Boss

by Scarlett Ross

  “You have coffee on you.”

  Nodding, I take the offered handkerchief and begin to blot away the droplets. He shrugs back into his sweat-streaked tank, and we are effectively removed from whatever outcome was about to happen. My relief is sullied by the disappointment in my loins. Was this a moment? Would he have kissed me? Would I have kissed him back, and, more importantly, how far would we have gone? Thoughts of Fifty Shades of Grey fill my mind. How cliché, but damn, what’s wrong with cliché in some of those hot moments? We even had the elevator.

  “What is it about elevators, right?” I randomly quote the book, and PJ stares at me like I just spoke in Sanskrit.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, just a silly thought I had. I am so sorry. I hope you’re alright. I was on my way up, and I know you get to the office early. Starbucks was giving away two for one, so I thought I might bring you the additional one.” Mentally I shake my head at myself. When has Starbucks ever given away two for one? Of course how would I know? I just now started indulging. Damn, my slip makes me feel vulnerable, yet he doesn’t seem to pick up on it. The elevator pings, and we are at our designated floor. What the hell do I do now? My plan is shot to shit, and my coffee is scattered about the space. Leaning down, I go to pick up discarded cardboard cups and see PJ do the same. Picking one up each and holding it tightly between us, we exit together. He hurriedly makes his way to his office. Who can blame him? He’s shirtless and splattered with hot coffee. My path diverts to my own desk.

  “Ainslee?”

  “Yes?”

  He looks down at my blouse and seeing coffee spots, I realize I have committed the cardinal sin of Monroe Enterprises. Looking a mess, stained and mussed my thoughts wander . . . How I can look presentable within the next few hours before the comments regarding my bedraggled appearance start? Calling Mr. Barrett isn’t an option, as he mentioned having a school breakfast event with his son. Taxi or Uber is a possibility, but then I would be late, which would earn me the same fate as being soiled.

  “If you need a clean shirt, I have spares in my office. You could probably fit in some without being too noticeable.”

  The thought of being half naked in his office is almost too much to handle, but I need a new shirt.

  “Thank you. I am so sorry for the intrusion. I was waiting for the elevator, and you pinged, and I just jumped. I mean too much caffeine and poof! I’m a mess. Are you alright? Did I scald you? There is a great burn salve I used once after too much sun. It’s practically a miracle drug! My skin burns standing too near a window, so trust me, this stuff works.” The cliff of babbling has claimed me, and PJ seems to be wondering why I’m standing there continuing my mindless chatter.

  “It’s more than fine. Accidents happen. Please come in and change.”

  He opens the door, and I enter haphazardly, praying not to have another accident. My breath is finally getting back to normal, but his office takes it away again. Cozy and beautifully decorated, I can see what I would consider a normal office to be here. Framed degrees hanging on the wall, family pictures on every surface, and soft touches everywhere. A Louis XII chair is sitting in the corner with a Paw Patrol table set in front of it. Whose is that, I wonder? A random Taco Bell wrapper is laying atop an antique chest. It’s the best mix of wealth in every way possible, and my heart swells.

  “My private bathroom is behind the divider. Please do whatever you need to do to clean up. The closet next to it has a shrunken peach shirt from my attempt at doing my own laundry. Should fit you if you have a blazer to put over it? If not, I can send out for one.”

  “No, I have a blazer. Thank you.”

  He nods briefly and heads to the desk to do whatever he needs to do. As inconspicuous as I can, I move toward the divider. A small but efficient bathroom is hidden behind it, and I quickly shed my soiled shirt. Why is he being this accommodating? Any of the other men would have sent me away in shame, but he seems to be someone else entirely. It’s the accent, a true Southern lilt implies hospitality given and never feigned. Gingerly shirking out of my blouse, I turn to see his closet to find the aforementioned peach shirt. Rows upon rows of suits, shirts, and pants are displayed. Seersucker suits are apparently a thing, as I spy at least two more. Touching his clothes, I pick up a scent I’ve never smelled before. Sweet. Salty. I’m reminded of a trip to Seaside Heights as a girl and reminisce. He smells like the ocean and the taffy shop all at once.

