Page 21 of Like a Boss

“Um…” My brows knit together. “The view?”

“The view,” he repeats, appearing to be deep in thought. “I suppose you’re right. The view is rathergreat. Anything else?”

I don’t know what he wants me to say. He’s toying with me, and I don’t like it.

“There are no wrong or right answers. Just your honest opinion.”

Honestly, there is nothing great about this sterile, orderly office. Personally, I like disorder. This is way too much methodical for me. So I remain quiet, deciding that’s the better option than being caught out on a lie.

“Your silence reveals there is in fact nothing “great” to be found in here. Would you mind sharing what you find offensive?”

Is this another trick question? Is this a test, and if I fail, I’ll be on the first bus out of here?

Deciding to be honest, I meet his confident stare. “It’s just a little too controlled for me, sir. You can’t even see the floor in my bedroom,” I share, opting to leave out the fact my floor is the living room floor.

“Oh? So you like disorder and chaos?” His words are dripping in innuendo as he saunters around me.

“Why are you asking me this?” I ask, turning to look at him over my shoulder.

“Because, Ms. Young, I’m trying to understand why you would feel the need to bring your disorder into my office.”

“My what?” I instantly look down at my clothes. Did I miss a button on my blouse?

“Obviously my office is not to your liking because you felt the need to redecorate.”

“Redecorate?”

When he stops in front of his bookshelf, I get it. I can’t believe he saw it already. I was expecting at least a week for him to notice and by that time, anyone could have done it. But now, I’m caught red-handed.

I lower my eyes, feeling my cheeks heat. I can see the glow reflecting off his polished Italian loafers.

I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to ruffle his perfect feathers. Just like I want to run my hand through his slicked-back hair and free his imprisoned locks. What a boring, unsatisfied life he must live, where everything has a place. I can’t help but wonder where my place is. He makes it clear a moment later.

“If I wanted to redecorate, I’d hire a fucking interior designer,” he barks, his jaw firm. “Do that again, and you’ll be looking for another job. Understood?”

He’s serious. It was meant to be a joke. But the hard look in his eye reveals Mr. Fox doesn’t appreciate the humor. Heisas anal retentive as he acts and sounds.

“I said… do you… understand?” he asks, speaking as if I’m an imbecile.

Not appreciating his tone whatsoever, I bite back, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go get me another coffee. One without the juvenile antics, if you could.”

I stand stunned, but I don’t know what I expected. The man has gone through personal assistants faster than I can say ‘Fuck you, Mr. Dylan Fox, and the godlike complex you embrace!’

“That’ll be all, Ms. Young,” he says when I remain rooted to the spot.

My eyes fill with hot, angry tears, but I bite them back as I refuse to show weakness. I nod, and he turns his back to me, placing his hands in his pockets.

What a dismissal.

Walking over to his desk, I refrain from throwing the scalding coffee in his face as I snatch it off the polished surface. I hold my head up high as I walk past him. He doesn’t turn, nor does he acknowledge I’m there.

Well, fuck him. I refuse to allow another man to treat me like dirt.

I take a quick peep over my shoulder to ensure his back is still turned. It is. With bated breath, I speedily reach for a hideous glass ornament of a duck, which is perched on the filing cabinet and totally out of place, as I didn’t take him for a duck lover. Without delay, I turn it around and smile smugly.

I contain my laughter and exit the room.

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