Romance: The Boss

by West, Lara

  On my way back from the restrooms, I try to stay as close to the bar as possible. Clint should be back at the booth by now, hopefully still none the wiser about what had happened when he was gone.

  But just when I think I’m home free, just when I think I can avoid Clint Townsend for another day, I hear him calling my name.

  “Lauren!”

  I let out a captured sigh and slowly turn around, his steamy blue eyes only inches from me.

  A whole week of avoiding him, a whole week of deleting his voicemails and texts and fighting the urge to reply to them, has now been shattered in one instant.

  This is going to be one hell of a conversation.

  “So, out of all the bars in New York, you had to walk into mine,” I say intrepidly, making it obvious that I don’t want to talk to him.

  “Well actually, you walked into mine. I own this place,” he replies with that classic high-class smirk.

  It’s beyond infuriating.

  “What? You’re lying.”

  “I assure you I’m not. It’s Deacon’s little venture. Hence the name we came up with, Rapid. Granted, he dropped out of college to open it, but I thought it would be a good investment.”

  Of course, how could I have failed to make the connection earlier?

  Rapid stands for Rapid City.

  “You and your investments,” I sigh, shaking my head while contemplating making another dash for it. “I bet your mom was thrilled about that.”

  “She’s coming around to the idea.”

  “Look, Clint, good on your little brother for opening this place. I hope it’s a raging success for him, but I need to get back to my friends. I really don’t want to do this right now.”

  “But I thought we could finally talk,” he utters softly, his expression somewhat bleaker. “Just give me five minutes, please, Lauren?”

  I hate it when he says my name like that, purring it out like he knows how much I swoon over it. He wants five minutes, huh? I suppose I could at least manage that.

  “If I give you five minutes, will you honestly leave me alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, go. Your five minutes started thirty seconds ago.”

  Clint takes a deep breath and begins to explain. “Look, what happened the other day, it honestly wasn’t—”

  “Lauren!”

  Great, someone else is shouting to me now.

  Can’t a girl just get a drink at a bar and have some peace for a second?

  I spin around unexpectedly to find Adam pacing toward us.

  “Hey, we thought we’d lost you,” he says grinning, his eyes then landing on Clint.

  I see Clint’s jawline quiver, observing Adam the way a hunter marks a lion.

  “Brooke has ordered us some weird eggnog cocktail thingy. I was given strict orders to come find you.”

  “O-oh,” I stammer, putting on a smile. “I’ll be there soon. I just need—”

  “Hi,” Clint intervenes, extending his hand past me and toward Adam. “Clint Townsend, Lauren’s boss. Nice to meet you…?”

  “Adam.”

  “Adam,” Clint repeats complacently, shaking his hand.

  “Townsend? As in the billionaire?” Adam asks, eyes widening in anticipation.

  Great, he’s another Wall Street aficionado. Where’s that eggnog cocktail when you need it?

  “The very same,” Clint smirks, shooting me a look like he knows this is only pissing me off.

  “Wow, Lauren never said you were her boss.”

  “She didn’t, huh? Well, we haven’t been on the best of terms lately. We had…a little fight. But we’re past that now,” Clint says wryly, placing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me toward him gently. “Right, Lauren?”

  “Right,” I say reluctantly, trying to save face yet secretly wishing I could smack him one. I don’t like pretending things are okay when they’re not, especially when Clint is the one orchestrating this little performance.

  “Cool, I wish my boss was that laid-back,” Adam jests, completely buying the whole act.

  When silence falls among the three of us, Adam jovially uses it as a timely exit.

  “Well, I’ll let you guys get back to it. It was great to meet you, Mr. Townsend,” he salutes Clint like they’re comrades in arms, like he’s still frothing over the fact that he’s met such a prominent figure. “I’ll see you back over there in a bit, Lauren,” he says, squeezing my hand lightly before he walks away.

  I see Clint’s austere blue eyes flinch. Jealously really doesn’t suit him.

  When Adam is finally out of sight, I wheel on Clint. I just want him to say what he needs to say and then leave me the hell alone.

  “Okay, what was that?” I ask impatiently.

  “What?”

  “You know what. ‘We’re past that now.’ We are far from past it, Clint. Why are you even here?”

  “I told you, I own the place.”

  “Don’t play games with me. I mean here right now, talking to me. Why?”

  “I’ll explain on the dance floor,” he says insouciantly, the suave businessman back in character.

  He has to be kidding.

  There’s no way I’m dancing with him—this is neither the time nor the place for it.

  “I’m not dancing with you,” I hiss, glancing around sketchily to make sure no one can hear us.

  “Just one dance,” he begs, taking my hand.

  I fling it away instantly.

  What the hell is he playing at?

  Is he drunk or just being arrogant again?

  It really is hard to tell with him these days.

  “No,” I say sternly.

  “One dance, and you and your friends can have free drinks for the rest of the night and I’ll leave you alone…for as long as you want me to.”