  “Yummy,” I mutter and take the peach shirt to try it on. More than a few sizes too big. I’m pondering if I can make this work when I realize I have stepped out of the cover of the divider. And PJ is watching me. Throwing my hands up to cover my lacy transparent bra, he looks a little longer and then reluctantly, gives me his back. Shit. PJ just saw my breasts to some degree. I try to get angry, but it doesn’t come. Only desire is filling my addled head. Desire to see him again without his shirt. Desire to see him rip off this ridiculous peach shirt and feel me. Desire to be under him in this charming and not flashy office. I want to run away, but my hands reach for the shirt. No, Ainslee, get the hell out there. Mission aborted. Buttoning up the shirt to the collar, I come around and go for the door.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Wells.” Grabbing the doorknob with sweaty hands, I turn the handle without friction bearing down. Definitely not a time to use my ass-on-the-door maneuver, so I keep trying until it gives way. As I rush out, I hear him say a few parting words, which make me melt more.

  “Yes, what is it with elevators?” he murmurs and removes the sweaty shirt, allowing one more glimpse of his perfect body as he moves behind the divider. Sparing one last delicious glance, I move to run, only to find myself sliding. The soles of my shoes are still wet from the coffee. Sliding like I am trying to steal a base, I come to an abrupt halt at the feet of a bemused Merrick Monroe.

  “New take on indoor sports, Miss Adams?” Reaching down to extend a hand, I’m so flabbergasted at the sight of him, I temporarily forget my appearance. He has hardly been in the office at all since I began, and the sight of him makes me want to grab his hand and dig my nails in. Thinking better of it, however, I gracefully—as much as one can be graceful dressed in another man’s shirt and reeking of coffee—extend my hand. He hauls me up and makes a quick perusal of my body.

  “There was a little coffee mishap in the elevator, and Mr. Haywood was kind enough to let me borrow a shirt.”

  Merrick’s eyes darken, and he stares at me as though I just threw coffee in his face and laughed maniacally. “Well, seems Mr. Haywood came to the rescue. Lucky you.”

  Releasing my hand and sidestepping me without so much as another glance, Merrick enters PJ’s office and purposely slams the door shut. I gather what little composure I have left and make my way to my desk. As I start up my computer, I swear I can make out the faint sounds of raised voices and something shattering. Interesting.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AFTER MY ELEVATOR DEBACLE, the day doesn’t seem to get much better. Merrick informs me that I will be dictating notes at a board meeting on Friday and emphasizes to be “appropriately attired.” Evan drops a huge stack of folders on my desk and asks me to carefully go through each folder and check for spelling and grammatical errors. The folders are full of memos sent out by the four men over the past five years, and none contain anything of importance. This is truly busy work at its finest.

  PJ left the office shortly after our interlude and made a point to exit as far away from me as possible. However, my biggest challenge was the moment Jamison showed up and chastised me while giving me a laundry list of tasks. The interns were all but pulling up chairs and eating popcorn as he continued his tirade.

  “You will need to be prepared to stay late again, Miss Adams. We need to go over a few things I believe you have neglected to take into consideration for your new job title.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Wells.”

  Grabbing his briefcase and adjusting his sunglasses—yes, he was such a douchebag that he would
wear sunglasses indoors—he opened his door. A sly thought came to mind.

  “Mr. Wells, would you care for some tea?”

  “Weak, black, and one sugar, Miss Adams. Dunk the bag ten times, remove, and I want a saucer with a lemon wedge should I decide I need it.” The door closes, and my glee is palpable. The interns have returned to their iPhones, so I quietly remove the gum wad from my desk and drop it into my purse. The break room is on the opposite end of the office from my desk, closer to Merrick. I heard Merrick has a private café that is serviced daily by a local coffee brewery that imports its beans from Colombia. Merrick would never lower himself to enter the breakroom. The whims of the rich kill me. Here I am, feeling like Queen fucking Elizabeth ordering Starbucks, while the man in question is spending most people’s annual salary on coffee. Entering the breakroom, I head to the plethora of tea and look for something that will adhere to Jamison’s order.

