Baby for the Bosshole: A Grumpy Boss Romance

Chapter One Amy I’ll show him. That’s the motto that hauls me out of bed at the crack of dawn on a Friday so I can be at work before eight. It’s also the motto that keeps me going when I’ve been sleeping four hours a night for close to three months now. Some might say, “Why don’t you say something to your boss?” I’d rather jump off a plane. I’m probably going to regret this… Those muttered words came out of my boss’s mouth before he said that I was hired. He most likely doesn’t know I heard him. Or maybe he did and was hoping I’d turn down the offer and go elsewhere out of pride. But I accepted the job. If he wanted me to turn it down, he shouldn’t have offered such a high signing salary and bonus, both of which I desperately need to pay off my student loan. But those words linger. Every time I feel like slowing down or taking a break, they float up like some kind of psychic cattle prod and I work even harder. I’m not a quitter. Dad didn’t raise some shrinking violet who wilts at every criticism or doubt. I fight for what I want, and I will leave my critics and doubters choking in my dust. I will show my incomparable bosshole Emmett Lasker that hiring me was the best damn thing he’s ever done before my two years at the firm are up. And he will beg me to stay when I turn in my resignation. I might even consider staying—for a split second—if he offers to pay off my student loan. My college degree and MBA together cost me almost half a million dollars, and since my family isn’t swimming in money, most of it was paid for with loans. Dad offered to take some out in his name, but I turned him down. He’s done so much already. Anyway, even if I get that kind of an offer from Emmett, I’m probably going to say no. He’ll have to do better. Maybe promise to get me that lovely beachfront cottage in Florida where Dad wants to retire. I mean, I plan to buy my father his dream home. I ran the numbers and can afford it, if everything goes according to plan. But having Emmett buy it would be so much better. What if he begs on his knees? Now that’s an image! In reality, that egomaniac wouldn’t get on his knees for anyone. But the idea has a hot s****l undertone. All because the man is ridiculously good-looking. It’s like God ran out of decent personality, felt bad about it, and overcompensated by giving him a gorgeous face. But still. Face or no face, without some unimaginable offer, my answer will remain a big, fat no. By seven forty-five a.m. I’m in the lobby, waiting for an elevator to take me to my office. The bosshole wants the finalized updates to the financial model that we need for Monday by two, and I have three hours of work left on Excel. Assuming I can work through the fog in my head. The caffeine jolt from my morning coffee is dissipating like a thimble of salt in the Pacific. I already need another boost. Once I turn in the model, I’m going to have an exciting—and secret—lunch meeting. Given that I’ve been prepping for it for five days, I’m hoping it will go well. I’m even wearing my power outfit, including some slinky new power underwear. Once the model and interview are out of the way, I won’t have anything urgent to do—a true miracle. And if the day continues in such miraculous fashion, I plan to go home by five and catch up on sleep. I would literally kill for a solid eight hours. –Dad: Happy Friday, princess! I smile at the cheery text. Dad sends me one three mornings a week. Sometimes more, if he feels like it. A selfie pops up. He takes one every time he texts me because he hates using face emojis to show how we’re doing. “What do those yellow cartoon faces show? Nothing! They’re impersonal and soulless. Phones come with front-facing cameras for a reason.” And he’s right. I love getting his morning selfies. They let me know he’s doing fine out in Vegas. I look at the screen again. No sign that his back is bugging him. No sign that the new apprentice he took in at the shop is driving him crazy. Just a wide grin and twinkling blue eyes that curve slightly every time he smiles. His face shows lots of laugh lines, evidence of a life well lived. He could’ve become bitter and selfish after Mom dumped me in his lap and split after a hookup that resulted in an accidental baby. She said she couldn’t deal with a baby that wouldn’t quit crying and a man who couldn’t do more to give her the “good” life she deserved. I don’t know what more she expected of an infant barely two months old, or an enlisted marine in his late twenties who was doing his best to provide for an unplanned family. But dump me and split she did. And he did everything he could to raise me—including giving up his career in the military—and show me how much he loves me. Sending him morning selfies a few times a week? A small, small repayment for all that he’s done and sacrificed for me. –Me: Looking fantastic, Dad! Here’s me this morning! I take a quick shot, making sure to smile happily so he knows I’m doing well. Thankfully, the lighting’s good and my makeup hides the dark circles from sleep deprivation. Concealing those circles was just about the first thing I mastered when I started working in finance. As a bonus, the sleek GrantEm Capital logo is in the background. That should make Dad extra happy. He’s proud of the fact that his little girl, without any tutoring or standardized test prep courses, got a perfect SAT score and became the first in the family to go to college. And not just any college, but Harvard. My big mountain of a father, whom I never saw shed a tear until then, bawled over my acceptance letter and at my graduation. He threw a party when I started working at Goldman Sachs, then wept some more when I got an MBA from Wharton. And he bounced around with joy when I said I’d be working for Emmett Lasker at GrantEm Capital in Los Angeles. Not because he knows what a big deal Emmett Lasker is—he doesn’t—but because he was thrilled I’d be closer to home. I send the photo. –Dad: Already at work? It’s barely eight. I’m here to prove Emmett Lasker wrong. Plus he’s hell to work for. But I don’t text that. Instead, I opt for a non-worrying response. –Me: Got here early to beat the traffic. The L.A. morning rush is a killer. –Dad: So does this mean you get to leave early too? To beat the rush hour? Hahaha. He’s so adorable for asking. Although he was happy when I started my career in finance at Goldman, he was upset when he realized how many hours I would be working. He thought I should quit and go someplace where people valued me more. So I explained that if I left before hitting the two-year mark, I’d be labeled a quitter who didn’t have what it takes to hack it. Which in turn would mean that I’d never get hired in finance again. It’s just a thing in this business, and I can’t afford to burn a bridge to an entire sector when I have no clue what the future holds. But the possibility of being labeled somebody who couldn’t stay the course was enough to make my dad fume—“How dare they! You have more grit than any of those elitist East Coast punks!”