Romance: The Boss (8 page)

Chapter Three

I stare at him nervously, twiddling my thumbs on the itinerary as I wait for him to speak.

A part of me wants him to just confess that he remembers what happened between us so it’s no longer hanging over my head in this thick, gray disorientating cloud.

But then there’s the other part of me that is more than happy for him to go on pretending, lowering the chance of me losing this job that I critically need right now.

“So Miss Swift, I’ll need you to cancel all my appointments for today and reschedule them, including a dinner engagement I have this evening,” he says economically, eyes down and already scrawling on some documents.

“Okay,” I say, glancing at the itinerary to see how many appointments we’re talking about here. It’s roughly about twelve. “And what shall I say is the reason?”

He stops writing and looks at me, the expression on his face inferring that I’ve said something highly irregular. “Pardon me?”

I tremulously repeat myself. “Your, ah, appointments. What should I tell them if they, um, ask why you’re cancelling?”

He sighs and sits back in the chair, peering over at me closely, his forehead creased with scrutiny.

Well, this is awkward.

Whatever could he be thinking about?

It’s a straightforward enough question.

“I have to fly to Chicago at the last minute. Will that suffice, Miss Swift?” he says irritably, pressing his hands together in midair to form a triangle.

Is he mocking me?

“Ah…yes.” I drop my gaze again and feign another read of the itinerary.

I can’t believe how rude he is.

Well actually, I can.

It kind of fits his profile.

“Good. Then I expect a full agenda for tomorrow’s business day by five o’clock. Make sure to send it through to my email, as I won’t be back from Chicago until later tonight. That will be all.”

“Yes, Mr. Townsend,” I say before promptly getting up.

It feels strange calling him that, though.

I still think of him as James, the hot, cocky guy I took back to Brooke’s apartment for a quick fuck.

Okay, maybe not that quick.

When I pull open the office door he suddenly speaks again, my eyes shifting back to see the faint hint of a smile carved on his lips.

“Oh, and mind your feet won’t you, Lauren?” he brays, his tone now more personal than authoritative. “We wouldn’t want any more stumbles now, would we?”

I give a weak laugh but walk out clandestinely mortified that he has brought back my fall in the interview.

If anything is going to make me trip over my own feet again, it’s me thinking about how he’s expecting me to.

I sink into the chair behind my desk and try to calm myself down.

It had taken all my effort not to look back at him through the transparent glass, and as my hand wavers over the first appointment on the itinerary that I have to reschedule, I cannot help but get the feeling that his eyes are still on me.

No doubt he’s still chuckling to himself, looking at the back of my head with that philandering stare of his, and wondering why he chose to employ a clumsy girl that gets embarrassed at the drop of a hat.

Well, that makes two of us.

I spend the rest of the morning cancelling Mr. Townsend’s appointments and taking calls. When it finally gets to midday I have only one call left to make, the dinner engagement.

7:30 p.m. Dinner with Elsa. The Lion.

Elsa could be his girlfriend…or a date?

I don’t know why, but either one disappoints me.

I feel like a helpless schoolgirl who’s just found out that her crush likes someone else.

But then again, of course Clint Townsend would have a girlfriend. He’s a confident, handsome, and successful billionaire. Hell, women must flock to him like moths to a flame.

When I look up Elsa in his list of contacts on the computer database, it comes up with a small profile and her picture. Her full name is Elsa Louisa Huber and she’s a Victoria’s Secret model (
of course she is
) with long, shapely legs and shimmering golden hair that even Brooke would look stark against.

Just as her name suggests, Elsa is German, and was crowned Miss Germany, becoming the first runner-up last year in the Miss Universe pageant.

Hmm, I guess that dashes any hopes of Clint and me rekindling things.

Not that we would’ve, anyway; after all, he is my boss and you kind of need to remember a girl in order to rekindle things with her. It’s kind of offensive actually—that was some of the best sex of my life, if not the best.

Oh well, I guess I’ll just keep on hoping that his memory stays elusive and that this job doesn’t end up biting me in the ass. Nonetheless, time is ticking and I still have that dinner appointment to cancel.

But something tells me that I’m going to enjoy calling this one.

