Taming Her Boss Part 1

Taming Her Boss.

C.M. Stunich.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fict.i.tious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

this book is dedicated to those who know the phrase "so wrong it's right,"

and understand exactly what it means.

and for T.A. because it just has to be.

<>

My boss is a d.i.c.k.

This is a fact that can't be sugarcoated, denied, or contemplated. It just is. Lex Lyndon is an a.s.shole. He struts around the office in a suit that costs more than my car and he never smiles. You'd think a man who owned a piece of fabric worth more than a Lexus would at least have something to be happy about. But no. Instead, he breathes down the necks of every employee on floor twelve and occasionally makes his way down to floors eleven and nine to glare and stomp around in his five figure loafers (he only skips floor ten because it's where the cleaning supplies are kept). He's attractive in that dark, mysterious sort of way, but any infatuation I might've developed over the man has been completely and utterly flattened by narrowed, steel gray eyes and lips pursed so tight I don't think a kind word has ever filtered between them.

For the most part, Mr. Lyndon avoids my desk. One, because I'm always here on time. Two, because I never leave early. And three, because I'm the best at what I do. Period. Although, in all honesty, I don't think Lex Lyndon has any clue what it is that I do for his grandfather's-now his father's-soon to be his business. So when he glides over to my desk, smooth as smoke and twice as sultry, I ignore him and keep on doing what it is that I do. That is, what I never expected I'd ever be doing. My moms (yes, I have two of them) think I'm simply a paper pusher, and they're disappointed enough as it is. Three years of art school and this is all you have to show for it? Well, so I suppose I'm a bit of a sell-out as far as things go. I abandoned oil painting and took up real estate. But not local, residential stuff. I'm talking international, commercial real estate, investments. Basically, I move around amounts of money so astronomical they make my head spin. I buy properties and then I sell them. Online.

And Mr. Lyndon occasionally stops by to narrow his eyes and sniff. Sometimes, he adjusts his tie always a different color, never a brown or beige or black. I guess the random a.s.sortment of brightness on all of his dark suited person should reveal something to me, like maybe underneath all of that pompous arrogance and demeaning sneer, there's a person who feels things, who smiles, who laughs. But I never see it. To me, the legend of the Laughing Lex Lyndon may as well be Bigfoot. It could exist, but a few shoddy, blurry portraits aren't convincing anyone.

Today though, today is different.

Today, Mr. Lyndon comes up behind me in the lunch room, the lunch room, where he never goes, and pauses. I don't know he's there at first, not until my friend and confidante, Maxi Heath, drops her fork into her lap and starts to choke on her rice noodles. Her pale green eyes focus on a spot directly above my head and stay there, wide and inquiring. It only takes me a second to turn in my chair and spot him, like a blotch of night against the brightness of the sunshine filtering in the window. He looks so out of place standing on these linoleum floors, like his majestic feet were never meant to grace the presence of such poor craftsmanship. I try not to roll my eyes.

"Can I help you, Mr. Lyndon?" I ask, voice calm but unyielding. This is, after all, my lunch break. My unpaid lunch break. During this hour, I'm free to do as I please. It's the law, and frankly, no matter what he thinks, Lex Lyndon is not above the law.

Lex takes a deep breath and wrinkles his nose at the smell of hot Thai food, his pale skin practically glowing under the fluorescent bulbs from overhead. Even in this light, though, he's handsome tall, strong, lean, confident. I'm sure Lex has no problem finding women to fill his bed. Or men, if that's his flavor. I have no idea since I've never seen him flirt with anyone, and according to office gossip, he's single.

"Are you Oliver?" he asks me, voice a Lucullan feast for the ears and sumptuous as silk over chocolate. Yeah, he's that good. He's also mean. I can already tell from the slight inflection in his voice that something or someone has p.i.s.sed him off today.

I clear my throat and swallow a bit of broccoli.

"My name is Olivia. Some people call me Oli." I try to be as polite as possible, but it isn't easy, not with him lording over me the way he's doing. If he's trying to intimidate me, it isn't working. Lex barely registers that I've even spoken and doesn't acknowledge my statement.

"Were you in charge of the Eureka Inn project?" I have to pause here for a moment and think about it. Maybe Lex doesn't realize, but if it has to do with buying or selling, I'm in charge of pretty much every project. "Are you not sure?" he hisses, fists clenching at his sides. I watch his knuckles fold and unfold next to the perfectly sharp creases in his black trousers. "Because this is a multi-million dollar deal, and if you can't even give me a yes or no answer to that question, we have a serious problem."

