Naughty Boss: A Novella

by Whitney Gracia Williams

  Not only that, but I hadn’t heard from her today. She hadn’t answered my “What I Need Today” email with her usual “Ok,” and she was already more than two hours late. I figured she was trying to pull that “I stayed late Friday so I’m coming late Monday” bullshit, so I decided to think nothing of it.

  I tried my best to distract myself until our two o’clock meeting because she knew better than to miss any day of work for the next month since it was acquisition season.

  As I was reading through the newest stack of approved book deals, a soft knock came to my door.

  “Yes?” I set my papers down, expecting to see Mya, but it was only Brad and a catering delivery guy.

  “Morning,” Brad said as he walked over to my desk. “I wanted to come early and treat you and Mya to a late lunch if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.” I lied, motioning for the delivery guy to set out the food on my desk.

  “Wild weekend?” Brad asked.

  “No. What makes you ask that?”

  “You look like you’re on edge, like you haven’t slept in days or you’re stressed about something. Or maybe it’s...” He paused, letting out a long exasperated sigh. “Are you bracing to tell me about an upcoming tabloid story?” He shook his head. “You were doing so well, Michael. So well...”

  “No.” I rolled my eyes. “And I’m not on edge. If you must know, I didn’t sleep well last night and I still have to get through a three-hour session with you and Mya that starts at any moment.”

  “Speaking of Mya—” He started to say, but I interrupted him.

  “She’s allergic to garlic,” I said to the delivery guy, picking up the basket of bread he’d set down. “Can you replace this with wheat rolls?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And this.” I gestured to a bottle of caramel syrup he’d set out. “She’ll think this is hazelnut and have a coughing spell if she drinks a sip of it. Take this as well and bring up chocolate syrup instead.”

  “Yes sir.” He picked up the offending items and headed to the door. “Be right back.”

  Brad raised his eyebrow, looking completely confused. “Have you always memorized your assistant’s food preferences?”

  “Only the ones who last over a year.”

  “Ah.” He laughed. “Well, like I was saying, Apple and Microsoft called to tell me that you still haven’t returned their calls about her reference so you really need to do that at some point this week. You do plan on giving her a good recommendation, don’t you?”

  My phone rang before I could address that question.

  “Yes?” I answered.

  “Good morning, Mr. Leighton,” a soft voice said. “This is Shelby in Human Resources. I’m sorry I’m notifying you so late, but your executive assistant called in earlier and put in a notice for a week of sick leave.”

  “A week?”

  “Yes sir. Would you like me to fill her space with a temp during this time?”

  “No, thank you.” I hung up and leaned back in my chair. Mya never used sick leave, even when she was actually sick. She’d come to countless meetings coughing and sneezing when she probably should’ve stayed home, so I wasn’t sure if she was using our recent tryst as leverage, or if she’d somehow become deathly ill in a matter of forty eighty hours.

  “Michael?” Brad attempted to get my attention. “Michael?”

  I ignored him, pulling out my phone and sending Mya an email.

  Subject: Sick Leave.

  You better have a goddamn doctor’s note...

  Michael Leighton

  CEO, Leighton Publishing

  Her response was immediate.

  Subject: Re: Sick Leave.

  And if I don’t?

  Mya London

  Executive Assistant to Leighton Publishing CEO

  Subject: Re: Re: Sick Leave.

  If you don’t, I suggest you call HR right now and rescind your “sick leave” since I already know it’s fake. Then I suggest you magically appear in my office within the next hour so we can prepare for next week’s round of author acquisitions.

  Michael Leighton

  CEO, Leighton Publishing

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Sick Leave.

  Oh, that’s right. Next week is very important...

  I’ll probably be sick next week, too.

  (I’ll probably still be” recovering” from something.)

  Maybe if I’m gone for awhile you’ll see how hard my job really is. Maybe then you’ll appreciate me more.

  Mya London

  Executive Assistant to Leighton Publishing CEO

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Sick Leave.

  You will not “probably be sick” next week.

  You will bring your ass to work.

  (It doesn’t take two weeks to recover from getting properly fucked.)

  I’d appreciate you a lot more if you came into work today...

  Michael Leighton

  CEO, Leighton Publishing

  I closed my inbox, not waiting for her response. I looked up and noticed Brad staring at me as if he’d just seen a ghost.

  “What?” I said.

  “You fucked Mya, didn’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” He didn’t flinch. “You slept with her...You slept with her, and that’s why you haven’t called those companies back. That’s exactly why you don’t want her to leave.”

  “That’s not why I don’t want her to leave.”

  “So you’re admitting to the part about fucking her?”

  “No,” I said, denying it and spending countless minutes attempting to calm him down. I knew he’d have a heart attack if he knew the truth.

  When I was sure he was convinced, I pulled out the files for today’s meeting so the two of us could go through them alone.

  As he began to organize his own files, I opened a new tab in my browser and looked up a local florist so I could order “Get Well” flowers for Mya—so I could send her a more direct “Bring your ass to work” note.

