“Oh,” they look surprised. “No, just you.”
I wait expectantly. “Er. That report you wanted for the management meeting — I’ll have it ready by lunch,” they say.
We both know that message could have been delivered in an email. Dana is right. My heart plummets. Steve is interested. And I wish I could return their interest. They’re a nice person with a cute enough face but that hairstyle does nothing for them. It might make me shallow, but I look at them and there’s not an ounce of attraction. Yet they’re wedded to their hair. It’s understandable. Most women are similarly attached to their long locks just as some men are to their bushy beards.
I water down my smile. “Okay, thanks.” I need to get rid of them and there’s only one way to definitively do that. I need to go where they can’t follow. While I had been hoping to postpone this conversation as long as possible, it’s now my rescue. Grabbing a pen and notepad, I tap on Anders’s office door.
I hear a grunt. Taking it as permission to enter, I throw one last glance at Steve over my shoulder. They’ve turned away, their slender frame heading toward the open-plan kitchen and break-out area, ponytail swaying gently.
Anders is mid Downward Dog. He does this. He claims yoga loosens his muscles and re-invigorates his brain after a prolonged stint at his computer. I’ve walked in on him many times before in a variety of poses. But this Monday morning, I find it particularly disconcerting to come face-to-butt with my employer. Especially as it’s a fine, sculpted butt, one not out of place on a Grecian statue. Nor does it help that his T-shirt has ridden up, revealing his taut stomach and the end of a dusting of tawny hair.
I look away quickly, my lower gut tightening. What am I doing ogling my boss’s butt? My eyes are perfectly functional eyes, so I’ve always realised Anders is fit. But never have I noticed how toned is his physique and how well-formed his buttocks. Abashed, I wait while he drops to his knees, tucks his head down and stretches his arms out. A shiver traces down my spine as I watch his forearms stretch and flex.
This is all his fault. His proposal has unbalanced our familiar dynamic. Now, intimate thoughts, ones I cannot allow, are creeping in. He holds the child pose for a few seconds, then slowly uncurls, his body moving with grace and power. With each additional second I wait, my lust climbs higher. I gulp. When he is finally standing, facing me, his trademark lop-sided grin spreads and those dangerous eyes light up.
“Did you like them?” he asks, looking like a teenager who’s just given me a Valentine. It’s soppy. It’s cute. It’s endearing. I pause. He’s answered my question, and he looks so vulnerable it feels harsh and uncouth to object to his gift. I feel myself melting.
But no, he’s not a teen. He’s a CEO with inappropriately expensive artisanal chocolates. Are they the opening salvo ina love-bombing campaign? Or are they an apology for his unwarranted proposal? Part of me is not sure Anders is capable of moulding his intractable character into a love-bomb.
Maybe motive doesn’t matter. Hardening my heart, I speak, voice low. “You can’t do this!”
“Do what?”
“Leave me gifts at work.” I point through the closed door in the direction of my desk. “Every gossip in the company will be whispering that I’m sleeping with you.”
“Well, they might be a bit precipitous,” he grins again, “but they won’t be wrong in the long run.”
Scratch the apology gift option. “No! I said no. Did you not hear me on Friday?”
“I heard you. And I accept your refusal. But I can still try to convince you I’m right.” Those clear blue eyes fix on mine. Uh-oh. I steel myself to resist. I’m long practised at this. “You’ve worked for me for long enough. You should know I’m always right. But I think maybe you need me to woo you.”
“Woo me?” I am not normally slow, but today not all my brain cells seem to be firing and the mesmerising effect of his gaze is not helping.
“Yes. The old-fashioned way.” He spreads his arms wide and I manage to break eye contact as I follow his movements. “The way our grandparents did it. Before it turned into buy her a drink and give her three orgasms.”
I don’t know how to unpack this. Nor what to address first. The idea he can overturn my refusal, the unbalanced dynamic of boss and employee, the inappropriateness of extravagant gifts on my desk at work, or his perception that a date is a drink and three orgasms. I mean, who gives three orgasms? In my experience, you’re lucky if you get one.
I settle for, “No.”
“You don’t like them?” he asks, his brows drawing together in puzzlement. “But they’re the ones you bought yourself as a Christmas gift from me last year. I found the order on my card statement and got the biggest box they do.”
Which explains how he knows my Achilles heel. Full marks for ingenuity. But that shouldn’t surprise me. He’s built an entire company on his imagination, his resourcefulness and his drive.
“No wooing,” I clarify. “No chocolates. In fact, you can take them back. Eat them yourself.”
“No, thanks.” He gives a careless shrug. “If you don’t want them, bin them. Or share them about. The programmers are all gannets. They live on chocolate.”
I can’t help it; I sniff in horror. The thought of the coders inhaling those handmade works of art like they inhale Snickers bars breaks my resolve. Those chocolates should be cherished, savoured one gorgeous mouthful each night. Not absent-mindedly scarfed down between swigs of coffee as they shoot up some third-world country.
He’s got me. Those chocolates need to go to someone who appreciates them. Me. And possibly Fiona. I couldn’t bin them and handing them out to the coders is the human equivalent of chucking them out. Besides, if I share them around, Steve will know I was lying. They’ll wonder and while I don’t doubt they’d never guess the truth, in this case, their guesses could be even more damaging.
“I’ll sort the chocolates,” I say. They’ll be coming home with me tonight. “But no more buying expensive gifts. It’s a waste of money.” Then I realise that’s not likely to persuade him. Anders has never shied away from spending money on something he thinks worthwhile. But my bossisa logical man. Reason can usually persuade him.
Lifting my chin, I say, “You need to understand: the only time I will ever marry is if I am utterly, madly, deeply in love with you.”And Effie would have to love him too, but I don’t mention her. “Not once in our conversation on Friday did you mention love.”
He frowns. Then his face opens like he’s had an epiphany. “Ah! You’re part Asian.”
I bristle, ready to fight. “What’s that got to do with this?”