I wish I could say I was shocked by his behavior, but I'm not. I've seen it before, directed at other employees around the floor. But I've never had it focused on me, and let me tell you, I'm not about to put up with it.

Maxi looks terrified, like a deer caught in the headlights. I don't blame her. She's not the only one that looks like that when Lex is around. Most of the employees spend their time gazing at Lex in equal parts fear and l.u.s.t (or envy if they don't swing his way). She's just one of hundreds.

I refuse to partic.i.p.ate.

I push my chair back and stand up, rising to my full height and not caring that Lex towers over my pet.i.te frame. No big deal. Today's battles are fought with wit and craft, knowledge and cunning, not brawn or stature or elegant frames draped in muscle. I take a deep breath and brush some of the ruby red hair from my forehead. It's all natural, even though it looks like it came from a bottle. I've got an almost purple tint to my hair that doesn't match either of my mothers. Since they refuse to tell me who the birth mother is, I've never been able to figure out which one of them it is.

"Excuse me, Mr. Lyndon," I begin, speaking slowly but surely, making sure my voice is projected up and out. I used to play the usher at my brother's baseball games when he was a kid, so I know I've got the lungs to make myself heard. "You may not be aware of the daily operations that occur in each and every department as that would be a logistical impossibility as well as a poor use of time management, but let me fill you in on a little secret. Every deal here is a multi-million dollar deal, so I apologize if I have to comb through my mind a bit before I can recall the specifics."

I pause and the room is so silent, you could hear a pin drop.

Lex opens his mouth, and his face reddens bright as a summer cherry, but I don't let him speak, not yet.

"The Eureka Inn project was halted because the building inspectors that we hired, and which came very highly recommended to our company by our local real estate representative, falsified doc.u.mentation on the boiler system for the building. We were told that all was well and functioning and that all seventy-five of the historic rooms and suites on the property could be adequately heated according to local and state regulations. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for we wouldn't want to step on the toes of any of our foreign partners, the sale was halted when a third party inspector deemed the system irreparable and well past the last legs of its life. Therefore, to make this property sellable, we'll need to install a whole new heating system." I take a deep breath to continue when Lex holds up his hand. His face has gone from red to white and now he looks a little like a ghost.

"Miss Oliver," he growls, butchering my name worse than a lamb at slaughter. "Do you have any concept of the way in which you address me?"

"This isn't the 19th century, Mr. Lyndon. I think the way in which I address you is perfectly adequate."

Lex stares at me, his strong, square jaw tightening painfully and his perfect, white teeth gritting so hard I can practically hear the enamel sc.r.a.ping.

"Do you like working here, Miss Oliver?"

I stare him down, locking my eyes on his, letting him know that this is the 21st century, and that I will not take s.h.i.t. Not from him, not from anyone. I do my job, and I'm d.a.m.n good at it. That's all he needs to know, and that's all that matters.

"It pays the bills," I respond lamely. What else can I say? I don't like working here. n.o.body does. Lex makes certain of that.

"Well then," he snarls, fury foaming around his being like he's just been infected with rabies. Seriously, I have never seen such character or emotion on the man before. It makes him ... dangerous. And s.e.xy. Too bad his att.i.tude is so sour. It spoils the milk, so to speak. "Consider them unpaid. You're fired."

I don't flinch.

Instead, I cross my arms over my green blouse, the one I know makes my cheeks look rosy, and I smile.

"You can't fire me," I tell him, flicking my tongue across my lower lip to moisten it. The air in here is getting hot, sizzling with fire and rage. Lex can posture all he wants though, won't do him any good. I won't be intimidated. "Not with unjust cause. And besides, without me, this company wouldn't function properly. It'd be like prying out a cog from a clock. It might still tick, but it won't keep time."

"Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are?" Lex whispers under his breath. I think he's trying not to yell. I stay still and watch him, expecting a burst of violence to explode from his hand, send my drink flying. Instead, he steps closer to me, touching the toes of my black pumps with his loafers. His hot breath drifts across my face and makes my lips tingle. Deep down, I feel an attraction stirring, spicy and sour, something painful but downright friggin' delicious. It's frightening. Lex is a beautiful specimen of humanity, but seriously? Not with that att.i.tude.