  I picked out a seven-layer bouquet of lilies since she’d once mentioned loving those in a novel meeting, and I was halfway to the purchase screen when I stalled.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I closed the screen and clicked my pen.

  I could definitely survive a week without her help since she wanted to continue to play games. I was pretty sure I could do her job even better than she could.

  It couldn’t be that hard.

  THE BOSS

  Michael

  Manhattan, New York

  One week of “sick leave” later...

  Subject: My Boss...

  I still can’t believe I fucked my boss last week...

  You think he would be mad if I called in sick for a second week?

  Your bestie,

  Mya

  PS—Is it sad that I desperately want to fuck him again?

  Subject: Re: My Boss...

  I still can’t believe that you haven’t learned to double check who you’re sending your emails to...

  Yes, “he” would be quite furious if you called in sick for a second week.

  Your boss,

  Michael

  PS—It’s not sad at all, considering he wants to fuck you again as well.

  I hit send on my email and put my phone away. She hadn’t shown up to work this morming—no advance notice to Human Resources at all, but I wouldn’t dare file a write-up or even so much as verbally reprimand her. I’d damn near lost my mind over the past week by attempting to do everything she normally did for me, and I was starting to wonder if I really was as terrible of a boss as she said I was.

  Even now, as I sat across the table from an author we were attempting to acquire, I was seconds away from saying, “You know what? I don’t feel like being here right now,” and asking her to reschedule. And I was very much tempted to drive to Mya’s house to address that last “PS” note in her email.

  I was also regretting hosting
this meeting over dinner instead of at my office. In fact, the only reason I’d scheduled a reservation at this five-star restaurant was because three months ago I’d overheard Mya telling someone she wished she could afford to dine here someday. Of course, I’d deny that fact if she ever asked, but since she wasn’t even here tonight, I didn’t see a point of me being here either.

  “So...” The author across from me, a pretty brunette in her mid-thirties cleared her throat. “If I sign with Leighton Publishing, I’m going to need some promises from you.”

  “What type of promises, Miss Sutherland?”

  “Well, I’ll need you to actually promote my book.”

  “We promote all of our books.”

  “Well, I know that. That’s why your reputation is so great, but that’s only the basic level of promotion. I want you to promise me a movie deal within two years, six figure advances for every future book I write, and I want a world tour at only the best bookstores.”

  “This is your debut book...”

  “I know. And I could totally self publish this thing on amazon and have it live in five seconds. Yet, here I am, taking a risk on you and offering you the next smash New York Times bestseller on a silver platter.”

  I rolled my eyes and took a long sip of wine. I started to change the subject, but she started talking about which actors and actresses she would would prefer to read her audiobook, which ones we “better” promise her, so I easily tuned her out her voice.

  This was usually the part where Mya would step in and tell the author to have realistic expectations, the part where my fraying thread of patience wore even thinner and I’d have to excuse myself to get more coffee. Without her here, I was minutes away from cracking and telling this woman to shut the hell up and get over herself.

  “You know what I mean?” Miss Sutherland’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Don’t you hate when Hollywood turns books into movies, but then they strip away the best parts? I honestly can’t sign a deal with you unless you promise that won’t happen to me.”

  “Miss Sutherland...” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “The chances of Hollywood taking your debut book, which is a goddamn cookbook filled with catfish recipes, are so fucking low that—”

  “I’m sorry I’m so late.” The sound of Mya’s voice stopped me from saying another word.

  Dressed in a short, black cocktail dress that exposed her long legs, she looked absolutely stunning. Her lips were painted in a bright, alluring red, and her hair was piled high on top of her head in a pretty bevy of loose curls.

  She walked over to Miss Sutherland and shook her hand, and then she mouthed “Stop it” to me as she sat down.

  “I think what Mr. Leighton is trying to say—” Mya faced Miss Sutherland. “is that we should focus on doing all we can in the cooking sphere for this book. Then we can discuss ideas for your next collection of recipes so we make sure your future catalogue with us is as strong as it can be.”

  I stared at her and remained silent for the remainder of the meeting, appreciating how she smoothly steered the rest of the conversation.

  By the time we were done, Miss Sutherland was signing the contract and wishing us both well. When we all stood up to leave the restaurant, I pressed my hand against the small of Mya’s back and noticed how she attempted not to react.

  The second Miss Sutherland was tucked away in her cab, Mya looked up at me.

  “You’re welcome.” She smirked.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it,” I said, looking her up and down once more. “You look pretty damn good to have been ‘sick’ for a week.”

  She didn’t answer. She simply stared at me, and it took every ounce of restraint not to take her hand and pull her into my car for the night.

  “Are you planning on coming to work tomorrow or are you keeping me in suspense?”

  “I’m not sure yet. It depends on how I feel when I wake up, on if I want you to see even more of how much you put me through when you have to do everything yourself.” She held up her hand for the town car and he pulled right in front. “But I must say, I’m happy you finally said those two precious words to me in regards to my work.”

