Baby for the Bosshole: A Grumpy Boss Romance

4

Amy

“Working hard?”

I start, then look up from my laptop to see Emmett standing above me. I check the time on the monitor. Only ten minutes since I pulled up the file.

He’s carrying a fresh mug of coffee and his sleeves are rolled up, which means I wasn’t the first to get here. He always rolls them up when he arrives in the office, showing off lean, muscled forearms that never fail to make me salivate.

Then there are his gorgeous eyes. They always seem to burn with hunger when he looks at me. Any other man, and I’d say he was attracted. But with Emmett, I know better. What he’s really hungering for is another opportunity to torment me.

Yet…

Despite the fact that we’ve been working together for a year and ten months, my heart still does those funny gymnastics—tumble, roll and twist. It never did that before I met him, and it’s increased over the last twenty-two months because even my belly feels weird these days, all fluttery in response to what my heart is doing. Hot shivers run through me at the most inopportune times, like when I should be focusing in meetings or paying attention to what my boyfriend’s saying during the few dates we can manage.

The only thing that makes my inopportune attraction to my boss bearable is that I also feel a furious need to slap him ninety percent of the time, especially when that murmured “I’m probably going to regret this…” pops into my head. Or when he wrecks another of my evenings or weekends with his casual sadism.

I actually thought I was at the wrong address when I came in for the final interview. It was like I’d walked into a modeling agency by accident and somehow come face to face with their top model.

At six-four, Emmett Lasker towers over most people, his shoulders impossibly wide, his hips narrow and tight. Dark, slanted eyebrows cut decisive lines above his deep-set eyes that are such a light blue they appear almost silver. His facial features are masculine and finely balanced, as though chiseled by a master sculptor. A straight blade of a nose, not too long, not too short, just perfect. High forehead and square jaw with a hint of dark stubble. The only thing soft on his face is his mouth, which is surprisingly full. One corner lifts up frequently, as though he’s sardonically amused at the world.

And maybe he is. He’s one of those rare prodigies of finance with the Midas touch. He sees things that most of us mortals can’t.

Working at GrantEm is basically the absolute best ice-cream sundae available in the world of finance. Working directly with Emmett Lasker himself? The cherry on top.

It’s too bad I’m not feeling any of the smugness or satisfaction that people must get when they work for a genius. The hot, uncomfortable knot in my belly? That’s forty percent lust over his gorgeous self, forty percent dread over what he’s going to do to ruin my day and twenty percent self-recrimination over the fact that I still think he’s an exceptionally fine specimen of masculinity. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s my boss…if we’d met under any other circumstances…I might’ve gone for a one-night stand, something I’d normally never even consider. But when you run into a guy who heats your blood just by breathing, why the hell not?

However, he is my boss. And not just any boss, but a boss who’s driven to make my life hell. Who’s hired me against his better judgment (I’m still not sure why he did that), and who’s apparently determined to show me that I don’t belong, no matter how well I perform at the firm.

But how can he look so fresh and hot this early in the morning? He seems to glow from within. The man didn’t leave the office until after I did last night. And he got here before I did this morning. How is it possible that he can look like a million bucks when I feel a need to IV three or four quarts of espresso?

He raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Does he want the Excel file now? He told me he needed it by two, and I’m not giving it to him until later. I’m entitled to the hours allotted for this task!

Then I remember he said, “Working hard?”

I give him my best professional smile. “Yes. You said you wanted it by two.” I gesture at the Excel spreadsheet on my monitor.

“That I did.” He glances at my calendar, and his mouth flattens a bit.

Shit. I don’t want him to think the circles, star and 6MAT over today’s date mean something personal. If he does, he’ll find a way to ruin it. Maybe toss in an “extremely urgent” task I’ll need to work through lunch to get done.

I’m not canceling my interview with the Blaire Group. “I even marked it on my calendar, so I wouldn’t forget.”

“Mmm.” His eyes narrow slightly.

