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

by Roya Carmen

  My spirits lift at the thought of my three best friends. “They are. I don’t know what I would do without them.”

  “And they all live here, at Orchard Heights?”

  “Yes… this is where we all met. One of those meet-and-greet parties they used to have. They were organized by Olivia, this woman who used to live here.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “We’re all different, but we all get along really well,” I go on. “Mischa is the most like me. She has two teenage boys, and she’s an accountant. She’s kind of uptight, likes everything in order all the time, but she’s great. She has OCD, I think.”

  “Wow, Mischa and I would get along famously,” he jokes.

  I laugh. “Yeah, I noticed that you’re super organized too. Mischa would approve.”

  He reaches for his glass of water. “What about the other two? What are they like?”

  “Claudia is a free-spirit. She has a young son, and she’s separated. She’s artsy like me. She’s a stage manager at The Den Theatre.”

  “Interesting.”

  “And Abigail is a social worker, the kindest woman you’ll ever meet.”

  He smiles. “You’re lucky to have them.”

  “What about you? You have a lot of friends?”

  He stares down at his plate. “No… I’m kind of a lone wolf. I catch up with my business partner once in a while, and I hang with the guys I play squash with sometimes. And then I have my kids.”

  I nod, wondering why he doesn’t mention a woman. Why would a man like him be single? I desperately want to ask if he has someone special in his life, but I don’t dare.

  Following the Thai food, he pulls out a blueberry pie, and I’m in heaven. I entertain him with anecdotes of Ethan’s shenanigans, and he reminisces about his own kids. He talks about his ex-wife. Apparently, she’s a criminal attorney. Although, he’s semi-retired and focusing on his philanthropy, she’s still very much an attorney, a workaholic he says.

  “I know what that’s like,” I tell him. “Donovan worked crazy hours. I was always alone, binge watching movies.”

  He shakes his head. “Now, that’s not right.”

  I smile. “I know!”

  “So you haven’t been out much, Grasshopper?”

  I laugh. “Not much.”

  I kind of like it when he calls me Grasshopper, but not as much as when he calls me Good Girl.

  Damn.

  His phone buzzes and he checks it. “Sorry, I need to take this. It’s Rosetta.”

  I scrape the remains off my plate. The pie was delicious, but I’m stuffed now.

  He laughs. “Good to hear,” he says. “Well, you take care of yourself. Take advantage of this. George can wait on you hand and foot.”

  He ends his call and smiles.

  “How is she doing?” I ask, eager to know.

  “She’s great,” he tells me. “But I think she may be on drugs.”

  I laugh. “Well, good for her.”

  He glances at his phone, wide-eyed. “Wow, it’s already three o’clock.”

  No way. We’ve been chatting for two hours? “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve monopolized your attention. I should be working.”

  He shoots me a playful grin. “No need to be sorry. I was a willing participant. Perhaps I’m the one who should apologize.”

  I smile playfully. “Definitely not.”

  God, am I flirting? Are we flirting? Am I flirting with my boss?

  I stand nervously, and start to clear the table. “Well, thanks so much for lunch. It was great. I can tidy all this up if you wish.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of letting you do that.” He helps me tidy. “Thanks for the company, by the way. I appreciate it.”

  I smile, but say nothing. He keeps robbing me of speech.

  We both clean up the kitchen, working in unison, not a single word uttered. He is meticulous, and I attempt to mimic his actions. I’m awkward, all thumbs. Finally, he relieves me from my misery. “Get back to work, Grasshopper,” he says with a wink, and my stomach goes topsy-turvy.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Hanson?”

  He scowls at me.

  “Uh… I mean Weston.”

  He shoots me another playful wink. “That’s better.”

  I scurry out, my insides shaking. My heart is still beating at a frantic pace when I get back to my desk. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but there’s definitely something going on between us, an unmistakable chemistry.