"A woman who knows her rights."

"You're an infuriating twit," he growls back at me. My fingers clench the sleeves of my blouse tight, digging my nails into the silken fabric. It's only one of a hundred dress shirts I own, all of which cost a fortune and that I only bought because the dress code here is ridiculously specific.

"I could sue you for that comment," I reply simply, refusing to show any of the anger inside of me. Men like Lex Lyndon get off on moments like this, so I decide not to give him the pleasure. His eyes bore into me, like two steel beams, slamming into my resolve with silent fury. I will not give in. I adjust my hip to put some s.p.a.ce between us and wait to see what he's going to say next.

"My office. Now." I stare at him and wonder how long it's going to be before he turns into a cartoon caricature of himself and starts to pour smoke from his ears. Lord knows his face is red enough. He takes a deep breath and adjusts his tie, glancing over at Maxi and curling his full lip. His gaze flicks up and down once before dismissing her without a second thought. She's just another useless peon in his eyes. f.u.c.king Lex Lyndon has no idea that she's actually head of the accounting department. If he knew how carefully she handled his books, he might have a better att.i.tude.

When he moves away, I cast my friend a rea.s.suring smile and follow my boss's broad back out the swinging door and past curious gazes and terrified grimaces. n.o.body thinks Lex dragging me out of the lunch room is a good thing. They all know better. Things are about to get bad. Really bad.

I think I'm about to get fired.

If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d thinks I'm going down without a fight though, he's got another thing coming. I keep my chin up and my stride even, shoulders back, chest out. I know how to hold my own, even against rich, powerful bullies like Alexander Lyndon.

When we get to his office door, he walks right through it, slamming into it with palms out and letting the d.a.m.n thing swing precariously close to my face. A scowl rips across my lips for a moment before I school it back into place. Even though I'd like to consider myself a post-modern feminist, having a guy hold the door open for you just shows good manners. I mean, come the f.u.c.k on? I tug the front of my jacket down, tuck some red waves behind my ear and pull in a calming breath.

When I follow in after him, I'm cool as a clam and twice as stoic. I refuse to let my face show anything at all. This is like poker, and he's got a royal flush. He knows it; I know it. I just can't acknowledge it. California is an at-will state. If Lex wants to fire me, he can. But I'm going to sue him for s.e.xual hara.s.sment. I'm sure an arrangement can be reached. I need this job. I just bought a new car, a new house. In San Francisco. Yeah. I need the money just to pay for my parking s.p.a.ce.

Lex sits behind his desk and watches me with eyes that are as gray as the fog outside his window, cold and wet. There's no hint of warmth in there, no twinkle that shows me there's good inside this man. He's like a statue, perfect and chiseled, but just as heartless. I mimic his pose and fold my arms over my chest again.

We stare at each other in perfect silence, cut off from the rest of the office by expensive sound proofing and heavy wooden doors. I wonder sometimes about all the privacy. What the h.e.l.l goes on in here anyway? As far as I know, Lex Lyndon doesn't actually do any work.

I keep my gaze trained on his, refusing to break eye contact for even a moment. I can tell from the minimalist design of his office that it's meant to intimidate. The room is ma.s.sive with a single floor to ceiling window stretching across the entire back wall. The carpet is dark and heavy, pulling the s.p.a.ce down and neutralizing it, crushing spirits with beige walls and photographs of suited men shaking hands. There are no personal items, no couches, no chairs, just Lex's desk and two bookcases on either side of me, pressed tight against the walls as if they're trying to escape this black hole in the center of the room, this empty rectangle meant to intimidate and break down.

I smile.

"Something funny, Miss ... " Lex pauses and doesn't even try to pretend that he knows my last name. I wait for him to continue. He doesn't.

"You asked to see me," I begin, hoping to draw whatever threats he's got out of his mouth before I start on my own. Bullies have to think they're in charge. That's the easiest way to manipulate them. "And need I remind you that I am officially off the clock. If you have something to say, please say it, so I can get back to my lunch before my hour's over." I keep smiling. That's right, just pretend that nothing bad is happening. You are in control. You are always in control.

Lex frowns like he doesn't know what to think of me and leans forward, putting his elbows on his desk, hunching his broad shoulders forward. His lips twitch and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"Do you have a problem with authority?" he asks me, voice low and dangerous. I can almost see his muscles coiling under his suit like a panther about to spring. He won't touch me though, I know, but he's getting ready to attack with words. He smiles then, and it's almost scary. Almost. But my mothers taught me better than that.

