Page 2 of The Boss

"You're staying here?" she asks.

"Two weeks. Business." I take another sip of my overpriced bourbon. "You?"

"God, no. I live here. I just needed a drink somewhere nobody from work would find me." She takes a long pull from her Shirley Temple, and I watch the way her lips close around the straw. Christ, what is happening to me? "Though I'm starting to think I should have picked somewhere cheaper."

"Bad day?"

"Bad week. Bad month, actually. There's this guy everyone's been talking about for the past week, and he's supposed to arrive any day now. Word is he's a complete nightmare."

"Nightmare how?"

"Oh, you know the type. Probably refuses his coffee unless the beans are harvested from Mars and ground to his exact liking. Probably doesn't believe in lunch breaks and thinks overtime is a given and not optional. The kind of guy who thinks 'please' is a sign of weakness." She stirs her drink with the little plastic straw. "I'm probably being dramatic, but I've been dreading it since they announced he was coming. I haven't had a good night's sleep. Maybe it's because I actually enjoy working that the thought of anyone disrupting my peace is almost unfathomable."

The irony is so thick I could cut it with a knife. Here I am, sitting next to a woman who's dreading a new hire's arrival, and here I am, already hoping I could go back to HQ. The smart thing would be to change the subject because the last thing I want to talk about is work. The smart thing would be a lot of things I'm not doing right now.

"Maybe he won't be as bad as advertised," I say, hoping for her sake the guy's reputation is an exaggeration.

"That's what my friend, Jaden, keeps saying, but Jaden also thinks pineapple belongs on pizza and it's fine to lie down in your bed with your shoes on, so his judgment is questionable." She glances at me sideways. "What about you? You seem like you'd know the type. Corporate?"

"Something like that." Not a lie, exactly, but like I said, I don't want to talk about work right now. "And for the record, pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. So are shoes on the mattress."

"Finally someone who understands. That's what I've been telling him. Thank you." She shifts on her stool, turning to face me more directly, and her knee brushes against mine. She doesn't move it away, but neither do I. In a few seconds, I'll probably spontaneously combust because now my cock strains against my zipper, and there's nothing I can do about it. "Finally, someone with sense."

"I'm Matthew, by the way."

"Vivian."

She extends her hand, and I wrap my bigger one around it. It's a fucking handshake, but my caveman brain somehow thinks it's foreplay. Visions of her hair fanned across my pillow, her mouth moaning my name, her toes curled, her back arched, assault my senses. I can almost taste her on my tongue. Feel her slickness wrapped around my cock as I pound into her. Fuck.

I shake the thoughts away. Press my hands down hard against my thighs. Why the hell am I acting like a hormonal teenager seeing a bra for the first time? Is it the alcohol muddying my brain? But I've only taken a few sips. Is this what the rest of the eighteen dollars paid for? You didn't pay for the drink, but the hallucinations?

With superhuman effort, I grit my teeth and try my best to keep my head level.

"So what do you do, Vivian? Besides, dodge nightmare workmates."

"Executive assistant. Glorified babysitter, really, but don't tell my boss I said that." She pulls her hand back and reaches for her drink. "You?"

"I run things. Fix problems. Occasionally drink overpriced bourbon in hotel bars."

"Vague. I like that in a man." She's teasing me, and somehow that makes everything worse. Or better. I can't tell the difference anymore. I'm hard as a crowbar, and it seems all my blood has rushed south, leaving my head with nothing.

"What can I say? I'm mysterious."

"Mysterious." She repeats the word like she's testing how it tastes. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What would you call it?"

"Evasive. Possibly hiding something. Definitely trying too hard to seem interesting."

The laugh that comes out of me is completely involuntary. When was the last time someone called me on my shit this directly? When was the last time I let them? "Harsh but probably accurate."

"I have a talent for cutting through bullshit. Occupational hazard of working with executives all day. All these people who say one thing and expect you to magically know what they're talking about. I worked for a guy once who said he didn’t want his lunch 'looking back at him.' He just wanted the salad instead of the shrimp. "

"Jesus. Must be exhausting," I say.

"You have no idea. Half of them think they're God's gift to business or guarding heaven's gates, and the other half actually believe their own press releases." She takes another sip, and I watch the way her throat moves when she swallows, ignoring the urge to drag my tongue along the smooth skin. "Present company excluded, obviously. You seem relatively down to earth for someone who 'runs things.'"

"Relatively down to earth. High praise. I will have that written on my tombstone."