Romance: The Boss (9 page)

Chapter Six

“What would you like to know?” I ask, crossing my legs.

The action of it does not go unnoticed.

“Anything,” he states brashly, his gaze still on my folded knee.

When I look away and fail to come up with a response, he presses me further.

“How about we start with how you became so clumsy, then?”

I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me now.

And I hate to admit it, but it’s working.

“I’m not clumsy,” I sigh, forging an eclectic smile. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s riling me up. “I just get a little…light-footed some times.”

“Light-footed.” He laughs wittily. “That’s one way to put it.”

I decide to just keep grinning and bear it.

Surely he won’t want me to stick around for much longer?

After all, it’s Friday night.

Doesn’t he have some model to go see, or screw?

“Okay, next question,” he says swiftly, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. “How about your mom? What’s she like?”

Where is this line of questioning coming from? Why does he want to know all this stuff? It reminds me of how he’d acted that night in the apartment, asking me about where in the world I wanted to go.

I hesitate before answering.

This isn’t exactly a subject I’m comfortable with and although he doesn’t know why, I find his behavior quite untenable.

Despite my attraction to him—the perfectly sculpted mouth and chiseled jawline, the azure eyes set ablaze, and the outline of his rippling muscles protruding from underneath his plain gray T-shirt—I can’t ignore the fact that I also find him superciliously intrusive.

“She was…a lovely lady,” I reply briefly, my voice lowering an octave.

A look of remorse washes over his face. “Was? You mean?”

I nod bitterly. “Yes, she died when I was a teenager.”

“Oh Lauren.” He winces, running his hand over his face again. That’s become a real habit of his lately. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking; I’m such an asshole.”

I purse my lips and drink the rest of my wine. “Yes. You are.”

My eyes almost pop-out when I realize the words have actually left my mouth.

I bite my lip fearfully, only to gaze over and see Clint leering at me like he’s impressed by it.

“You know, you’re about the only person I’ve ever let talk to me like that.”

“I didn’t mean any offense. I just—” I pause midsentence, suddenly realizing how exhausted I am with lying to this guy all the time.

He was being an asshole just now and he should damn well know about it. It’s bad enough that I don’t have the guts to confront him about the one-night stand we had.

“Actually, you know what? I did mean it. You, Mr. Townsend, are an asshole.”

There I go again…what in heaven’s name has come over me? Is it the wine? Am I tired? Is it the stress I’ve been under for the last two weeks? Is this PA position getting to me?

“Wow. You’re a little pistol, aren’t you? Interesting.”

Why is he still smirking? He should be firing my ass or telling me to leave. Interesting, after that outburst? Hardly.

“I’m sorry,” I quickly say, getting up. “I shouldn’t have said that. I should go.”

“No, stay,” he insists, sounding quite frank.

“Why?”

“Just do me a kindness, will you? Keep me company for a little longer.”

“But don’t you think I’ve acted way out of line?”

“Nope. I deserved it.” He pats the empty space next to him on the lounge, gesturing for me to sit down again. I really don’t know if I want to, but once more, just the allure of his eyes wins me over and I conform.

I’m so tragic.

“Thank you,” he then says, standing to refill my glass. He brings back the bottle and fills his too. “Now, will you do me another kindness?”

“Um, that depends on what it is,” I jest. I may as well try to keep up the casual bantering. Now that I know he doesn’t mind it, I’m starting to feel a lot more comfortable around him. It’s strange; five minutes ago I’d wanted to run for the hills.

“Will you ask me a personal question about myself?” he asks.

The look in his eyes is the same one I saw in my bedroom that night, a touch of melancholia nestled in them.

“Okay,” I say slowly, thinking back to his question before. “What is your mom like?”

He sips his wine and shuffles back further onto the lounge, his gaze drifting sideways to the windows. “My mom is…beautiful, warm, caring, compassionate, somewhat vain, and just a touch overbearing.”