"I have a problem when somebody gets in my s.p.a.ce and tells me what to do." I pause and wet my lips. "Especially when said person knows absolutely zero about the subject to which he or she has so inadequately deemed themselves an authority." Lex's smile widens, and it looks like he's having trouble holding in a fit of rage. I can almost imagine him storming around the room like a child, kicking his desk and whining about how unfair the world is. "The Eureka Inn project is under control. If you needed information about it, all you had to do was shoot me an email, and I would've forwarded the file to you. But coming in on my lunch break and trying to break me down? Unacceptable." His face twitches, and I push on, sensing an opening. "If you fire me, I will sue you for s.e.xual hara.s.sment. I have Maxi as a witness, and although you may not be aware of it, there are security cameras in the lunch room." I lift my chin and drop my hands to my sides. "Your choice."

Lex Lyndon grins and sits back in his pretentious, high backed leather chair. His arms rest easily at his sides and his eyes, for the first time I've ever seen, actually sparkle with some sort of mirth.

"Miss Oliver," he says, butchering my name again. "You make a valid point." He tilts his head to the side, like a dog examining its prey. I don't like the look, not one little bit. I hold my ground. "So," he says, rising to his feet and slinking around the desk. I stay stone still, waiting as he comes up so close to me that I can feel the heat from his body. His face comes within inches of mine. "Instead of firing you, I'd like to hire you instead."

Insufferable woman. Arrogant. c.o.c.ky. Infuriating.

Intoxicating.

My face is within inches of hers and my breath is locked tight in my chest. There are words resting there, secrets trapped in the darkness of my lungs, letters swirling around waiting for the right moment to strike.

I run my tongue over my lower lip and her eyes follow the movement. Good sign. She finds me attractive. Women often do. But this girl is different than the others. Instead of being intimidated by my presence, my power, my standing in the company, it seems to enrage her. I like that. A little anger can go a long way especially in the sort of context I'm now ruminating about.

"Hire me?" she asks incredulously, eyes locked onto mine with laser focus. Eye contact. A rather overlooked and certainly underappreciated form of communication. We both know that whoever looks away first will have conceded something. We remain locked together as I open my mouth and breathe hot air across her lips. To her credit, she doesn't stumble and her words remain solid and full of steel. "How exactly do you mean? Are we discussing a promotion here?"

"Not like a promotion," I purr, resisting the urge to switch on my full charm. I don't want to sweep down and overwhelm this woman, turn her into a giggling kitten that's just begging to be stroked. But maybe I should try, just in case. I have to make certain she's the right one. I've been searching for a while, too long really. There have been some hopefuls in the past, but they've never pa.s.sed my test. It's not hard. I just want to see backbone, gleaming white backbone.

I have to admit though, I haven't felt this way about a woman in a long time. As soon as she started to stand up to me, I felt my body growing hot and my heart starting to pound. Even now, as I sit here, I can almost imagine what it would be like to kiss her. She has a full, round mouth, like a rose.

I can only pray there are thorns.

I do my best not to shiver with delight. A piercing kiss, something with bite and substance. Even the thought is irresistible; it's something I've never had, after all. With considerable effort on my part, I pull away from her and let the magnetic current between us stretch thin. If this girl, this woman with a boy's name, Oli, if she can feel it, she doesn't let on.

"If not a promotion, then what? A side project? Something for you to amuse yourself with in your spare time?" Those full lips twitch, just so. A slight adjustment that tells me Miss Oli here is not enjoying herself as much as I am. That's alright with me. I didn't expect to find her today; I'm certain she didn't expect to encounter me ever. Just a few more tests, and maybe we can come to terms. I've been dreaming of this day for years. Ever since I realized that something was missing. I had have everything that most men dream of. Money. Power. Prestige. Women.

So what's missing?

My therapist says the lack of a strong, female role model in my childhood has cut me to the bone, that I'm damaged. But she can go f.u.c.k herself. This goes way beyond that. I turn away from Olivia and move back around my desk, settling into my chair and leaning into the leather. If I act calm, surely my nonchalance will translate? I can't let Olivia or anyone else know how much I'm craving ... that. My tastes are unusual for a man in my position. I squeeze my hand into a fist, skin sliding across the leather on top of my desk. I wish I had a nice, neat whisky to help me through this. I feel my muscles tensing up, and I have to push back the urge to scowl.

