Bossed: A Steamy Office Romance

by Kate Gilead

  I’ve seen him turn on a dime; quiet and serene on the surface until he erupts into a smoldering, hot-headed handful.

  I wonder, if it were anyone else, would I be turned off?

  Maybe. Probably.

  Yet he’s not always that way. He’s highly competent, intelligent and in a demanding, responsible position. And despite his occasional crustiness, he can relax, let down his guard and even, laugh at himself once in a while.

  We’ve even had some fun, especially during the training seminars we do for new workers.

  Head-hunted from a big firm in California, Blake was himself specifically hired to address the company’s poor safety record. The largest contracting firm in the Midwest, Delcroft General Contracting is in an expansion phase but persistent problems with accidents is slowing it down, causing the firm to bleed money and continually lose business to a line-up of hungry competitors.

  Blake is supposed to whip them into shape and my job is to help him. I’m at his beck and call, available at all times during working hours.

  My position as Junior Safety Officer was created specifically to provide an assistant for Blake.

  So we’ve had opportunity to talk, just the two of us. Usually, it’s while we’re waiting for something to happen, like a meeting. Often times, we’ve driven to a job site or a seminar together and talked on the way. Nothing too personal, of course, but I’ve gotten to know him a little bit, on a casual level, over the last weeks.

  And I found that he can be charming. Funny, and randomly, unexpectedly humble.

  So damn sexy.

  And sometimes, the vibe between us gets very…intense. But it seems like as soon as I start feeling the sexual tension, he makes an excuse and leaves. Or, gets really serious, to the point that he almost seems angry.

  All I know is, he’s fascinating to me…masculine, scary, intimidating, sweet, hot and mysterious.

  Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he’s so attractive, but I’ve always needed more than looks to turn my head.

  Blake’s good looks are more rugged than pretty-boy. He kind of reminds me of a world-weary, Viking-warrior type.

  Cut and built, with long, sturdy legs and the arms of a line-backer, his presence is imposing, daunting…yet oddly, comforting.

  In my twenty-three years on this earth, I’ve never met anyone like him. The effect he has on me is baffling and heady as hell.

  Traffic comes to a stop again. I lower my window and try to find some soothing music on the radio. But it’s all blaring, morning talk radio, and the loud, inane banter of the hosts aggravates my growing headache. I give up and shut it off.

  The smell of traffic fumes and the tarmac starts to make me nauseous as well. Thin, acrid blue smoke wafts in. I see a faint plume of it in the rear-view mirror and wonder if it’s coming from my car. Then it fades away and disappears.

  I shut the window and try to breathe through my nose. My stomach calms slowly but my head keeps hurting.

  Traffic begins moving forward and I sit up straighter. Maybe there was a fender-bender and it’s been cleared off the freeway? God I hope so…but no. Brake lights flash on, all the way up the line of traffic, forward motion stymied by the sheer volume of vehicles.

  We slow to a crawl and then, stop. Then, go, then…stop. I stretch, turn my head back and forth and crack my neck. My head aches and my nerves are on edge. Knowing that time is ticking away with Blake angrily waiting is making my body feel like it’s in fight-or-flight mode.

  Ahead, I see a eye-catching billboard that I haven’t seen before. I check it out idly, to pass the time.

  In the center foreground, there’s a sepia-toned, bucolic scene: A wide river cuts through a dense forest of maple trees. On the bank of the river is a mill with a big water wheel. I recognize it right away as part of local history.

  Built by hand more than a hundred and fifty years ago, it was the first of three mills built on that spot. For over a hundred years, those mills processed all of the lumber which was used to build the town of Maple Mills itself.

  Surrounding that center scene are full-color fade-ins of modern vignettes: Children playing in a sunny park; a young couple walking a dog along a lamp-lit pathway; another young couple dancing in a nightclub; a family with young kids viewing a museum display; a couple with their arms around each other in silhouette against the sunset.

