Page 8 of Big Boss
He shifts in his seat and straightens up again, steepling his fingers and giving me all the disapproving daddy feelings I didn’t know I needed.
“You must have misunderstood me. This”—he gestures between us— “isn’t going to happen.”
At his snotty tone, I bristle. “I did not misunderstand. I’ll take the rest of today off, and we can get a fresh start tomorrow. When I’m properly caffeinated.”
I push myself forward out of the too big chair and waggle my feet awkwardly until they reach the floor.
“If your security team has cleared out the entryway, I’ll head home now and come back tomorrow morning. Triple shot Americano for each of us. You’re buying.”
I’m nervous again. I know he’s already told me no, but he seems like the type of man who likes to hear himself say no a few times before getting to yes.
He gives me a sharp look. “I’m buying, huh? What makes you think so?”
I shrug, feigning a nonchalance I don’t actually feel at all. No, instead my stomach is churning and my palms are itchy with sweat. But no. I can fake it with this guy until he buys what I’m selling.
“You owe me. First, you owe me a coffee. Second, you owe me for the hassle of being dragged into whatever shitstorm you’ve got brewing in your life. Third, you owe me for the way you were being all fake nasty with me in the elevator.” I nod decisively at him and will myself not to pull at the sides of my dress. “Tomorrow you’re buying. But we can take turns after that.”
He does that creepy thing where he holds too still for too long and then tilts his head, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. But it’s just me standing here, faking a confidence with him that I definitely don’t feel.
“Well, if we’re going to take turns, I guess it’s okay.” He straightens up again, pinches his pouty lips together. “You do realize this isn’t an art gallery, don’t you?”
I shrug. When it comes right down to it, it’s more important to me that I have a job that pays decently well than a job curating art exhibits for some skinny, sunflower-hating sociopath with a fierce chignon.
“You still haven’t told me what you do here at Coffee Snatchers Headquarters, but it must be rather scandalous if your last assistant felt the need to drag your name through the mud publicly at the first available opportunity.”
I rake my eyes over him and pretend like I’m thinking about it. “Are you running a speakeasy? Used car salesman? Or are you the man behind one of those multi-level marketing schemes?”
I gasp theatrically, earning a brief, genuine smile from the man in the suit. “Are you the person who’s been trying to reach me about my car’s extended warranty?”
I wave my hand around the office at walls littered with little plaques. “Do you only make scandals here, or are these teeny-tiny signs part of the whole process for you too?”
And this time, he’s the one fiddling with his hands, pressing them up into a steeple and then flattening some non-existent paper onto the desk. “I’m a producer. We make good music here at Eating Out Records.”
I pause, then finally direct my attention to the remainder of the office, specifically the part that is not inhabited by a hot older man in a fitted suit. Well, I guess that explains all the little plaques.
But also along one wall is a series of photographs of different sexy, shirtless men with big hair and lots of guyliner eating fruits. A peach, a fig, a watermelon, and for some reason, a papaya.
And guess who’s devouring that papaya? My very own coffee thief and maybe soon-to-be boss.
Well, that’s weird.
“Okay. Here’s the thing. I don’t know anything about the music industry, but I do know a decent amount about business. And I definitely know how to not create a big scandal out of nothing.” I harrumph for good measure.
His mouth twitches a little. “Are you in fact suggesting that all of this is nothing, Miss Ridley?” He gestures vaguely toward himself, or his gigantic desk, or the little mountain of paperwork in front of him. None of which are small or insubstantial.
I frown at him, then wave at the mostly empty room. “Let’s keep it real. What you really need is someone to get your coffee, answer the phone, help you stay organized and then keep out of your way. I can do all of that, I promise.”
He looks me over slowly. “But I can’t make any connections for you in the art world, Erica. That’s not my scene.”
I shrug it off, pretending not to feel the sting. “It’s more important for me to stick to my timeline than for me to work at an art gallery where I would never be taken seriously. That woman with the man hands told me this morning that I was a buffoon.”
His eyes light up. “I have man hands too. Or haven’t you noticed?” He spreads them out in front of himself in one of those pseudo placating gestures.
I clear my throat. “I’ve noticed. But on you, they actually look good.”
I can feel my face heat up as soon as the words slip out, but it’s too late now and he’s already preening, sitting up straighter and flashing one of those toothy smiles my way.
“Okay, Miss Ridley. We’re going to try this. Come back tomorrow and we’ll figure out all the details. But if you go on any talk shows and say I tried to sleep with you, I’ll ruin you. Permanently.”