"Spare time?" I ask Oli, shoving the words in her face. I put force behind them as I look down my nose at her. "You're certainly delusional if you really believe that. While you're over there piddling around at your desk, I'm working eighty hour weeks."

Oli snorts, a very unladylike gesture.

It's f.u.c.king delectable. Imagine, eating caviar all of your life and then biting into a hot dog a big, fat cheap one. Something greasy, wrapped in paper and served out of a cart. I like the snort, the way she lets her head fall back, the laughter that follows after. It's so unlike anything I've surrounded myself with before. It's not that Olivia's rough or cheap, not in the slightest. It's that she's different.

"Eighty hour work weeks, huh? That's real rich, Mr. Lyndon. My apologies if I sound skeptical, but what is it exactly that you do around here? You certainly have no idea what it is that I do because if that was the case, you wouldn't have stormed into the lunch room with a tempest raging between your ears." Olivia gestures wildly with her hands and then rakes her fingers through her hair, letting them trail down the pale skin of her throat. I follow the movement with my eyes, letting my gaze linger ... on a high collar and a silver necklace. There's not much of Miss Oli on display. Her outfit is conservative and high-brow. Her black slacks professional and well-fitting. Nothing overly ostentatious or perverse about it.

She pa.s.ses another test, and I try not to grin. We're not through here yet. Not by a long shot. Even if she really could do what I'm asking, there's always the chance that she could refuse. The type of woman I'm after would be more likely to spit in my face than say yes. G.o.d help me if she did.

"And you wouldn't be asking me to take on another project if you knew how much work I had piling up on my desk." Olivia checks her watch in a rather overdramatic gesture. I bite back another grin and wait for her to continue. "So if we're finished with our little chit chat here, I'd like to get back to it."

"Didn't you hear me?" I ask her calmly, wrapping my fingers around some of that rage she stirred up in me earlier. It'll be better if I can hate her, if I can keep her at arm's length. The s.e.x will be better that way. "You're fired." Olivia's pretty face flushes, those full cheeks ripening, staining pink with the anger that turns my c.o.c.k to steel and causes my stomach muscles to tighten in antic.i.p.ation. Before she can protest, I hold up a finger. "Unless you're willing to hear me out." I open up both hands in a placating gesture. It's all for show, of course. n.o.body in the Lyndon family gives a s.h.i.t about anyone else. I'm not here to calm Olivia down. Everything I do is to protect my own interests.

"You're just begging for a lawsuit, aren't you, Lex?" she asks, emphasizing the use of my first name, like we're buddies. Friends. My scowl comes back, and I rise from my chair. I try not to grit my teeth; it's not good for the crowns.

"Listen here, Miss ... " I search my brain for her last name again and come up empty. It's not my fault. I didn't have time to research this one. She's worked here for some time, I know, because I've looked at her before. Oli is a gorgeous woman, small but sharp looking, slender, full chested. I think I convinced myself that she was too pretty. Maybe that's my problem? Maybe I've been too judgmental?

I turn away and look out the window, across the bay and the blanket of fog that suffocates this city like a noose. I resist the urge to lift my hands, like I did when I was a child, press them against the gla.s.s and close my eyes. Instead, I glance over my shoulder at Olivia. She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. I smile and turn back towards the window.

"You'll have dinner with me tonight or you'll start looking for a new job in the morning."

I expect laughter, a snide remark, something, anything other than the sound of my office doors slamming shut behind her.

That arrogant, piece of s.h.i.t.

I storm through the front door of my townhouse, kicking off my heels as I go, keeping the straps hooked on my finger as I use my heel to slam the door shut behind me. My panty hose whisper across the carpet as I make for the dining room.

I almost forgot it was Friday night.

"You're home early. Everything okay at work?" That's my mom, the psychic. Well, one of them anyway.

"Friday night. Poker night. Fantastic." I step up to the table, grab the bottle of Pinot Noir in the center and skip the gla.s.s, pouring the liquid straight down my throat. My mothers exchange a nervous glance. Here's the thing with them they know everything. And I mean everything. I don't know how. Must be instinctual or something. All I know is that lying never got me anywhere with them, so there's no point in hiding my frustration. Instead, I just vent. "You two have got it right," I say as I look between their crinkled brows and matching frowns. "Men are such pigs."