I smile at his answer—it thaws me to hear him talk about his mom like that.

That’s similar to how I felt about my mom too, even the vain part.

I remember how I would watch her in the mirror for ages, marveling at how meticulous she was when she put on her makeup.

She was so pretty.

I’d always wished to grow up looking just like her.

“And your dad?” I ask daringly, and then curse myself for asking it. Now who’s being insensitive? “I know he passed away a few years ago. So you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

When he shifts unnervingly, I envision him suddenly getting up and walking out again, like he did in Brooke’s apartment.

“No, it’s all right,” he says, offering a closed smile. “But let’s just say he never won any Father of the Year awards.”

“Why?” I ask.

What is wrong with me? I sound like a reporter in an interview, trying to invade his personal life.

“I’m sorry, that was out of line again,” I apologize.

“You say sorry a lot, you know that?”

“Yes I know, sorry.”

Even I laugh at myself over that one.

“My dad wasn’t around very much,” he continues. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story before…father ignores son so son ends up hating father. Yadda yadda yadda.”

That’s awful. He hated his father, yet from what I can tell he doesn’t seem at peace with that version of it.

“I read that your dad was a real estate tycoon, but also that he did a lot for unprivileged children, donating millions to orphanages internationally. That’s something nice,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Plus, if I didn’t say it, there’ll just be an awkward silence and that certainly wouldn’t be helping the situation.

“Yes. It’s about the only good thing he did do, though.”

I decide to change the subject slightly. I don’t know why it’s piqued my interest so much, but I want to know more about Clint and his family, and how they first came to be billionaires.

“How did your dad get into real estate?”

“My grandfather began developing properties back in the twenties. He named his company the Veda Company, after my grandmother Veda. She died of stomach cancer before I was born.”

He pauses to swallow the rest of his wine. Then he pours another. He offers to refill mine, but I shake my head.

More wine would be a dangerous move at this point.

“Then when my grandfather died about twenty years ago, my father expanded on the company’s operations. Now we own over six hundred offices, forty-five shopping centers, fifty-five thousand apartments, four hotels, five golf courses, and three marinas. Way to go, Dad.”

If I didn’t know any better and judging by his sarcastic tone, I’d think he’s half drunk.

“That’s very impressive,” I say honestly before delving on. “But there’s just one thing I don’t understand.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“Where do you fit in with all the real estate? I haven’t come across anything about you or anything in the office files that bares any link to real estate.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I don’t deal in real estate.”

“Why? I also read that your brother now heads the Veda Company. But why didn’t you want a share of it?”

“You really have done your research, haven’t you?” he quips, but is looking down at his legs in a way that suggests he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

“N-n-no,” I stammer. “Well, yes. I did some research before the interview, as anyone would. I wanted to learn a bit more about you.”

“And was it a good read?”

“It was…succinct.”

He laughs and rests his wine glass in the drink holder in the arm of the lounge. “Look, I just didn’t have any interest in real estate. I was better with numbers and so I sold myself to the devil another way. I signed myself up at the University of Dakota and did a double degree in arts and science—”

“And then went on to do an MBA at Harvard, which is where you also first starting trading out of your dorm room,” I finish, proud of myself for remembering all of it.

“Clever PA. I have severely underestimated you, Lauren,” he chides, picking up the bottle of wine again. “Sure you don’t want another glass?”

“No, thank you. In fact, I really should get going. It’s getting late and my stomach is growling up a storm.”

“Then stay for dinner, I’ll order in. What do you like? Chinese? Italian? Indian?”

I’d be lying if I said I’m not tempted to say yes. I’d love to keep drinking his wine and hearing all about his life, which I’m pretty sure he doesn’t share very often with anyone.

But I have this niggling feeling that if I don’t leave now, something will happen that I’m not sure either of us is ready for.

At least if I go, then this stays a rare and intimate moment to be reminisced about rather than another potential roll in the sheets.

Not that I’m saying that has been his intention this whole time—I just want to play it safe. I have too much to lose now.