  “Well, well, look who’s here to load up on all the free things she can fit in her hand-me-down purse,” Chelsea says as she walks in, or should I say, slithers in.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You think you’re the only one allowed up here, Ain’t She? Nice outfit, raiding Dad’s closet now that you don’t have access to mine?”

  My hands fly to my shirt, and she leers at me. What the hell is she doing up here? My mind races, praying she didn’t somehow get promoted to be one of the four men’s assistant. I would be grateful for the help, but dealing with her antics in addition to the men would undoubtedly make me crack. The nickname doesn’t go unnoticed either. That bitch can’t flap her collagen injected lips enough, it seems.

  “I had the nicest chat with Jamison at Belmelman’s a few nights ago. We were wrapped up in martinis and conversation for hours. He was wondering about how you fared after the collapse, and goodness, I might have had a few too many and let it slip about your nickname. We practically were rolling on the floor and almost lost all sense of propriety. He was kind enough to give me a ride back home so we could get better acquainted. I merely mentioned how dreadful the cafeteria’s coffee had become, and it was suggested I feel free to use the breakroom up here. He’s such a doll.”

  Doll, yes, maybe if you consider Chucky. This had nothing to do with coffee quality or late-night drinks. She was purposely trying to insinuate herself into my life as much as she could to bring about my downfall. Unfortunately, the ally she had chosen in Jamison was a stroke of genius as he seemed to take the most joy in antagonizing me. They were indeed a match made in hell.

  “You know, Chelsea, if you stopped trying to make my life miserable and focused a little more on yours, then maybe you might not have to beg favors to come up here.”

  Seething, she advanced on me.

  “Look Ain’t She, everyone knows about you. Your presence here is nothing but a dark cloud interfering with our bright futures. Go back to Cambridge and help your derelict father run his little cigar shop. I might be able to convince Mr. Monroe to buy a few boxes as Christmas presents just to help boost sales. But know this—you will never belong. It’s only a matter of time before the next Adams suffers an even greater fall, and I will make sure this time the ashes are swept far enough away that no one will remember anything but how amazing the fire was.”

  Sweeping her mane of glossy hair at me like a whip, she spins to leave, her heels clicking. My mind is spinning. Never in a million years did I think Chelsea wasn’t going to come for me, but to have the backing of Jamison and possibly even Merrick? The odds were going to be stacked even higher against me now. Was she spying on me at home? Paranoia took hold as I imagined her putting some sort of tap on my phone, which would quickly reveal my relationship with Simon. My calls to Savannah almost always involved how the revenge plans were progressing. And Dad, his health was clearly declining to an extent, and if that news leaked out, what relative privacy he obtained with a cease and desist order from the paparazzi would evaporate. This bitch was playing for keeps. My time at Monroe needed to ramp up. Getting administrative access had derailed after this morning, so perhaps sneaking Simon in would be an alternative. Could he infiltrate the systems from within without leaving a trail back to me? And if he could, would he be able to export the data we needed and sneak out undetected? He could at least do a check on my phone to determine if there was any sort of recording device.

  Okay, focus, Ainslee. Tea. You came here for tea. Selecting an Irish blend, I diligently dunked the bag ten times and looking over my shoulder, slipped the offensive gum in the tea for a few seconds. Scooping it out and adding sugar, my face broke into a grin imagining Jamison sipping and hopefully contracting some illness that would force him to take a leave of absence. Walking back to my desk, his door was open. He was on a call, but he muted the phone and summoned me in. Wonderful. I suppose my dictating session was coming earlier than expected.

  Jamison was leaning against his desk and listening to someone speaking in what sounded like fluent Italian. I spoke conversational French at best, so the origin of the caller was unknown to me. Setting the tea down as softly as possible, I took a chair in front of his desk and waited. Jamison spoke a string of fluent words to the caller and abruptly hung up.

  “Make a note to look into flights for Rome for the week of July 9, and inform the others that the European conference dates have moved up.”

  Writing in my notebook, I observed Jamison sipping his tea and smiled.

  “Something amusing, Miss Adams?”