Crap. Does he know what the circles and star really mean? I don’t think he’d fire me for interviewing, but I don’t want to give him another reason to dedicate his life to making me miserable. I don’t know how much more he can do at this point, but I’m sure he’ll think of something. There’s a reason he’s the founding partner of a venture capital firm at his age. And it isn’t his daddy’s money.

“I’m wondering what that ‘6MAT’ stands for.” Emmett gives me a smile.

His casual tone doesn’t fool me. I make sure to keep my face pleasant and innocent. “It’s my personal code to indicate urgency, 6MAT being the most important. The work I’m doing for you is obviously my top priority.”

“Yes, but what does it stand for?”

“Uh, you mean the letters? Themselves?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, it’s simple. Most Absolute Top. And I have six numerical levels of priority, six being the highest.” I smile again.

He raises both eyebrows, then nods slowly. “I see. It is important to mark one’s priorities.”

“Exactly.”

“Keep up the good work,” he says, although his tone indicates he’s going to pick apart my deliverable until he finds something to complain about. Then he goes into his office.

Once the door closes behind him, I let out a soft breath. Whew. Safe. And I think my laying it on so thick like that stroked his ego. Damn, I’m good. I don’t care if he gives me crap about my Excel model, because Emmett wouldn’t be Emmett if he didn’t.

Of course, once I get a new position and move on after eight weeks, this kind of passive-aggressive abuse will be over. Ah, the sweet smell of freedom. It’s so close!

As the morning matures, GrantEm starts to bustle with more people. A first-year associate, Webber, goes into Emmett’s office with a folder. Twenty minutes later he comes out, his shoulders rounded and the skin around his eyes red. He’s an impressive guy—two years at Morgan Stanley before getting his MBA from Stanford. But no match for the bosshole. Emmett must’ve eviscerated him in there, all without raising his voice. He knows exactly how to stick a knife in and twist, even as he smiles like some demon angel.

Another analyst goes into the Hell Cave and comes out looking like her high school crush told her she was ugly and her v****a smelled like dead fish.

Poor Diana.

The worst thing is about the office layout is that people might not hear what Emmett says, but they can see your humiliation. This is why, no matter what my boss says or does to me, I paste on a smile. I’ll be damned if anybody’s going to see how I really feel after an Emmett Lasker encounter.

By eleven fifteen, I’ve had three coffees, reviewed the Excel model one last time, making sure it looks perfect, and emailed it to Emmett. I don’t know how long the lunch interview is going to take, but I don’t want this deliverable hanging over my head the entire time I’m at the restaurant.

I check Emmett’s office. The door’s closed. And I didn’t see him leave after he got his midmorning coffee, so it’s probably safe to make a quick exit before he notices I’m not slaving away to make him money.

My purse slung over my arm, I trot to the elevator bank. I keep my eyes forward, not looking at anybody. The key is to look like I have an urgent business meeting to get to, not that I’m sneaking off to a secret job interview.

I hit the elevator button and wait for the car to arrive. It’s coming all the way from the lobby. Still, I have time. I’ve built in a ten-minute cushion just to be safe.

I look over my shoulder at Emmett’s office. The door’s still closed; he has no idea.

If Emmett were even the slightest bit of a decent human being underneath that gorgeous package, I might feel a little bad. After all, hiring me despite his misgivings has made me a valuable commodity. But all I’m feeling is exhilaration. And a desperate hope that he won’t notice anything until I have a firm offer.

After what seems like an eternity, the elevator pings and I make my escape.

I drive over to the Aylster Hotel, park and get to Nieve, a posh bistro decorated in snowy white, with exactly ten minutes to spare.

A maître d’ in a crisp white jacket stands at the entrance to the restaurant. I give him my interviewer’s name—Marion Blaire. He nods without checking the reservation log and takes me back to a private booth. It’s set with a white tablecloth and a gorgeous centerpiece made with blue and lavender flowers I don’t recognize.

Marion’s already at the table, nursing a glass of champagne that’s still fizzing. It’s a little surprising that he’s here so early.

“Amy! Hi, I’m Marion Blaire. Nice to finally meet you.” He stands and extends a hand.