Page 14 of Babies for the Big Shot
Meatball barks once in clear agreement. Then he climbs onto my back and plants himself there, claiming the spot without hesitation.
“I thought he’d kick me out,” I say, muffled under forty pounds of smug canine. “Instead, he hired me. On the spot. No second interview. No paperwork. Just boom. ‘You’re hired, Ms. Brooks.’ Like this was a Hallmark movie with slightly more sex and a lot more HR violations.”
Laura’s still wheezing.
“And then,then, I asked for a better title,” I say, flipping over and dislodging Meatball with a yelp. “Like a lunatic. Like I had leverage.”
“You did,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes. “You’ve seen his CEO O-face. That’s power.”
I throw a pillow at her.
She catches it, hugs it to her chest, and grins. “Okay. Okay. Let me get this straight. You had anonymous elevator sex with a hot stranger. Thought you’d never see him again. Then walked into a corporate office and found out he’s your new boss. And now you’re working under him, but not like that, at least not yet,andyou negotiated your title on day one?”
I nod grimly. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
Laura whistles low. “You’re either living the dream or starting a slow burn office disaster that ends with tabloid headlines and a restraining order.”
“Why not both?”
Meatball sneezes in agreement.
I drop my head back against the couch and groan again. “What am I gonna do, Laura? I can’t quit. I need the paycheck. But he’s…him. And I can’t stop thinking about what happened. Or what could happen if I’m not careful.”
“Simple,” she says, shrugging. “You keep your head down, do your job, and absolutely, one hundred percent donotsleep with him again.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
We both burst out laughing.
“Okay, yeah,” Laura gasps. “That’s never gonna happen.”
I cover my face with both hands. “I’m doomed.”
“Completely doomed,” she says helpfully.
Meatball climbs onto my lap, lets out a long, dramatic sigh, and flops over with his tongue hanging out. I stroke his velvet ears and sigh, too.
Tomorrow, I officially start working at Ashford Holdings.
My boss is the last man I should ever want.
And I have no idea how I’m supposed to get through a single day without remembering the way he said my name, voice low and aching.
I’m screwed.
But, you know, professionally.
Probably.
The next morning, I slap on makeup like it’s battle paint.
Foundation: war mask.
Mascara: false confidence.
Lipstick: a color I found at the bottom of my bag that says “I’m fine”even though I have not been fine since the elevator incident of doom.