  Shaking my head, he continued with a list of travel arrangements, preferred hotels, and the explicit instruction to only book through American Express to receive our corporate discounts. He flits around his office as he dictates, and my mind wanders back to this morning. PJ must have had an argument with Merrick about our interaction. Perhaps since Chelsea seems to be cozying up to the men, I can catch a nugget from her interoffice gossip machine.

  “Oh, Ain’t She?

  His nickname and voice grate me. Deciding to pick my battles and having been through a warzone today, I choose to ignore it.

  “Yes?”

  Jamison walks out of the back of his office into sight. He moves like a cat, lithely and unhurried. He leans on the desk. He starts to unbutton his collar, and I find myself holding my breath. He’s an asshole. One way too good looking for his own good. He grins as I watch him lean further back as if he’s stretching his back muscles or posing. Isn’t that a move I would see a woman do? He begins unbuttoning more of his shirt, and I’m transfixed. What the fuck is he doing? A striptease?

  “You get those morning reports in order?”

  Nodding, I begin to stare back down at my notes, but he’s having none of it.

  “I had a nice chat with your roommate this week. She was the one who informed me of your nickname. Clever.”

  “Clever if you consider the amount of bullying and taunting it brought forth. I think some people might have classified Hitler as clever too. But I guess it depends on your definition of clever.” Lowering my eyes again, I feel him grasp my face and look at me. He really looks at me. For the first time since I arrived here, Jamison is looking at me, Ainslee. Not the lowly assistant or the bullied girl.

  “I promise not to call you that again. My apologies, Ainslee.”

  A feeling of shock washed over me, and I’m speechless. Could Jamison be more like PJ than I realized? He starts to stroke my cheek lightly. Then almost if a light switch went off in his brain, he remembers himself and drops the hand he was using to caress me. His breathing seems a bit labored, but quickly he recovers and resumes his nearly horizontal position on the desk. But I admit, the cheek he was holding is burning. Flaming. My entire body seems to be on fire. Sometimes I forget how devastatingly handsome he is despite his arrogance. Jamison seems to notice. And oh boy, Narcissus comes out for the hunt in an instant. He angles his body toward me completely and starts to stroke his chest moving down. Fuck, I want to look away. He’s got me panting and furious. My neck flames up, and I ca
n feel it inching down my chest. I squeeze my legs together to keep from squirming; my mind can’t help but wonder what is his game? I need to keep it together right now. The hunter may be calling, but the prey isn’t going to be snared, I tell myself. Get it together, Ainslee. One kind gesture and a few words don’t make up for the fact he’s been a monster. But fuck, could he be more sexual in this moment? He’s like the definition of sex put into the human form.

  He starts to stroke his crotch. The prey is nibbling around the snare now. A few little bites can’t hurt just to see his next move.

  “You seem flushed, Miss Adams. Should I adjust the heat, or perhaps I should adjust my pants? It’s your call. You seem to want to be the boss after all.”

  I’m seconds from pulling down my panties or beating him with my stapler. What’s his angle? I was scraping gum off his shoe not so very long ago. Now, he’s doing his best impression of a Chippendales dancer. But fuck me. He’s an attractive son of a bitch. His eyes rake over me like I’m a meal. Take a bite, baby. Taste me. Let me taste you. What the hell is happening to me?

  “I assure you, sir, I am perfectly happy in my role as an assistant, and whatever yarns Miss Manning was spinning are simply her attempt to make me look bad.”

  He leans on his side for me to get to the whole view. Geez. His cock must be huge from the outline I see. I blush from the view. Could my fingers make it around it? Extra indeed. Extra-long and extra-wide, I think. Stop! I’m such an idiot. This is his game. But what if it isn’t? My fingers tremble, wanting to trace it. I flinch to move. Maybe I can grab a file and accidentally touch it. As I’m thinking, he smirks. Motherfucker. He knows what he’s doing. He adjusts himself and starts buttoning his shirt.

  “Pity, some of those yarns were a little salacious. Oh well. Those reports, Miss Adams. You are sure they are done?”

  What reports, I’m sliding down my chair, and he’s mentioning reports. What the hell just happened? Did I black out, or did that really occur? The dampness I feel should be a good indicator that something did take place, but the whole situation is surreal.