Chapter 1
There are a few universal truths that still hold true. Not many, mind you. But at least a handful. Like…we need to keep our oceans clean. Who would argue with that? No one sane. Firefighters aren’t paid nearly enough for what they do. They run into fire y’all. The Rolling Stones > the Beatles. By a landslide. Daylight savings should be abolished. I dare you to change my mind.
And lastly, having a mad crush on your boss is a bad idea. That’s a clear loser in everyone’s estimation.
Even worse, that in a moment of lax morals, overconfidence in one’s desirability, and some uncharacteristic heavy drinking at the company winter holiday party you somehow end up kissing said boss in the bathroom. Not my finest moment but I’ve been lusting after him for the better part of the last four years so you can’t blame a girl.
At present, I find myself in said boss’s office making myself small in the chair opposite his and trying to avoid eye contact for obvious reasons.
“I have to let you go,” Ben says. That’s his name––my boss at So-And-So Media Corp, a name I can’t divulge due to the NDA all employees sign upon being hired.
My eyebrow notches up, but that’s about it. Just one eyebrow bump. Because although the wording is curious, I must’ve misunderstood. Or not heard him correctly. He’s not firing me. There isn’t a single solitary chance of that happening.
First of all, it’s only ten in the morning and I haven’t had my second Monster drink yet––stuff doesn’t get real for me until after that second injection of caffeine. Therefore, it is a legit possibility that my brain is misfiring in a million different directions and making me think I am being shit-canned by the man who I’ve had a nauseating schoolgirl crush on for as long as I’ve known him. The same man, mind you, whose every semi-complimentary word I’ve hung onto like it’s an edict from the heavens while he does me the honor of ignoring the undoubtedly hangdog, mildly brain damaged looks I give him.
Second of all…he needs me. The man can’t get through the day without shouting my name at least six times, and it’s never in ecstasy.
Ben leans back in his office chair with his hands neatly laced together on his trim midsection, his expression blank while my eyes wander behind him, to the bookcase filled with journalism awards and travel memorabilia. It’s a tangible reminder that Ben isn’t just the pretty face willing to do all kinds of nasty things to me in my daydreams, he’s also a ridiculously talented journalist who’s amassed experience and proven himself on more than one occasion.
And therein lies the problem. I worship Ben, and in turn, he rides me like a rented mule and not in the way I wish he would.
“Carrie?”
My attention shoots back to his impressive face. This is not an overstatement. Ben has bone structure that would turn most people, men and women alike, neon green with envy.
A thin straight nose, razor sharp jawline, thick dark brows frame moss green eyes, and a perpetual shadow covers the bottom half of his face because it’s always five o’clock in Ben’s world. Add the ghost of British accent to this cornucopia of awesomeness and it’s almost an overkill of sex appeal.
And it doesn’t end there. Nope. Because the sum of those parts is so much greater.
I once saw a picture of Ben taken at the Tripoli airport as he fled near captured by an ISIS cell. He wore a safari jacket, aviators, and a beat up Yankees ball cap. It made me so hot I got cramps. Freaking cramps! I thought my uterus was going to explode right there and then in the middle of the day as I sat at my cubicle stuffing my face with a roast beef on rye sandwich.
“Did you hear me?” he continues, his face expressionless save for a slow measured blink.
This isn’t at all like him––Ben’s usually smoldering raw sexual energy––but it’s been super awkward between us the last few months. Hence, I do what we both have done since the night of the kiss––I pretend it’s not happening. Sometimes I manage to convince myself the kiss didn’t happen either.
Catching myself staring at the lips in question, I look away. Who am I kidding? Nothing’s going to erase that memory. Not the way I bumped my forehead against his chest as he was exiting the bathroom I was entering. Not the feeling as I laughed and rubbed my forehead where it had impacted his hard chest. Not the image of him smiling down at me. Or when he wrapped those long fingers around my wrist and pulled me inside.
Yeah, I’m not forgetting that anytime soon.
Less than a minute later, I was unexpectedly pinned against the back of the door with his tongue down my throat. I had to open my eyes to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. That’s never a good sign. If you ever feel inclined to open your eyes in the midst of making out with your hot boss, something’s probably wrong.
Was it the best kiss ever? No.
Was it terrible? No.
It just didn’t live up to the fantasy and the fantasy had been nothing short of spectacular for years. Then again I was drunk, so maybe my memory of it hasn’t served me well. Which is why I’ve chalked it up to my bad and not his.
After a few minutes of sloppy kissing, Ben pulled away, looking disheveled and uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He ran his hands through his hair as he apologized in that charming British way of his (which could probably get him out of murder rap) and stormed out, leaving me there alone to wonder what the heck had happened.
But that was six weeks ago and this is now. And now, sitting on his throne of accomplishments, Ben looks very sure of himself. Less so of me. Regardless, I’m not hitting the panic button because he can’t fire me even if he wants to. I’m his go-getter. The one in the office that never ever says no to him. I’m absolutely certain he can’t fire me any more than he can do without his right hand.
Impatiently, I glance at the iPhone resting on my lap. A mountain of research is waiting for me on my laptop––a story I brought to Ben that I’m working on for him––and the deadline is hanging over my head.
“To lunch?” is the only reasonable assumption. “I don’t have time today.”
Once again, I’ll probably spend the weekend working. Lunch isn’t even an option. My job is basically all I have and I really don’t mind it. This is what I’ve always wanted, after all. What I’ve been working towards since I graduated top of my class from Arizona State with a BA in Journalism. Well, not exactly this. Not the trips to the dry cleaners for Ben. Not the hunt for the gluten-free pizza for Ben. Not the late nights I’ve spent double checking another journalist’s work because Ben asked me to when he/she was too lazy to follow up on he/she’s own sources.
What I mean by this is all I have is that I have goals to achieve, awards to win, stories to tell, and slaving for Ben is going to help me accomplish all that. Having a personal life comes in at a distant second in level of importance.
He makes a face and for the first time since I’ve been summoned to his office doubt creeps in. It’s Ben’s constipated face. I know it well. The corners of his mouth are tight and slightly turned up, his brow furrowed. I’ve seen it countless times when he’s dumping whatever it-girl of the moment he’s lost interest in.
“No, umm…for good.” His eyes shift away, to the screen of his desktop computer before he can even finish the last consonant. The same combo of vowels and consonants that are, at present, echoing in my head like a death knell.