  It’s an advertisement put up by the town, hawking Maple Mills to passing freeway traffic as a great place to live and raise a family. There’s a web address for more information and even, a tag line:

  Home Sweet Home: Maple Mills

  The town council are doing their job, trying to draw young people to consider making our town their home.

  Rationally, I recognize it for what it is: An ad, selling a rose-colored dream.

  But emotionally? It affects me to my soul, making me feel wistful and nostalgic for a time gone by; a time when everyone lived a traditional, old-fashioned life in accordance with small-town values. Yep, apple pie, motherhood, the whole nine yards.

  It’s either a very good ad or I’m just tired, but I actually find myself getting misty-eyed.

  It makes me think about my situation. Here I am, sitting in rush hour traffic in a high-stress job, carefully dressed and made-up for work; business-suited, well-heeled and looking as serious and competent as I possibly can.

  I have my personal and professional shit together and I look the part.

  But…am I living the dream? No.

  Is this the life I want? No.

  Am I happy? Hell, no.

  But modern women are supposed to be independent. Right? Yes. And we are, for the most part. Strong, bold, forward and not in need of a man or a family to feel fulfilled.

  Capable of finding happiness in their workaday world and with their friends and hobbies.

  Right? Right. That’s what society tells us and everyone knows women who do seem to be happily single. No. Who are happily single.

  Besides, I need to work. Since my dad died a few years ago, things have been tough on my mom. There was insurance money, which helped. But she still sacrificed, put me through school, gave me everything she could. And all this while deep in the throes of grief.

  It’s just the two of us now and she needs me. So, there’s that.

  And I have a profession and I don’t have to settle for…or be happy with…“merely” being a wife and mother.

  Even if that’s what I really want, deep down inside.

  Stopped in traffic, I take a moment to massage my aching temples.

  And frankly…? It pisses me off that wife and motherhood is fluffed off by society as inconsequential in any sense of the word. I mean, it’s ridiculous…disingenuous…and just plain stupid to pretend that motherhood––being the beating heart of the home and family––is a mere trifle…as if raising happy, healthy kids to go out into the world and prosper is a triviality.

  As if finding Forever Love with one man, raising a family and growing old with him is an unworthy goal.

  That insidious message is pernicious bullshit and I damn well know it.

  Speaking for myself…? I yearn to be a wife and mother. Always. In my heart of hearts, that’s what I want, more than anything.

  Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I wonder if that life is in the cards for me.

  And I wonder too, if that billboard and other, similar ads that I’m seeing a lot lately are a sign that it’s not just me. Maybe a lot of people are drawn to an older, less complicated way of life, with its simple but lasting pleasures and satisfactions.

  A way of life so lacking in the rushed, plugged-in yet disconnected lives so many of us find ourselves living these days.

  Speak of being plugged in. My phone rings, startling me out of my thoughts. Since my car is at a complete stop on the roadway, I go ahead and pick it up.

  It’s Blake.

  “I’m stuck in traffic,” I say, before he has a chance to yell at me.

  “That’s what I figured,” he
says. “Not that you should be answering your phone while driving.”

  “No, I mean, I’m literally stuck,” I reply. “Dead in the water. Not moving. Nada. Nothing. Going nowhere, fast.”

  To my amazement, he lets out a dry chuckle. “Still…you should’ve let this go to your voice mail. I was planning to leave you a message…first off, to apologize for my, uh…abruptness this morning.”

  He pauses, waiting for me to speak. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

  After a moment, he continues. “Uh…yeah. Also, I want to make sure that those hooks make their way to me personally. You’ve haven’t been out to the overpass site yet, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Well, it’s chaos right now. Everything’s a mess. Normally I’d tell you to come right to my trailer but I had it moved it to a new spot over the weekend. It’s practically hidden now, you’ll never find it.”

  “I’m sure I can find your trailer, Blake,” I say. “Probably more easily than I can find you on a busy site.”