Chapter Four

The last two weeks at Townsend Investments have been some of the most grueling of my life, from Mr. Townsend’s coffee not being hot enough and demanding I go get another one, to writing up the itineraries wrong, to hours of note-taking for conferences, to picking up dry cleaning, to lunch runs across town, and now to finding a present for his mom’s fiftieth birthday this weekend, which I have to hand-deliver to his apartment by seven o’clock.

Honestly, I wish I’d never said that whole “above and beyond” spiel in the interview. Clint Townsend is literally milking it, for all it’s worth.

On the upside, my first paycheck came today.

Four thousand dollars for two weeks’ work is pretty sweet, and given that I’m working for the devil incarnate, I think my annual salary is an appropriate one as the personal assistant of hell.

Okay, so maybe I’m being a tad melodramatic again.

Clint isn’t that bad.

In fact, since working with him I’ve managed to taper him down into having three distinct shades.

The first shade is the most obvious and the same one I’d seen at the bar: confident, smug, and witty, a true businessman of Wall Street. The second shade is pensive, a brooding and fractious edge to him that makes you think twice about getting on his wrong side.

And then there’s the third shade, the one that stops me from hating him on most days and suggests that deep down, he has the potential to be someone else entirely.

This shade embraces his sensuality, his compassion, his vulnerability, and his love of animals, notably dogs. I know, the whole dog-lover thing stumped me too.

But he donates thousands of dollars to animal shelters all over the country, particularly in LA, where the numbers of dogs on the street and in pounds is significantly high. I didn’t think he seemed to be the kind of man who would bother to care about animals, but the wick of a candle is only as deep as you can see it. It’s funny how much you can get to know about a person in only two weeks and without actually ever asking them. Granted, I already caught a glimpse of Clint’s sensitive side that night we slept together. That night when he told me he wished he could reverse time and follow a different path entirely.

“Lauren! Have you got that investor account for me yet?”

I jump at his voice, my reverie shattered. “Ah, yes I have it. Do you need it right now?”

“Would I be asking if I didn’t need it right now?”

Okay, someone was missing another spoonful of sunshine in his coffee this morning.

I pass him the manila folder from the in-tray and watch as he storms back into his office, flinging the file down onto his desk so violently that some of the sheets spill out to the floor.

Judging by the yelling on the phone I heard earlier this afternoon, I’m guessing he’s just lost an investor, which means he’s probably going to be fuming for the rest of the day. Good thing I have that present to get in a few minutes—I do not want to be around for the rest of the fallout.

But just as I turn back to my desk, Clint catches me still looking at him and shouts a muffled “What?” through the glass.

I instantly feel myself becoming a beetroot again, quickly turning away and praying that he doesn’t come back out here.

“Lauren!”

Damn it.

Here we go again.

“May I see you in my office for a moment…please?” he asks sharply, holding the door open.

I nod, get up, and walk in, coming to an unwilling halt just in front of his desk.

He stands over by the windows, looking out at the city momentarily before moving his eyes back to me.

“I apologize for the way I spoke to you earlier and for my behavior just now,” he says gently, but with his nostrils still flaring.

“It’s okay—” I begin to say, wanting to get out of there already, but he holds up his hand to silence me.

“No, it’s not okay. It was inappropriate.” He pauses and sits down at the desk, running his hand over his face like he’s in distress. “It’s no excuse, but I’ve one hell of a two weeks.”

“Makes two of us,” I mutter under my breath and then immediately regret it.

He heard me.

“I bet. Hannah told me what you call me around the office.”

I freeze, stunned. Hannah what?

“I guess I can be hotheaded at times,” he continues sleekly. “Like the devil incarnate, right?”

I’m going to kill Hannah. I should never have told her that the other day when we’d been by the photocopier.

But it was a joke, and she’d laughed.

What a bitch.

“I…never said that,” I lie, blooming more scarlet. But the way he’s directing those scorching blue eyes toward me, I just know he can see right through me.

“It’s fine, Lauren. I know how I can be. But a word of advice for the future, don’t go clucking to Hannah about your boss. She’s a notorious gossip.”

Even though what he’s saying is serious, his tone sounds comical. Like he doesn’t even care that I’ve been calling him that behind his back.