  Or maybe it’s all wishful thinking. Perhaps I’m just projecting. Because I’m so drawn to him, I might be imagining a reciprocated attraction.

  Yep. In my dreams.

  6

  “Aren’t you happy?” I ask him. “It’s your favorite.”

  I love the look on Ethan’s face when he digs into his favorite meal, my famous macaroni and cheese.

  Patricia glances at the clock. “You should hurry. You’ll be late.”

  “Thanks for being here,” I tell her. “You make my life so much easier.”

  “I think it’s a great thing you’re doing,” she says. “You should have done it a long time ago. Roger and I started grief counseling just week’s after Donovan’s passing.”

  A sharp pang stabs at my chest. She doesn’t know what part I played in her son’s death. She never will. If she knew, would she be here today? Would she still love me? I’d like to think she would.

  “I don’t really enjoy it,” I confess. “I hate those kinds of things… sharing your feelings with strangers and all that.”

  “Well, yes, they’re strangers at first, but then you get to know them better, and they’re in a position to understand what you’re going through. You should really try to befriend someone in your group. I did… my friend, Laurie. And we’re still friends today. She’s also lost a grown son.”

  “I guess you’re right… I should try.”

  She sweeps a finger across Ethan’s forehead, clearing his hair from his eyes. He’s due for a haircut. “I was so angry. I was mad at the world, and everyone tip-toeing around me. People couldn’t look me in the eye for the longest time… it was awful.”

  I grab my purse from the table. “Unfortunately, I know exactly what you mean.”

  “I found the grief group really helped with that. The dynamic was completely different there, a place where people really understood, a little haven from the real world.”

  I give Ethan another bite, and he eats it up. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  “Now let me take over,” Patricia insists. “You need to go.”

  I bounce from the table. “Yeah, I should go.” I hastily grab my jacket, and slip on my boots.

  “See you soon.”

  Samuel smiles at me as soon as I enter the hall, as if he’s been eagerly awaiting my arrival. No one else seems to notice my sudden appearance, too busy chatting and helping themselves to coffee.

  I take a seat next to him, and we exchange the usual polite chit-chat.

  When Deanna finally sits down with us, the room suddenly falls quiet, and she gets the meeting going, asking how everyone’s week was.

  There’s one new member tonight. A woman named Bernadette. But she insists that we all call her Bernie. I’m not sure I’ll be able to. Bernie sounds like a little old man’s name. She’s also lost a husband, but she’s younger than Charmaine. Her story is also sadder since she lost her husband to prostate cancer. She tells us about his long battle, and how hard it was. His passing was a relief, for the both of them.

  Some say I was lucky to not to go through that with Donovan. He died instantly. Yet, I never had the chance to anticipate his passing, to prepare myself. I was blindsided, and I wasn’t prepared.

  We go around in a circle and share what steps we’ve taken this week to move forward. I tell them all about my new job, and they seem genuinely happy for me. All the while, I’m also thinking about my new crush. I would never dream of confessing it to these people. It all feels so inappropriate and wro
ng. Firstly, because he’s my boss, and secondly because I’m still grieving Donovan. I still miss him every day, and I still wear his ring on my finger.

  Samuel tells us all about joining a dating site, and the disastrous date he went on with a woman who wanted to call him Daddy. For a brief moment, we all forget our lost ones, if only for a second or two, and we laugh.

  Following the meeting, many of us linger, including Samuel and I. I briefly chat with Bernadette, but quickly find my way back to Samuel. The two of us are like partners in crime. I think we distinguish ourselves from the rest of the group, older widowers who have lost spouses to cancer and heart disease. Ours are tragic stories, and we wear them like morbid badges on our chests.

  “I’m seriously thinking about bringing in my own cookies next week,” Samuel tells me. “These are awful.”

  I smile. “Yes, they are. Maybe I should make cupcakes. I make a mean cupcake, with the best frosting you’ll ever have.”