"Olivia," Mother begins this one's June, by the way. "s.e.xism runs both ways, you know."

"Pray tell us then, who the pig is? You can't possibly have been offended by all 3.5 billion men on the planet all at once. Name the a.s.shole for us." Carol shuffles the cards and looks at me from under a sweep of blonde bangs. She's too pretty for her age. It should be illegal. When we go out in public, she's the one that gets. .h.i.t on by all the men my age. And the women.

"Alexander Lyndon." The words are short and sharp. I promised myself I wouldn't get mad, but every second I spent with that man, my ire grew hotter and more violent. He's so f.u.c.king full of himself, it makes me sick. But at the same time, his voice was like a physical force against my mouth. When I was standing there, I could almost imagine what it would be like to kiss him. He has a hard mouth, but I feel like if I applied enough heat, that it might melt. "Ugh." I turn away and focus hard on the painting above the niche in the wall. Maybe if I stare hard enough, the paint will rearrange itself and spell out some answers on the canvas? In my mind, I'm already adding up the cost of my mortgage payment, my car, my credit cards. I can fight Lex in court (one of my mothers is a lawyer, an environmental lawyer but still). I might even win. But it's still going to cost me.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Mom asks while I stare at the oil painting of rotten fruit. I bought it at a gallery showing after way too much wine. I figured since I paid for it, I might as well hang it up. It's taken me this long to really admit that I hate it. I'd like to s.n.a.t.c.h that painting off the wall and smash it in Lex Lyndon's face. But I can't. And I won't. You are in control. Always in control.

I take a deep breath, straighten out my blouse, and turn around with a faux smile spreading across my lips. Lex will not get the better of me. He's just a bully. A rich, powerful, semi-attractive bully. No crushing on the boss, Olivia, I tell myself with a small stab of disgust. I thought I was resistant to his lure when in reality, he just hadn't ever turned his full attention on me. I felt like a moth fighting against the pull of the sun. Oh, please. Get a hold of yourself. Attractive physical qualities does not a good partner make.

"It's nothing I can't handle." I look between my mothers and move over to the sound system, checking on the night's playlist. Six straight hours of jazz music. A small frown tugs at my lips. When I get angry, I like to listen to angry music. Somehow, it makes me feel better, like my problems are small fish in a big sea. Does that make any sense at all? "A simple disagreement with my boss that I see no trouble sorting out in court." June groans and takes a hefty sip of her wine as I turn back around and ease around the side of the table. It's a tight fit, but that's to be expected in the middle of the city. Everything here is narrow and stacked. My house is just one of four crammed into this little s.p.a.ce, sharing walls with my neighbors on either side. I wanted an end unit, but just so you know, the Lyndons don't pay that well.

"Olivia, is this something we need to worry about?" My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I hold up a finger to put a pause on June's question. There's a new email in my inbox. And it's from Lex.

I will be at Frances on 17th Street at eight tonight to discuss the business proposition I have in mind for you. If you choose not to show, I will take that as a sign that you are no longer interested in working for the company. Please let me know if you'd like me to send a car around for you.

I tap out a quick response and shove my phone back in my pants pocket. Meet me at the Burger King on Van Ness instead. Otherwise, be prepared to hear from my lawyer in the morning. I smile at the thought of seeing Lex in his dark suit and his blue-green tie standing in the middle of dirty linoleum and orange plastic seats. G.o.d, I'd pay to watch him down a greasy burger. Now that would be a sight to see. It might even be worth hearing him out. I don't like to lose, and I certainly won't give into a bully. Lex can show up at the Burger King, but I won't be there. I just think it would be funny if he did. Maybe I'll do a drive by and snap a picture?

"No worries. I simply have a boss who believes his money and his good looks ent.i.tle him to certain privileges like unchallengeable obedience." I shrug my shoulders and slide into my chair. Carol's green eyes are rife with questions, but June simply sighs and pulls the wine bottle away from me.

"Are you referring to something of a s.e.xual nature?" she asks, exchanging a look with her partner of thirty years. They have a silent way of communicating that makes me nervous. I can't help but imagine what those raised brows and crooked lips are saying about me. "Did he come at you? Did he touch you inappropriately?" I try not to roll my eyes because really, what else are they supposed to think when I come home raving about the opposite s.e.x?