Forth and outright, he’s still my boss.

“Thanks, but I have plans anyway,” I lie again.

“With your boyfriend?”

Well that’s a highly curious question to ask…and absolutely none of his business.

“No, but thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Townsend. Oh, and for the wine. It tasted like silken air.”

Silken air?

What?

Focus, Lauren, you’re almost out of here.

“My pleasure, Lauren, and please call me Clint when it’s just us. Mr. Townsend sounds far too formal coming from you.”

Coming from me? What does that mean? Does he remember me?

“Okay…Clint.” I smile and get ready to leave, but then decide to do a double take. This might be the only time to ask him something personal ever again.

“Why did you invite me in?” I ask candidly. “I mean, what was in it for you, just some company?”

He laughs softly and takes another sip of his wine. “Yes, just like I said, I wanted you to do me a kindness.”

“Really? That’s all? There’s nothing else about it you want to add?”

I’m really digging for an omission to the one-night stand. If we’re ever going to admit it to each other, then this is it.

We’re alone and not at work; it’s the perfect time.

But from the expression on his face, he seems more puzzled than confronted.

“Is there something you’re expecting me to say? You’re my PA, Lauren. You’re my first point of contact. I need to know a few personal things about you and vice versa. Trust is very important in any business relationship, remember that.”

Well I guess that settles it: he doesn’t remember me.

I should feel relieved, but instead it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

I fake a smile and walk down the hallway to the front door.

“Oh, and Lauren,” he calls out, just before I reach it. “Thanks for tonight. I appreciate your honesty. See you Monday.”

“That’s okay,” I tentatively call back before I grab the handle and launch myself into the corridor outside.

As I lean my back against the door, I partially ventilate, trying to process everything that just happened in there. The way that he had looked…the questions we had asked each other…did it all just really happen?

Did I just sit down with my billionaire boss for wine and a deep and meaningful chat?

When I plunge into the biting air outside the apartment complex, everything becomes stunningly clear.

I like him.

I really like him.

How am I going to get through the rest of the year with a racing pulse, weak knees, sweaty palms, and a stomach full of butterflies every time I see him?

I’m totally screwed.

Chapter Seven

Just what I need bright and early on a Monday: Elsa Huber with her royal-like stare and scintillating blue-green eyes.

She’s wearing body-hugging yoga pants and a pink tank top that’s been half cut to reveal her enviable slender waistline. That blueberry bagel I ate earlier now seems like a bad choice.

An exceedingly glutinous bad choice.

As I run my hands self-consciously over my size two pencil skirt, I scold myself for not opting for the fruit salad at Miguel’s.

I wonder if that is what Elsa thinks too: that I need to lose a bagel, or two.

She’s standing by the water cooler in Clint’s office like the picture-perfect Victoria’s Secret model that she is. Not a smear of makeup, her solarium-tanned skin glowing and unblemished.

It’s barely eight thirty—I can’t believe she wakes up looking like that.

But then again, she does look like the kind of woman who would regularly detox and get facials.

I bet she doesn’t even believe in sugar or caffeine; she probably drinks only herbals teas and ghastly green smoothies with kale and chia seeds and every other green vegetable you can think of.

I hate her. I don’t even know her, yet I hate her.

I guess my American sweetheart personality has its boundaries.

“So you’re his PA?” she says, holding up the glass of ice water to her pouty plump lips. “Good, brunettes aren’t his type.”

Bitch.

“Excuse me?” I feel my body tense up at her statement.

What is that supposed to mean?

Is she saying I’m not attractive enough for someone like Clint, or that I’m attractive but because I’m a brunette he’d never go for me anyway?

Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, duchess, but he has gone for me and from what I can remember, he enjoyed it.

Thoroughly.

“So you’re the model?” I solicit, mimicking her tenor, the burrow of an unscrupulous smirk on my lips. “Good, that’s his usual type. Good luck with that.”