  He cocks a brow. “The best?” he teases. “Is it really the best?”

  “Yes, it’s absolutely sinful. I make it with icing sugar and butter, and frozen fruit… raspberries, blueberries. Sometimes pumpkin purée or peanut butter.”

  “Oooooh… stop it,” he pleads. “You’re making my stomach horny.”

  I burst out laughing and heads turn. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  He smiles, and his gaze fixes me for a long uncomfortable beat. “You want to get out of here?”

  “Uh…” What are we talking about exactly?

  He laughs. “I mean… coffee shop, somewhere with good coffee and baked goods.”

  I blow out a breath of relief, and remember Patricia’s advice to try to befriend someone in my group. “Uh… sure. I would love to. You know a place?”

  “Just around the corner.”

  “All right, sounds great, Daddy,” I tease. “Your little girl can’t wait.”

  He cracks up with laughter, and once again, heads turn.

  “Hey, if we don’t settle down, people are going to start talking about us,” he jokes as we wave our goodbyes and head out the door.

  “Let’s give them something to talk about,” I sing as we head out, the famous song by Bonnie Raitt, and to my delight, he knows it and joins in.

  We’re both sober, but we’re acting like drunk teenagers as we walk into the little place around the corner.

  It’s Friday, and normally I would be ecstatic that the work week is almost over, but I find myself a little saddened. I’ve enjoyed the work so much, not to mention the daily lunches with a certain very attractive boss.

  I’ve dived into the project, dedicating myself completely to the task. It’s what I tend to do when I get excited about something. There’s so much to do. Building a multi-channel campaign is no easy feat. First, there’s the branding, the logo and color theme. Then there’s the printed materials; pamphlets, business cards and the like. Then we have the website to outsource, and social media channels to launch. Thankfully, we’re skipping radio and television ads.

  There’s a lot of work to do because we need to get this new charity out there, educate the supporters and the grieving souls we want to help. Thankfully, we shouldn’t have problems getting supporters, since it’s all for such a good cause.

  We need to keep the message consistent. Love, support, calm, hope.

  It feels wonderful to be making a difference. All my past jobs have been dedicated to help the bottom lines of various profit organizations. This is new to me, and I like it a lot.

  Around one o’clock, as is the custom, Weston rounds the corner and flashes me a playful smile. I’m guessing he’s in his late thirties, but when he shoots me that excited grin, he looks about ten years old.

  I smile back, giddy.

  “Are you hungry, Grasshopper?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “I’ve ordered Japanese,” he tells me. “You mentioned that you like it.”

  I sit to attention, excited. “I do.”

  “It should get here any minute.” He stares down at my work. “Your desk is a mess.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry.”

  He smiles. “It’s okay… I understand. That’s how you creative types work. I don’t intend to spread my neuroses to you.”

  I make a quick attempt to tidy up. “Rosetta says you do,” I tease.

  “I do… guilty,” he admits, “but, with you, I’ll try to hold back.”

  “And I’ll try to be as tidy as I can.”

  “It’s all about compromises.”

  I follow him closely as we walk over to the kitchen. He offers me a glass of wine. He has quite the extensive collection. I opt for a red Shiraz — we’ve been indulging and drinking wine at lunch.

  His gaze runs over me as he hands me my glass, and I feel it deep inside. I’m quick to take a sip because I desperately want to take the edge off. Being in such close proximity to him is nerve-wracking.

  He’s so damn beautiful, especially up close like this.

  We both stand in silence for the longest time, and it’s not weird. We’re already getting more comfortable around each other. At the start of the week, we could have never looked at each other like this.

  “So I was pondering my silly moniker for you,” he says, his voice deliciously soft. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  I smile. “No… not at all. It’s fun.”

  “I was thinking it over. Seeing as you’re so dedicated, I should have rather called you Worker Bee or Busy Little Ant.”

  I laugh out loud.

  He bites his lip. “You have a beautiful laugh.”