—and stop complaining about my hours. Instead, he switched to “Nobody out there works as hard as you do” in that sweet, encouraging tone of his that never fails to make me want to do better. Unfortunately, the damned two-year mark applies at GrantEm, too. Why? The signing bonus. GrantEm Capital offered me more than double the signing bonus of other firms. That kind of money comes with a catch: stay for two years or give it back, prorated. What nobody told me was that that basically gave Emmett Lasker carte blanche to turn my life into hell for his sadistic pleasure. Nearly every Excel model and memo I turn in has to be redone. Almost every evening and weekend plan changed or canceled. And sleep? Ha ha. It is to laugh. But I grit my teeth and grind along because I refuse to give a single red cent back. Not after all the abuse I’ve suffered. Eight more weeks. Then I’ll be free of Emmett Lasker and this indentured servitude. –Me: I hope so. I pray Emmett doesn’t ask me to stay late and tinker with the Excel model that’s due at two today. He has an uncanny talent for finding something for me to do when I’m getting ready to go home. Not only that, it seems like every task he assigns me that late always takes at least three hours. Asshole. The elevator pings; the doors slide apart. –Me: Gotta go. Love you! I add lots of kisses and hearts, then put my phone away as I walk into the waiting car. As it goes up, another text lands on my phone. I look down with a smile. Probably Dad thinking of one last thing to say. My good mood vanishes. –Emmett: Which is better? Diamonds or pearls? He’s attached two images. The first is of diamond chandelier earrings that sparkle like stars on a navy velvet background. The second shows pearl drop earrings made with four pearls each. The ones on the very bottom look to be as big as my thumbnails. Holy cow. Elegant and expensive. His current girlfriend of the month would like both. I’ve seen her photo, not because I was looking for it, but because Dad sent it to me a couple of weeks ago, texting, Is this your boss? The picture showed Emmett smiling with a pretty redhead at some gala. Dad was impressed that Emmett was on the gossip sites because none of my bosses at Goldman Sachs ever made it to those sites. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Emmett Lasker is seen with different women on his arm all the time. No need to shatter Dad’s illusions. I try to bring up a more specific image of the woman, but I’m too sleep-deprived. Besides, why does it matter? Diamonds and pearls are both classic. –Me: Either should work great. –Emmett: That’s not an answer. I asked which is better. Yeah, and I told you neither because they’re both equally fine. But he’s not going to stop until I pick one. And if I pick the one he doesn’t like, he’s going to ask me to defend my selection. Argh. Why doesn’t he bug his assistant instead? Marjorie is one of the best-dressed women in the office, and not utilizing her for something like this is a huge waste of talent. She wouldn’t be annoyed, either, because she loves shopping. According to her, humanity created civilization specifically for shopping. When Emmett first started texting me for jewelry or fashion advice—within a month of my starting at GrantEm—I subtly asked Marjorie if he did the same with her. Maybe he was using me for a second opinion. But nope. Marjorie has never been asked. Just me. Aren’t I special, hahaha. When I requested that he quit asking me, he said he couldn’t. Apparently, I have excellent taste and he wants my input. This is what happens when a man with terrible fashion judgment is the decider. I wear business casual I buy off clearance racks. My accessories are made with cubic zirconia or cheap semiprecious stones. The whole point of my wardrobe is to be functional and attractive on a budget. So in the midst of working over a hundred hours a week, I also need to help Emmett pick out gifts. The next two months can’t go fast enough. –Me: What’s the occasion? –Emmett: No occasion. Just something I’m thinking about. I give my phone the side-eye. My boss isn’t the type to do things just because. He believes in efficiency and proficiency. He probably just doesn’t want to tell me what it’s about. For all I know, it could be an I’m-sorry-I-messed-up grovel gift. Or maybe he’s doing this to annoy me enough to make me quit my job now, so he can claw back some of my signing bonus. Who knows what floats around in his diabolical mind? –Me: Diamonds. Three… Two… One… –Emmett: Why? Argh! The inevitable question! It’s like death and taxes. Like Thanos. I should’ve picked the damned pearls. But I can’t take it back now. The one time I tried, he asked me so many questions I felt the need to create a PowerPoint presentation. –Me: They look more expensive. They’ll mean more. The redhead seemed like a diamond kind of woman. –Emmett: Seems like a thoughtless reason. Shallow, too, I add silently. –Me: Cheap things are cheap for a reason. –Emmett: Pretend you’re spending your own money. Oh for God’s sake. I wouldn’t be spending my own hard-earned dollars on those things. I’d be making an extra payment on my student loan. Or saving it for a down payment on Dad’s future house in Florida. But I can’t tell my boss I’d rather spend the money on unromantic practicality. Plus, his dates probably aren’t mired in debt. –Me: The diamonds. They sparkle more. –Emmett: So sparkly wins? –Me: Yes. Can I go now? I add silently. –Emmett: Thanks. :) Jesus, look at that smiley face. It’s more destructive than a hydrogen bomb. Articles on bosses from hell always mention the ones who constantly berate you and never thank you. The authors of those articles clearly have never met Emmett Lasker. He flings his smiling “thanks” around like preemptive strike grenades. And it’s diabolical. There’s no way to complain about his behavior after a seemingly friendly “thanks.” He is a bosshole for the twenty-first century. None of that classic pathological shouting stuff. There are too many people with cell phones recording your every move, eager to post your bad behavior on social media for public shaming. A modern bosshole can fake being a decent human while making your life miserable at the same time.