she sees. I hope she likes me. It’s imperative that she does, since she’s the one I’ll be working with mostly. I wonder if I’ll ever even see Weston. This penthouse loft is huge.

  That’s another reason my heart is misbehaving, the possibility of seeing him walk in at any minute, knowing he’s probably close by. The man is unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. There’s just such a presence about him. It may be quiet, but it is definitely strong. I’m sure he owns every room he enters.

  I study the space; a lovely mural of birch trees, two sleek chairs and a small table in the corner. Silk contemporary draperies frame the tall windows, and impeccably organized built-in bookcases line the walls. “This is a very nice office,” I offer, not able to stand the silence. “Very orderly.”

  She looks up and laughs. “Well, it has to be. The Boss doesn’t like anything to be out of order. A place for everything, and everything in its place kind of thing. I’m not usually this organized. You should see my apartment.”

  I smile. “My friend, Mischa, is kind of like that too. Sometimes when I’m at her place, I’ll move something around just to mess with her.”

  She sits up straighter with wide eyes. “I do that too. It drives the Boss Man crazy.”

  I laugh, imagining Weston losing his shit.

  Her smile fades as she dips her head again. “Well, you look good on paper, Honey,” she finally says. “That’s for sure.”

  I nod, not able to make eye contact as her face is still buried in my resumé.

  “And I see here that you have a lot of experience with branding.”

  I smile. “I do. When I was at Widrich Miller, it was all we did. I was there for six years. I have tons of examples in my portfolio.”

  She finally raises her gaze to mine, and studies me for the longest time, like a curious child. I stare back, slightly uncomfortable. What am I supposed to say now?

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” she teases. “Show me the goods, Honey.”

  I smile.

  “Yes, the goods…” I say. “I definitely have that.”

  She shakes her head. “I won’t believe it until I see it.”

  I laugh out loud. Damn, she is weird. But in a good way.

  “C’mon, Honey. Strip for me,” she jokes. Thank goodness she’s a woman, because this would be bordering on sexual harassment if she weren’t.

  I dip my head and reach for my portfolio case which is very big, and sometimes hard to carry around. I carefully unzip it with nervous hands, and awkwardly edge it toward her desk, waiting for her approval.

  “Uh… you might have to clear your desk a bit.”

  She swipes her hand across the desk and sends the papers and pencil and pens flying on the floor. Her Best Mom mug and framed photos are still standing.

  I stand, frozen with shock.

  Her grin is impish. “Let’s do this, Honey. Right on my desk.”

  Damn, she is weird. Very strange. But then again, I usually like strange.

  I slowly settle my portfolio across her desk, and I’m extremely careful not to knock her mug and frames off.

  “Yeah, just like that,” she says. “I like it.”

  I laugh again, and flip the cover open.

  That’s when I see him standing in the corner, watching us intensely, a delicious smile tracing his lips. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there.

  When our gazes meet, he walks over and closes the distance between us. “Please, don’t mind our lovely Mrs. Diaz. She’s a joker. I always tell her she should be doing gigs at Second City, not working for an old bore like me.”

  Old bore? Definitely not.

  My poor heart is now officially working overtime. God, I’m not even sure I can breathe. I hadn’t expected him to just pop in lik
e this.

  He leans over the desk, looking as delicious as the last time I saw him, but a lot more casual; dark jeans and a soft grey sweater. I want to reach out and touch the light stubble on his jaw, barely there.

  “Show us your work,” he says. “I’d love to see.”

  Damn.

  I can barely breathe, let alone speak and move my hands.

  I suddenly feel hot and clammy. I reach for my hair, but it’s up in a professional bun, the blue strands hidden. I hesitate for a few seconds, frozen. So many thoughts whirl around in my brain, at rocket speed. I need to do this. This job depends on this. They might not like my stuff, and that’s okay. I don’t need this job financially. I can do this. I’m a professional.

  I inhale a deep breath and start. Here goes nothing.

