Page 82 of The Boss

I brace my free hand against my sink and consider my pissed-off countenance in the mirror. “You’re a fucking idiot,” I spit.

“Following your lead around the office, champ. So, you and Alessa can stop by my place for dinner around seven on Saturday, right? Thought we’d take advantage of the sunny daylight on the balcony off my dining room. What say you?”

I say a lot of things. Things that I’d rather not repeat here.

Chapter 40

Alessa

Life has a funny way of coming full circle, doesn’t it?

Here Julianna and I are, in the back of her car heading toward Presley’s house near Washington Park. It’s not our first time here together. It wouldn’t even be my first time coming here by myself, since there have been a few occasions when either Julianna or Presley asked me to pick something up. Or drop it off. The story changes every time.

She has a nice house, I guess. Not as big as you may think a wealthy heiress like her would have. We don’t care about that right now, anyway. What we care about is why Julianna and I are heading up to Ms. Bradford’s house.

Apparently, Cher had told the truth when she said that she was dating Ms. Bradford. Apparently, they’re still together.

Granted, I haven’t talked to Cher since I bumped into her at the teahouse. So, who knows what’s going on. Maybe she and Ms. Bradford had an affair still going on when I last saw her.Or maybe she told the truth when she implied that it had ended with her termination as well.

I guess we’re finding out.

Julianna is righteously pissed about the whole situation. Since she told me on Wednesday afternoon what’s going on, I’ve heard nothing but derision hurled at Ms. Bradford behind her back. It’s not unusual for Julianna to be exasperated with people to the point she’s always muttering under her breath, but this is a bit much even for her.

I get it. I do. It was bad enough – and super hypocritical – of Ms. Bradford to say what she did only to hook up with Cher. But beyond that, I don’t see what the big deal is. I’m a huge example of how office romances are a fact of life, especially in Portland.

Although I’m not sure what’s supposed to be accomplished by dinner. Are Cher and I becoming better friends because we’re openly dating billionaires we’ve worked for? Or is this creating a bigger rivalry between us? Oh, God, what if we don’t get along? What if she turns into a bigger diva and decides I’m not good enough to run in her realm? It wouldn’t affect my relationship with Julianna, but it could make parts of my personal life hell.

I’ve almost worked myself up into an anxious furor when the car pulls up before Ms. Bradford’s picturesque manor surrounded by evergreen trees and sporting a colorful flower garden that she may or may not have had a hand in planting.

Ms. Bradford immediately comes out to greet us with a large smile on her face. No wonder. Behind her, lurking in the foyer, is Cher bedecked in a baggy white blouse that somehow enunciates her breasts… and a pretty yellow skirt that may be floor length, but has a giant slit going all the way up to her thighs. She knows how to dress herself, that’s for sure. As for me? I need someone to dress me.

Oh, do I wish I could say that this is a normal dinner with Ms. Bradford.

Everything about it is lovely. The four of us sit at a table on her balcony overlooking the picturesque hills of West Portland. The air is a warm eighty-five degrees, perfect for me to sit in nothing more than a blue summer dress and a light shawl over my shoulders. Julianna takes off her jacket and undoes the top button on her dress shirt. Occasionally, she loosens up. A little.

Ms. Bradford and I make the greatest effort. I gush over Cher’s sleek hair and the gorgeous diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist – she makes sure we all know that Ms. Bradford gave it to her upon their reunion. I open my big mouth and ask, “When was that?”

They glance at each other. Cher has a smirk of second-hand embarrassment while Ms. Bradford grins like a teenager. “A week ago, wasn’t it, snookums?”

Beside me, Julianna grimaces. I don’t blame her. Who the hell sayssnookums?

“Yes. I was shocked when she came by my apartment Saturday night.” Was that the Saturday night Julianna and I were in New England? Had to be. “She had a bouquet of pink roses and an invitation to take me out to dinner so we could discuss what we meant to one another. I took the flowers but rebuked her invitation. I didn’t want her to take me for the wrong kind of woman.”

“And what kind of woman are you, exactly?” Julianna asks.

Ms. Bradford is the only one not steeling herself. “One who would rather hash things out in private, Ms. Marcon. I invited Presley into my apartment. I had already made dinner, anyway, and wasn’t about to let it go to waste.”

“This woman makes a mean homecooked lasagna.” Ms. Bradford clasps her hand on Cher’s shoulder. “She’s promising to make me some every week for the rest of my life.”

“That’s a long time.” Julianna’s tone implies it may be shortened if Ms. Bradford pisses her off enough. “But congratulations on already committing to that.”

These two shuffle in their seats so much that it takes all my composure to not snicker. Luckily, we’re saved by the maid bringing out our dinners. No, it’s not Cher’s homemade lasagna.

Julianna doesn’t bother beating around the bush now that she’s got both Presley and Cher in front of her. “So,” she begins, cutting into her parmesan chicken, “when’s the wedding?”

Ms. Bradford almost chokes on a piece of chicken. Cher reaches over and pats her on the back until she’s swallowed enough water to wash the food down. “Says the woman who hasn’t once shut up about her girlfriend since she started dating her.”

“Never let it be said that we take the same paths to reach the same destination, Presley.”

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