  I tilt my head to the side and laugh sardonically. “You have some nerve, but fine. One dance, free drinks for my friends, and then you leave me alone. Permanently.”

  Clint bows his head in agreement. “Deal.” And then he takes my hand, leading me through a tangle of people before we finally come to a second room hollowed out for couples that only want to slow dance.

  When I hear Ivy’s “Edge of the Ocean” playing in the background, it’s almost the final straw. I love this song, but seriously?

  As if things couldn’t get any mushier.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clint swings me instantly onto the dance floor, locking my waist firmly in his hands. I have no choice but to drape my own around his neck as the two of us sway softly along, like we are lovers enjoying a night out together.

  I decide not to hold back any longer—I’m determined to know what it is he needs so desperately to say to me.

  “So, I’m waiting,” I state openly, looking him right in the eye.

  “Whatever do you mean?” he simpers, his glazed cerulean eyes all-consuming. I already feel a part of me bending to his will, wanting to kiss those exemplary lips that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since Thanksgiving.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask firmly, not giving him any hint as to what I’m really thinking about.

  “Doing what?”

  “This! Bringing me here to dance.”

  “Well,” he begins, an excruciatingly slow smile adorning his lips. “Because I’m an incredible dancer and it would be a waste to not show all these people my extraordinary talent.”

  More wit, really? That’s how he wants to do this? He’s not taking me seriously at all.

  For a thirty-two-year-old, he sure doesn’t act like it.

  “Okay, I’m out of here,” I whip at him, but when I try to break away he doesn’t let me, his grip only tightening in the struggle.

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me, Lauren. The song isn’t over yet.”

  It comes out like a stern order, not a sliver of wit left in his pitch.

  “I don’t care about the free drinks. Just let me go.” I try to pull away again but he keeps
on talking.

  “You know it wasn’t that long ago when we were in this exact same position. The Starling Bright Foundation’s benefit, remember? It was the first time we danced together.”

  How could I forget?

  That was the night where things had begun to change between us, when we were pirouetting along a very fine line between work and pleasure.

  Not to mention the photo of us taken that night that had the whole of New York in a buzz.

  “Don’t remind me,” I jeer, letting my stubbornness overrule my heart.

  But Clint doesn’t seem to hear me.

  “Then you slipped on that last stair and I stepped in gallantly, catching you before you hit that hard floor in front of all those people. What a gentleman!”

  “Why are you bringing that up?” I ask, shaking my head in sheer bemusement. “What is the point of all this, Clint?”

  “The point is,” he states, his voice now stricter, “that I have feelings for you, Lauren. We’ve shared a myriad of moments this past year and what happened over Thanksgiving was the peak of them. You know as well as I do that in those moments, everything else had fallen away so that all was left was just the two of us.”

  In any other context what he’s said would be romantic, poetic even, and just what any girl would want to hear.

  But where were those words last week when we’d be having this same discussion in his office?

  How can I trust him now?

  How do I know that he means it?

  I caught him with Elsa. Has he forgotten about that part?

  “That’s all they were, Clint: moments. Yes, they were intense, but they were also fleeting,” I tell him indifferently. “And after they were over, you just went back to being that self-indulgent hedge fund billionaire with an ego almost the size of New York itself.” I want to say more, but I think what I’ve said is punishing enough. “Look, I’m here with people. You can’t just step in and ruin my night like this.”

  He grunts uncouthly, shifting his feet. “People? You mean Adam?”

  “No. He’s just a friend.”

  It’s a half-truth. He doesn’t need to know that Adam and I kissed, or that coming to this bar tonight was for another double date.

  “Does he know that? Because he clearly wants you,” Clint pauses, looking at me like I’ve hurt him again. “Did you sleep with him?”

  The question comes out blunter and more malicious than anything else he’s ever said to me.

  “That’s none of your business,” I snap at him, risking the fact that it might only infuriate him more.

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “No. And even if I did, you’re my boss! You have no right to ask me about my personal life!”

  “Yes, I’m your boss,” he whispers bitterly, imitating a smile at the couple beside us who are clearly earwigging. “But you’re more than just a paycheck to me, Lauren. I can’t get you out of my fucking head!”

  He looks down momentarily.

  I can tell he’s torn up; I’m just finding it hard to believe that it could be over me.

  Does he really care this much?

  He could have anyone he wanted.

  Why is he so fixed on me?

  Is it because I’m more unattainable?

  Is it because I’m his employee?

  What is it about me that he likes so much?

  “Why don’t you just come over for Christmas?” he then says earnestly, like he’s just made the switch from Mr. Hyde to Dr. Jekyll. “My family’s here and Mom is going all out on the cooking this year. I know she’d love it if you came.”

  “Clint,” I sigh, unwrapping my arms from around his neck. I hadn’t even realized I still had them there. “I’m flying back to Colorado tomorrow night for the holidays. Besides, this is crazy. I’m your PA and you have a girlfriend, remember? Elsa.”