  “What two words?”

  “Thank you.”

  I said nothing. I just watched as her driver opened the back door and motioned for her to get inside.

  I slid inside next to her before he could shut the door.

  “What the—” She buckled her seatbelt. “What are you doing?”

  “Driver, roll up the partition please.” I waited for the driver to divide the car. “Mya London, do you really think that because we’ve fucked I won’t fire you?”

  “Michael Leighton,” she said, mocking me. “I know you won’t fire me and it has nothing to do with the fact that we’ve slept together.”

  “We haven’t ‘slept together’, we’ve fucked.”

  “Fine.” She lowered her voice. “Fucked. But I know you wouldn’t dare fire me.”

  “Would you like to bet?”

  “Not with a man who knows that I’m the best damn assistant he’s ever had.”

  I smiled, unable to come up with a rebuttal for that. Before I could fire back, the driver’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Miss London, are you still going to the AMC in Times Square?”

  “Yes, Archer. Thank you.”

  I shut off the speaker button. “What’s at the AMC in Times Square?”

  “I have a date with a complete and utter gentleman.” She looked away from me, as if she was somewhat embarrassed. “It was set up weeks ago. I didn’t want to be rude and cancel at the last minute.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “None of your business.” She turned to face me again. “And unless you want to be a third wheel, are you going to have Archer take you back to your Jaguar while we’re in the movies? We’re going to need the car for dinner later, and no offense, but you’re not good dinner company.”

  “What’s his name?” I repeated.

  “Taylor,” she said. “Would you like to know where he works and how old he is, too?”

  “I would. Tell me.”

  “He’s an analyst for ABC studios, and he’s twenty-seven. Happy?”

  “He’s too young for you,” I said. “And at that age he doesn’t have any real rank in that company. You can do better than that.”

  “You’re referring to yourself?”

  “No, I’m the best,” I said. “But you can at least do better until you realize that.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, but she didn’t say anything further.

  “And if this is the guy from the email with the subject heading, ‘It’s Been A Week And He Hasn’t Called or Texted Me At All’, then you probably already know I’m right. No man in his right mind would wait a week to call you, unless he was your boss that is.”

  Her cheeks turned bright red and her jaw dropped.

  “We’re here, Miss London,” her driver said, pulling in front of the theater.

  Mya unbuckled her seatbelt and waited for him to open the door.

  I walked ahead and held the door to the theater for her, following her as she walked toward the ticket counter.

  “I’m only picking up two tickets,” she said to me. “You’re not really going to follow us into the theater are you?”

  “No, but I’ll wait until he actually appears if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind.”

  “Tough shit.”

  “Fine.” She picked up her tickets from the clerk and I followed her to a couch in one of the theater’s private lounges. She pulled her phone out of her purse and smiled at the screen. “He says he’s in traffic but he’ll be here in twenty minutes. I’ll be sure to tell you all about our night at work tomorrow since you’re so concerned.”

  “I’m not concerned at all, but thank you for confirming that you’re coming to work tomorrow.”

  “You’re not worried he’ll compare to you?”

  “We�
��ve discussed this. No one compares to me.” I smiled. “And you know that. You also know that you have no desire to fuck him tonight because I’m willing to bet you’re still thinking about fucking me. This is either a pointless date you’re too scared to cancel, a ploy to make me jealous, or both.”

  She blushed and looked down at her phone.

  Fifteen minutes passed and she didn’t look up again. She simply refreshed her phone’s screen again and again.

  I looked at my watch. The movie was due to start in ten minutes and her date was a no-show.

  Her phone suddenly buzzed in her lap and she smiled, tapping the screen. She held it up to her face, her smile fading by the second.

  She typed a few words, and then she looked at me. “He said something came up so...Okay. You can go ahead and make me feel like shit now. I’ve missed it at work, so now you can apply it to my personal life I guess.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, tell me how dumb I was to invite a guy who previously stood me up twice, instead of letting him ask me out. And then you can say how dumb I was for wasting my time getting all dressed up, trying my best to make you jealous—”

  I cut her off with a kiss, softly biting her bottom lip until she moaned. Until she stopped attempting to talk and gave in. “Let’s go.”

  THE ASSISTANT

  Mya

  Manhattan, New York

  I sat still in the passenger seat of Michael’s Jaguar as he drove, still in shock that he’d demanded to spend the rest of the night with me. He’d asked my driver to take us back to the restaurant to retrieve his car, to ensure we had complete privacy for the rest of the night.

  I wasn’t sure why, but when he looked over at me at a stoplight, I couldn’t help but think that a part of this felt right. That when he wasn’t being my boss—even for a split second, he was more than likeable.

  “It’ll be pretty hard to get a reservation at this hour in New York City,” I said, finally breaking the silence.

  “We don’t need a reservation for where we’re going.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, but for the record, I need to apologize in advance.”