“Okay,” I answer curtly, still neither confirming nor denying that I said it.

“Good. I’ll let you get back to it, then. Oh, and take the rest of the day to find my mother the perfect gift. Spare no expense and use the company credit card.”

I gaud one of my best sweetheart smiles. “Not a problem, Mr. Townsend,” I say, before I leave the office, picking up my bag from my desk before heading straight for the elevator.

This birthday present couldn’t have come at a better time.

As I cross the lobby and head out into the open air, I breathe a sigh of reprieve. Hopefully that is the last time I see the devil incarnate before Monday.

I’m not sure if I could handle any more of his prodding before then.

Chapter Five

An exclusive Roman Baths day spa package, a bouquet of pink and yellow tulips, a ridiculously expensive bottle of Gucci perfume, and a vintage painting from the high-end gallery that I had waited at only a few weeks ago.

That is what I got Delilah Townsend from her doting billionaire son.

I am somewhat stressed out by the fact that he may not approve of any of these gifts, but I literally couldn’t think of anything else off the top of my head.

Except maybe a fur coat, but I didn’t know her size.

Or a leather handbag, but I didn’t know her style.

Crap…maybe I should’ve called him and asked.

But then again, why didn’t he suggest it?

Great, I’m standing outside his apartment door, listening to his footsteps slowly approaching and thinking that he’s going to blow a gasket on my ass for my shoddy decision-making.

“Lauren,” he greets warmly, cutting a smile a mile wide. “Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

I wait until he closes the door behind me before I follow him into the apartment.

We walk down a short hallway that soon opens up to a huge open-plan living space.

And by huge, I mean the complete, wow-factor commandeering of my attention.

In front of me, stretched horizontally across the entire apartment, are eight ceiling-to-floor windows displaying the glittering flanks of Manhattan, with the now-dark Central Park being at the very center of the architect’s design.

As I step forward in reverence, I begin to imagine how much more spectacular this view would be in the daylight, like something out of a dream and far beyond the average person’s salary.

So this is how the wealthy and powerful live?

Nice.

Very nice.

And depressing.

Suddenly my salary doesn’t seem too impressive.

“It’s a pretty incredible thing to look at, huh?” he remarks, walking over to the stainless steel kitchen on the far left. He places two wine glasses on the frosted marble countertop and opens a bottle of red wine.

“I…yes. The view is jaw-dropping, literally,” I splutter, taking a few more steps into the room.

“What makes you think I was referring to the view?”

I blush and put the gifts down on the long, meteor-gray dining table in front of the kitchen.

“So, uh, I got your mom a few things,” I say, ignoring his question. “I hope they’re adequate. I, ah, went all over town to—”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” he states, bringing over the two glasses now filled with wine. “Here, have a drink with me.”

Do I have a choice? It sure doesn’t feel like it.

“Okay,” I reply, taking it from him.

“But don’t drop it. That’s pure Austrian crystal you’re holding.”

I stare at him vacuously, clenching the glass harder in my hand. Is he being serious?

“I’m kidding, Lauren. Relax,” he muses. “If you do happen to break it, it’s all right: I have plenty more.”

Ha, good for him.

“I hope you like red,” he then adds offhandedly, walking over to the first of two black lounges by the windows.

“I do.”

“Excellent.”

I continue to stand by the dining table, unsure of whether to take a seat by him or linger closer to the exit. I just came here to drop off the gifts. I have no idea why he wants me to stay and have a drink with him.

“Lauren, come and sit. Tell me more about yourself,” he says commandingly, easing down on the lounge.

I hate how imperial he is, how everything always seems to be executed at his will and his will alone.

Yet at the same time I don’t want to displease him, so I go along with it.

But why should I care so much if I displease him?

He’s my boss.

It’s bound to happen sooner or later.

But the way I feel when he looks at me, when he’s not having a good day at the office or is clearly rattled by something, is more than a PA should be feeling.

If I’m being honest with myself, I think that night we first met is influencing me as the days go on. I’ve seen a softer side to him and now I’m waiting to see it again—but for a reason I haven’t quite figured out.

Despite my apprehension, I go sit opposite him, quaffing down a mouthful of wine on the way.