  “Jenny. If I tell you the trailer isn’t easy to find, you can take my word for it.” His voice is calm but I hear the warning in it. “Listen to me. That’s not the only issue. There’s been a scheduling fuck-up with the big machinery. A dump truck and a concrete mixer are blocking the entrance. Shit is hitting the fan. Nothing’s getting in or out until they clear that up. It’s dangerous. There’s nowhere to stop your car, much less park.”

  I say nothing. Better to just keep quiet and let him tell me what to do.

  He goes ahead and does just that. “Tell you what. Call me when you’re leaving the supplier. Maybe, by then, the trucks will be moved, or I can get away to meet you somewhere nearby. I dunno, we’ll have to wing this one. Do not come to the job site unless I say so. Just… call me from the parking lot when you’ve got the hooks, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Click.

  Sigh. But at least, traffic is starting to crawl along now.

  I make my way across the city, fighting traffic all the way. It takes well over an hour and it’s nine-thirty before I get back into the car with the box of hooks for the job site.

  As instructed, I stay put in the parking lot and call Blake’s phone.

  It goes right into his voice mail, which the Voice Mail Robot Chick tells me is full. I send him a text and wait.

  Nothing.

  Behind my eyes, the headache is definitely growing into a migraine, its nagging and pounding getting worse as the minutes drag on.

  I try another text and wait again, with no answer.

  I text Flora back at the office just to make sure there’s no problem with my phone. It goes through and she replies right away.

  Waiting and waiting, getting more and more nervous. My blouse is damp with sweat now, and sticking uncomfortably to my back where it rests against the seat.

  Fifteen minutes go by. I send Blake another text. Nothing. Twenty minutes. Thirty.

  It’s ten o’clock now.

  Fuck it.

  I start the car and head towards the site, sweating and fighting the migraine the whole way. Due to freeway construction, traffic is still slow.

  I’m so damned tired! This day already feels like it’s gone on forever and it’s not even lunch time yet.

  It’s ten-thirty before I get to the site and when I do…yes it is utter chaos.

  The actual work site is comprised of whichever area under the overpass the men are working on as they make structural repairs to the freeway, section by section.

  Portable fencing delineates the work zone, the kind that can be easily disassembled, moved and re-assembled again. The fencing is already hung with the ‘danger’ signs that Blake picked up this morning.

  I see that the site lacks a permanent, definite entrance or exit, making it extra confusing. And there’s the concrete mixer and the massive dump truck standing by, the sound of their engines adding to the cacophony of traffic and construction noises coming from every direction.

  Just as Blake said, they are blocking the only way in.

  Shit! I’m going to have to leave, find somewhere to park, and keep trying Blake’s phone, I suppose…but, hold on!

  As I watch, the dump truck backs up, making a widening gap between its bumper and that of the concrete mixer. I look up at the driver just as he turns his head. He sees me, and then he motions with his chin, giving me the go-ahead to pass him.

  Thank God! I pilot my little Honda between the two huge vehicles and enter an area of controlled chaos.

  Fork trucks scoot around, moving pallets of material, their reverse alarms shrieking nearly continuously as they work.

  There are scaffolds rising up along the pillars which buttress the freeway, and safety lines falling from anchor points in the girders underneath it, where workers will soon hang from rigging, sitting in bosun chairs or using hanging scaffolds to carry out their work, dozens to hundreds of feet in the air.

  Scissor-lift trucks trundle along, and clouds of dust drift lazily everywhere.

  Men mill around, in groups or working alone. A few are wearing suits, carrying clipboards or cardboard drafting tubes or briefcases. They’re sporting spanky-clean, white hard hats and brand-new safety boots.

  But most here are blue-collar, working men. Their hard hats are dingy, dusty yellow or orange. Their boots are scuffed and well-used, and their “suits” consist of safety harnesses or overalls, and tool belts worn over orange and yellow hi-viz clothing.

  Everyone is wearing a disposable respirator mask against the dust, and everyone has hearing protection, either a pair of ear plugs in their ears, or a pair of ear muffs attached to their hardhats.