Once the words leave my lips, I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked.

She hadn’t been expecting me to backchat her and I certainly hadn’t planned on doing it. After all, she is potentially my boss’s girlfriend. Shit.

But before Elsa even has a chance to respond—and by respond what I really mean is explode, judging by the furious look on her face—Clint strides ardently into the office.

“Elsa, I see you’ve met Lauren. Great, isn’t she?” he asks rhetorically, looking firstly at me then at Elsa, whose nostrils are flaring like a bull seeing red.

“Oh, just peachy, Clint,” she replies, leaning forward to stroke his arm like she’s claiming her ownership over him.

I swear I feel my heart stop.

My mood sinks as I stare at her hands that are now running down the length of his chest. I feel my stomach vomit on itself.

I really hate her.

Elsa turns back to me, simulating the same kind of smile that Bill Meagher had given me when I first walked in for the interview.

“We were just getting to know each other.” Her eyes are on me but she’s really speaking to Clint. “You were right. This one does have some fire.”

Now I know my heart has skipped a few beats.

He’s talked about me to her?

He’d told me in the bar that I had fire and he liked it. So does that mean he does remember me, and worse, that he’s told her about that night?

I’m so sick of not knowing either way, and I’m ready to blurt that out when Clint notices the look of affliction on my face, brandishing a wink while Elsa still has her back turned.

“Indeed.” He grins, still watching me carefully. “I need someone with some backbone around here. Bill just doesn’t cut it these days.”

“Pfft, as if Bill has ever had a backbone,” Elsa jeers, spinning back around to him. “He’s all talk, like a hissing pussycat who’ll then curl up on your lap as soon as you give it a treat, unlike you, Clint. It seems near impossible these days to even get a dinner date with you.”

I decide at that point that three is definitely a crowd and dump the wad of documents I’d originally come into the office to deliver. “They need to be signed and dated ASAP. Bill wants to send them off on the next courier,” I say in my best office voice, determined not to let Elsa see that she’s upset me. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

I don’t wait for Clint to answer, but the look on his face just before I walk out tells me he hadn’t anticipated me to be so short with him. I’d even go so far to say that he looked almost hurt by it.

But why should I care how he reacts?

He’s treated me like crap these past two weeks and for no justified reason.

I know Friday night was an exception; I saw his sensitive side again and he opened up to me about some things, which was nice.

But it still wasn’t appropriate, from a professional perspective. And I certainly didn’t buy his whole “just to keep my company” speech either.

There was more to it than that, I just don’t know what…

What does he see in Elsa Huber anyway?

Sure, she’s breathtakingly gorgeous – with perfect longs legs, flawless skin, perky breasts, a tight butt and sex appeal - but she has the personality of a spoiled brat.

But again, why do I care so much?

Yes, I slept with Clint once, but it was meaningless. A one-night stand with no strings attached.

Elsa has every right to claim her ownership over him. A billionaire like him must have plenty of avid female admirers; I’d be worried too if I was his girlfriend.

If that’s what Elsa is.

Burr, even just the thought of them together makes my insides churn again.

It’s almost like I’m enraged by it and by Elsa’s perfect perfectness. Just because she survives purely on oxygen and watercress to maintain that size-zero supple body, doesn’t mean we all have to.

Well, I like my size two-four figure.

It suits me.

Hell, it
is
me.

I’d look disproportional if I was thinner or fatter.

Oh what is wrong with me? Why am I going on like this? I sound like an immature schoolgirl again. I’m twenty-six years old, a grown adult.

So what if I’ve shared a couple of private moments with my sizzling hot billionaire boss? That’s all they were, moments.

Now it’s time to get a hold of myself again and take the high road, the mature and professional high road that this job requires of me.

“I need to get off this floor and get some air,” I say aloud and, without even bothering to tell Clint, march straight down the office aisle and toward the fire exit stairs that lead to the rooftop.

Meeting Elsa has left too much of a bad taste in my mouth.