  “Elsa’s not my girlfriend,” he says emphatically, leaning in closer. “That day in the office wasn’t what it looked like. The only reason why she was there in the first place was because I cancelled another lunch with her and she wanted to know why. So I told her.”

  “Told her what?”

  “That I was…” he stops, struggling to get the words out.

  “What?”

  “That I was…in love with someone else,” he finally exhales, looking at me like a defeated hero.

  I turn away and try to remain calm.

  He said it again, the L word…

  “So you and Elsa were together?” I ask, stepping out of his grasp.

  “No, we were just…”

  “Sleeping together?”

  “Yes, but not since I met you.” He takes a long pause. “Not since that night outside the hotel. And then later in the bar.”

  What?!

  He’s about to pull me back to him but I edge farther away.

  “So you do remember?!” I practically shout, suddenly not giving one flying iota about who can hear us.

  “Of course I remember,” he answers faintly, like he’s ashamed that he hasn’t said it sooner.

  Good.

  He should be ashamed, and so should I for that matter.

  Talk about a conversation long overdue.

  “But—but why didn’t you tell me?” I cry, anguish flooding through me.

  All that time of not saying anything to each other. All that time that I’ve spent trying to figure out whether or not he remembers me. And he has all along.

  We could’ve saved ourselves so much bullshit.

  “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want it to change anything between us,” he says carefully, his eyes pleading with me. “I was hoping everything would just come out in time.”

  “But it did change things between us, Clint. It influenced everything that has happened this past year.”

  And then it dawns on me, the reason why I got the job in the first place. Why hadn’t I realized it sooner?

  “That’s why you gave me the job, isn’t it? You knew who I was as soon as I walked in for that interview.”

  He lowers his head, another clear sign that he’s guilty.

  “Yes,” he says point-blank.

  “And what? You thought it’d be fun to play around with your PA while no one was watching? Was that your plan?” I’m practically steaming at him. I can’t believe what he’s done, hiring me under false pretenses like that.

  I can hear Brooke in full reprise: What a wolf!

  “No, of course that wasn’t my plan,” he answers defensively. “Look, I want you to know that I hated myself that night for leaving the way I did. I even went back to your apartment a week later, but by then I figured you probably thought I was a jerk and so I just couldn’t bring myself to ring that damn doorbell.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  Not only does he remember me, but he also went back to my apartment?

  I wish he had rung that doorbell. Then everything would be different and far less byzantine.

  I draw in a lungful of air and then decide I need more of a breather.

  “I have to go,” I utter quietly, the warm tears already blurring my vision.

  “Lauren, please don’t,” he begs, and for the first time I truly believe him.

  But I need to go.

  I need to think.

  “The song’s over, Clint,” I whimper, starting to choke up. “You got your dance.”

  He tries to grab my arm again but I manage to move it just in time, making a beeline for the edge of the room.

  I don’t stop until I’ve made it out and am standing in the beer garden of Rapid, the cold air knapping at my face.

  I can’t believe Clint has done this to me again, slung all this on me without even considering what I might be feeling.

  That flight to Colorado couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It’s exactly one hour and forty-five minutes before the bright lights of New York City will be drifting below me, the yellow blinks getting furth
er and further away.

  Brooke left not that long ago; she doesn’t like goodbyes.

  Even though it’s only for a few weeks, there’s every chance she’ll be at some resort in Canada with Matt and his family when I get back, skiing her away contentedly through the rest of winter.

  I told her she should come back to Colorado and see her parents instead. But Brooke is as stubborn as they come, and now that she and Matt are getting serious, I don’t think Colorado will be on her radar for at least another year.

  If only she understood how precious your parents are.

  But then again, sometimes the only way you ever find that out is when you lose one of them.

  As I wheel my suitcase toward the door, a part of me feels empty and lifeless.

  Clint hasn’t called or messaged since I saw him last night—I think he’s finally given up on me this time.

  After lying in bed until the early hours of the morning, replaying it all over in my head, I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t blame him.

  All I had to do was forgive him and accept everything that he’d said.

  But I was too stubborn and proud.

  There he was, practically pouring his heart out on the dance floor and what did I do?

  Like I always do when things get too intense: I walked away.

  I push it all aside to deal with another day yet when that day comes, I put it all off again.

  And where has it gotten me?

  Nowhere.

  I’m miserable and lonely and desperately want to see Clint so badly that it hurts.

  It’s like a blade straight through my heart.

  I miss him, and now it’s too late.

  I take a few deep breaths and try to compose myself. I’ve quit my mantras; they work for one week but are then hopeless the next, and they sound really stupid when I speak them out loud.

  I’ve decided that breathing techniques are the surer bet and before I know it, I’ve proved myself right: a period of calm is lapping over me like a wave gently breaking and seething across the sand…

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  There goes that tranquility.

  Argh, I can’t believe Brooke!

  She forgot her keys to the apartment again?