Perfect Boss

By: Penny Wylder

When I finally shake myself of the fantasy, I look down and my nipples are hard. I quickly cover them with my arms and feel my face growing hot. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So your house burned down and you’re broke,” he says in a single breath. I was kind of hoping he hadn’t been paying attention to all that in his haste to get to wherever he was going. That’s unfortunate. But at least he knows. Maybe he’ll take pity on me and let me keep my job with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. One can hope.

“Yeah, that’s my life at the moment,” I say.

He folds his hands on top of his desk and looks me in the eyes, his expression far more serious now than when I ran into him. This isn’t good.

His eyes are a steely gray with a unique starburst pattern in the iris. It’s like looking into a storm from the comfort of your home. A woman could fall prey to eyes like those. They are distant and mysterious, and yet there’s something about him that makes me think they could be welcoming to the right person. Of course, that person is definitely not me.

He wears his hair in a perfect style that makes him look sexy and important. I catch a glimpse of my image in the reflection of a silver sculpture behind his desk. I do not look sexy or important. I look as if I should be warming my hands at a barrel fire in some dark alley while drinking my sorrows away.

“And your shit job doesn’t pay a living wage. Am I getting this right so far?” he says.

My shoulders drop and I close my eyes. I should jump out of one of those windows. The glass looks pretty thick. I’d probably just knock myself out and wake up back in this nightmare again. I glance at the door. Stay or run? Decisions.

Since I’m about to be fired, I might as well be honest. “My job is difficult. I’ve always wanted a job in the fashion industry, and I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it with little reward, if I’m being honest. It might be more tolerable if I didn’t have to work under that little greasy McNugget down there, but I do—or at least I did—and so no, it’s not the greatest job.”

That felt good to say out loud. I’m glad it’s off my chest. Now it’s time to have my ass handed to me. I sit back in the chair and prepare for a tongue lashing.

“What if I offered you something better?” he says.

Wait, what’s happening? I stare at him, waiting for him to say more, something like ‘you might’ve gotten something better if you hadn’t called your job “shit”.’ But he doesn’t follow it up with anything and I’m confused as hell. I tell the owner of the company my job is shit and suddenly I’m up for a promotion? No, this can’t be right. There has to be a catch.

“Like that?” I wrack my brain, trying to think of what types of jobs I’m qualified for. There are several, but those positions are already filled. Unless someone else is about to be fired. I cross my fingers and hope if someone gets fired, it’s my troll of a boss. The guy really is a complete idiot and doesn’t deserve to be in charge of anyone.

“I need a personal assistant.”

I lift my head, eyes widening. Me, the personal assistant to one of the wealthiest and most influential people in the city? I could do it, of course. The job would certainly be difficult. He’s a busy man and a personal assistant would basically be in charge of running his life, but I’m up for the challenge for sure, especially if the price is right. And I have to admit, being with Marcus Steere day in and day out sounds pretty good to me. A little eye candy is definitely a bonus.

When I look at him, he wears an expression that makes me think there’s a ‘but’ at the end of this deal.

So let’s just get on with it. “But?” I say, lowering my level of excitement.

“But …” he says, looking slightly awkward which is surprisingly endearing on him. He is so polished and stalwart in his role as ‘rich guy who has his shit together,’ that it’s hard to picture him as anything else. I find this human side of him far more approachable, which makes whatever ‘but’ coming my way not as scary.

He clears his throat and continues. “Part of this personal assistant job is pretending to be my wife.”

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