  “This campaign was for the opening of a brand new restaurant right here, in Wicker Park. The owners wanted a hip, contemporary vibe. They wanted to communicate that this is the kind of place you go to take the edge off after a long day or week at work,” I explain as I flip through the pages, showing them the various components of the branding; logo, business cards, menu, signs, advertisements, and promotional products from napkins to coasters and the like.

  “Very nice,” Weston says.

  “Is this place still running, or did it go belly up?” Rosetta asks, acting out what appears to be a garish hanging scene.

  I smile. “No, they’re still going and doing well,” I say proudly as if I had a stake in the place.

  “Show us more,” Weston urges, all smiles. God, he has the best smile…

  Focus.

  I walk them through my entire portfolio, explaining every job in detail. Weston shows quiet interest, while Rosetta cracks jokes at every turn. Who knew a campaign educating the public about STDs could be so funny? Chicago Health Services had been a big client.

  Finally, after I turn the back cover and close my portfolio, Weston politely offers his hand. I shake it enthusiastically. “Well, it was nice to see your work, Gretchen,” he says. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” I say, wondering if he has any pull with this job. Of course he would. He’s the boss. But has he decided to take himself out of the equation, and leave it all to Rosetta?

  Miraculously, I can breathe again once he’s out the door.

  Rosetta cocks a brow. “You like the looks of him, don’t you?”

  I almost choke on my own spit. “Uh…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I mean… look at the man. I get it. If I were ten years younger, I couldn’t work here. I couldn’t focus long enough to get anything done.”

  I smile and nod, not knowing what else to add.

  “But ever since I hit menopause, it’s like Arizona down there. I don’t quite look at men the same way I used to.”

  I can’t help but laugh a little.

  “Just don’t get any ideas about him.” She leans over her desk, her dark eyes serious. “He’s kind of stiff. I haven’t seen a single woman around. He might secretly be a monk.”

  I smile, wanting to know more.

  She presses a dainty finger under her chin, deep in thought. “Except for the ex-wife… she’s quite a character. I suppose he’s not gay if he was married…” her words trail off. “He could be asexual…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking like this. Forget this whole conversation.”

  “What conversation?”

  She laughs. “I like you. I’m sorry… it’s just that I work mostly alone here, save for Mr. Barely-Ever-Talks, and I love people, and sometimes I kind of go batty around here. And you… You have the kind of face that makes you… You know what I mean?”

  I nod. “I get it,” I tell her, “because I’ve been going batty too, alone in my apartment with no one but a two-year old. His vocabulary is kind of limited.”

  She laughs. “I think we probably both need a friend.”

  I smile. “I think so too.”

  I’ve so nailed this interview.

  We proceed with the interview. She tells me all about the position, and the charity, which has yet to be named. I tell her about Ethan, and how I already have daycare, and it shouldn’t be a problem. I want her to know that I’d be fully dedicated to the job. I tell her that this is the perfect opportunity for me, and make sure she knows I’m very interested.

  We leave with a hand shake and a hug, which is kind of atypical for a job interview. I don’t think I’ve ever hugged a potential employer before.

  I leave with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step.

  3

  Claudia is super perky this afternoon. Her place is a complete mess, but she doesn’t care. She’s in love. His name is James, and he’s a chef. I smile, hoping this one works out because Claudia can’t cook to save her life. Her and her son Colton could use a good meal. Apparently, James is divorced too, and has two teenage sons, slightly older than Colton.

  She’s been going on for over an hour about him, when Mischa who looks bored, changes the subject. “So, Gretchen. How did the interview go?”

  Abigail perks up. “Oh yeah, I forgot… the interview. How did it go?”

  “Was Mr. Dark & Mysterious there?” Claudia asks.

  I smile. “We can stop calling him Mr. Dark & Mysterious now. His name is Weston.”

  Claudia smirks. “But I like calling him Mr. Dark & Mysterious.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah… he was there.”

  “How did he look?” Mischa asks.