  I’m speechless. No words. At all. Mute.

  “Uh… I’m sorry,” he falters. “You know The Ant and the Grasshopper? One of Aesop’s most famous fables?”

  “Yes, of course. I read it occasionally to Ethan. I love the message it conveys.”

  “Well, then you know how lazy the grasshopper was,” he teases. “The ant was the responsible one. I’m more of an ant myself.”

  “I’m kind of a grasshopper,” I confess. “Except when it comes to my work.”

  He takes another sip of his wine. “Well, then the moniker fits.”

  We fall into another long silent stare, and my breath is about to get away from me when the doorbell buzzes.

  “Food’s here,” Weston cheers.

  I blow out a long breath as I reach for the plates in the cupboard. I love Japanese, but I might be too worked up to eat. All I can think about is kissing him, touching him.

  I love it. And I hate it.

  I haven’t felt like this about anyone, no one since Donovan.

  He’s as excited as a kid when he gets back, hands full of bags. We dig in eagerly and shuffle containers around. I fetch some serving spoons and we help ourselves.

  “This is so good,” I tell him.

  He digs into the unon noodle dish. “Yes, I always order from this place.”

  “Do you ever cook?” I ask. “You have such an amazing kitchen.”

  He shrugs. “Occasionally, if I have the kids. If it’s just me, I’d rather order in.”

  I nod, wondering again why he’s alone. “How often do you get your kids?”

  “Every other week.”

  I reach for a gyoza. “And that works well?”

  “Well, as well as it can.”

  “It’s tough, I imagine… shared custody.”

  “Well, it’s easier since we’re close to each other. My ex-wife fell for an artist in the area, and decided that she’d move in with him,” he tells me between bites. “I wanted to be close to my children, so I decided to move here too.”

  “Well, good for you. Orchard Heights is great, isn’t it? I love it here. I mean the condo fees are a little high, and it could use some updating with the old fashioned keys and all. And those ear-splitting door buzzers, someone should really do something about that.”

  He laughs. “I’ll make a mental note… replace door buzzers.”

  I
eye him dubiously, confused.

  He smiles. “I not only bought the penthouse, I bought the whole place.”

  “Uh…” I’m speechless. “You’re the owner?”

  He shrugs. “It’s what I do. I own condo buildings. Usually I build them from the ground up, but I consider this one a passion project. I have a few plans for it.”

  “Funny… I’ve always dealt with Freddy. I kind of thought he owned the place.”

  He laughs. “No, Freddy is the building manager. He does an amazing job, which is why you never see me.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to tell my friends about this.”

  He raises a brow. “I seem to be a frequent subject of conversation amongst your little group.”

  I blush. “You are. You always have been.”

  “Well, if I had any friends, you’d definitely be a subject of conversation too.”

  I smile, slightly ill-at-ease. “But seriously, this kitchen…” I say, attempting to change the subject, to cool the room. “It’s amazing. This whole place is fabulous. I mean, I’ve only seen a small part of it—”

  “I could show you more.”

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  “Really? You wouldn’t mind?” I ask. “I’d love to see it.”

  My eyes are suddenly greedy, eager to discover all the hidden corners of this fabulous space.

  “I’ll give you a tour after lunch.”

  I can’t eat fast enough, eager as a kid on Christmas morning. I’m superwoman as we tidy the kitchen, and when I hang the dishtowel on the oven bar, I flash him an eager smile.

  7

  “Are you ready for your tour, Miss Morris?”

  “Definitely. Can’t wait.”

  I follow him through the kitchen and living room. “Well, since you’ve already seen the offices and living area, we’ll move on to the bedrooms and playroom.

  Oooooh… playroom.

  We walk down the hall, and he stops at a lovely bedroom painted in shades of white, and flicks on the light switch. It’s feminine and orderly and very pretty. “Elizabeth’s room,” he says. “Spotless. She’s like me.”