  Of course, I forgot my own safety equipment kit in my rush to follow Blake’s orders. But, I should be okay, since I’m only going to hand a box of hooks to Blake and then leave again.

  I hope.

  Even through my closed car windows, the noise is deafening, and an acrid smell is seeping through the air vents.

  My headache has become a full-fledged migraine now; a pulsating, evil force in my head. I’m sagging in my seat, wishing I just could turn around and leave.

  I steer my car carefully through the chaotic site, looking for the trailer. No one notices me or pays me the slightest mind.

  I keep going, slowly leaving the worst of it behind, scanning for Blake’s trailer. It must be around somewhere. It’s a construction trailer, it can’t be that easy to hide. Yet, I still don’t see it.

  Now, there’s nowhere to go except along a narrow service road. At least it’s quieter down this way, underneath the parts of the freeway that are closed for construction. But it’s a no-man’s land otherwise, with no way out except back the way I came.

  Where the hell is this trailer?

  Maybe Blake was right. I shouldn’t have come.

  I’m starting to wonder if I’m even in the right place when I finally spot a corner of what looks like a trailer, peeking out from behind a stack of abandoned, rusty containers. It’s in a disused area under the freeway, where the ground is dry, dusty and cracked, with some spindly weeds poking through.

  Squinting against the increasing head pain, I steer my car around the containers. Thank God, there’s Blake’s truck, parked in front of a large, new-looking, white-frame construction trailer.

  The trailer is situated so far away from the din and activity, it doesn’t even seem to belong to the site. I feel vaguely pissed off that it’s so far away. I can’t fathom why that would be but don’t really care right now. I just have to do what I came to do and get out of here.

  Parking in front of the trailer, I want nothing more than to hand these hooks off to Blake and then ask permission to go home for the day. I’m sure he’ll be pissed but I cease to care as a wave of pain flares through my head, making me feel sick to my stomach.

  Now I feel faint, and dizzy, too.

  I grasp the steering wheel with both hands, trying to get hold of myself as the pain thuds in my head. I stare s
traight ahead dully, just trying to breathe through it.

  The migraine is reaching a crescendo, one of those bad ones that make you nauseous just by moving your head.

  The pain spikes behind my eyes again, and I can see the beginning of colourful, wavy lines, an optical illusion that precedes the worst kind of migraine. I don’t get those often, thank God, but when I do it means I really need to go lie down in a dark room and not move.

  But I can’t, not yet. I have to get these hooks to Blake and then get myself home.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt, then turn to pick up the box of hooks on the front seat next to me. A dizzy spell grips me. I stop moving, bracing my hand on the seat, but everything around me seems to keep going, making my stomach rise sickeningly.

  Oh God.

  Sweat trickles down my neck and the air in the car seems thick and hot. The pain in my head grinds like broken glass. My stomach rises again and tears come to my eyes.

  All thoughts of Blake and work and safety go away, receding behind a blinding wall of pain. I sag back against the seat and close my eyes, helpless against the agony descending in my head.

  Chapter Three

  Jenny

  I hear the sound of a door opening and closing, then footsteps coming towards me. “Jenny? I told you to wait….Jenny?” I open my eyes to see Blake standing in front of my car. Then I close them again and just breathe.

  My car door opens. I squint but the light hurts so much, it’s hard to keep my eyes open.

  Fuck this shit, I think to myself. No job is worth this aggro. If he gets on my case, I’m gonna tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine and go work at McDonald’s.

  “How’d you get past the trucks? Are they gone? My phone died, I was so busy I didn’t even…Jenny?” Blake’s tone of voice goes from annoyed to concerned. “What’s wrong? You look terrible. Are you okay?”

  I try to nod, but moving my head hurts so bad, all I can do is frown. But even frowning hurts.

  “Hey! What’s wrong? Answer me!”

  “Migraine,” I mutter, squinting at him. “Bad. Really bad.”