  “Amazing… God, I could barely breathe around him,” I confess.

  Abigail smiles. “Well, that might be a problem if you get the job.”

  “Well, I actually would be working mostly with his assistant, Rosetta,” I explain. “She’s a hoot.”

  “Is that the older lady he’s with sometimes?” Claudia asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “I knew it wasn’t his mother,” she says. “They look nothing alike.”

  “Anyway, she’s a lot of fun—”

  “What is the penthouse like?” Mischa asks.

  My eyes widen at the recollection. “It’s amazing. You would love it, Mischa. Everything is so pristine and perfect, and you can tell everything is top-notch expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows and the views are fantastic.”

  Her smile is tight when she says, “You really want the job, don’t you?”

  I nod, knowing that I’m in for a huge heartbreak if I don’t get it. I’m starting to worry. It’s already been three days.

  “You’ll get it,” Abigail says. “I can feel it.”

  I smile at my sweet friend. I hope she’s right.

  The room is as dreary as I remember. It’s only my second time here. I didn’t hate it the first time. I didn’t love it either.

  My gaze darts over the posters on the wall, the colorful marked calendar, the table covered with tea and coffee and store-bought cookies, the kind I don’t like; cinnamon swirl and oatmeal.

  I’m early again. There’s only four of us, seated in a circle. Deanna, the group leader, a tall delicate blonde, is shuffling through her notes and papers. She’s a soft-spoken woman with a calming voice, about forty or so. If she weren’t a social worker, I could easily imagine her as a yoga instructor. She has a zen quality about her.

  She’s married and has two children, a boy, ten, and a girl, eight. I forget their names now. She’s been working as a social worker for almost twenty years. She’s a Grief Counsellor at the hospital nearby. She’s called in to console the loved ones of the deceased. I wouldn’t want her job for all the money in the world. Yet, I’m thankful there are people like her around. She’s as close to an angel as you can find on earth.

  I know all this because we chatted a bit last week since it was my first time at the Grief Counseling Group.

  I blame Abigail for all this. She’s been on my case for a long time about this, harping on the fact that I need to properly grieve Donovan. She just wouldn’t let it go, so I finally relented and let her do
her thing, and find a group for me. I promised to go, and now I feel obliged, accountable.

  I hate everything about this place; the hard chairs, the crappy cookies, the dumb motivational posters. I’m debating how many weeks I’m obliged to attend in order to prove that I really gave it a go when he walks in.

  Samuel.

  He shoots me a tight smile as he takes a seat next to Charmaine, who has recently lost her husband. Charmaine is old, about eighty or so, and her husband was eighty-six. Don’t get me wrong, but I don't feel too bad for her. The man was old. He lived a full life.

  She was friendly last week, telling me that she too, had lost her husband, and could understand how I felt. Really? I wanted to say. Was your husband only thirty-four? Were you carrying his unborn baby? Did you cause his death? Of course, I already knew all the answers. Her husband had died of a heart attack.

  Her situation is nothing like mine. I don’t want her anywhere near me.

  Samuel, on the other hand, I can relate to. His sixteen-year old daughter committed suicide two years ago, and he has since gone through a divorce. Now, that’s just as fucked up as my situation.

  He can sit next to me.

  The members trickle in slowly as we all nervously fidget, check our phones and make awkward small talk. Last week, there were eight of us. I wonder how many people will show up today.

  When the clock strikes five minutes past seven, Deanna officially starts. I steal a glance at Samuel. I feel so sorry for him. He seems like a kind person, an attractive well-dressed man. He seems so pulled together, but I’m sure that inside, he’s as messed up as I am.

  “Hello, everyone,” Deanna cheers. “How was everyone’s week?”

  We all nod and smile tightly. Good. All right. Not bad. Are we all telling the truth? Or are we all full of shit? I really don’t know.

  Deanna perks up. “So, we have a new member here today,” she announces, her hand tilted toward the young woman.