Page 1 of Dating the Boss

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BROOKLYN

My boss was voted the hottest bachelor in Spring City, Colorado last year. He won the title from the previous front-runner, Derrick Grayson, the billionaire bachelor recently taken off the market when he married program director Jessica McLain.

At least that’s what our local gossip rag says.

To say that Coulter Manning is hot would be an epic understatement. The man oozes sex appeal, as well as brilliance and class, with the appropriate touch of arrogance for someone of his stature. He’s picture perfect in the way romance novels describe a mythic man: tall with wide shoulders and a tapered waist, built solid and muscular but not so big he looks uncomfortable in a suit. He’s got dark hair that he allows to grow until it barely curls up on the ends. You know, just long enough to tease a girl into fantasies of running her fingers through his thick locks. He’s got golden brown eyes that sparkle appropriately when he smiles, which he does nearly as often as he broods. Both looks are equally sexy, but when he smiles—good god! The man has dimples and a cleft chin, which means his grin drives an entire room to swoon.

Not that I’m infatuated or anything.

For eight months, I’ve watched him go on a slew of “dates” with supermodels to high-profile public events. Galas, fundraisers, art shows—you name it and he’s making a grand appearance with a stunning airhead on his arm.

To be fair, I don’t know that they’re all airheads, but considering none of them make it more than three dates or a month, whichever is shorter, I have to assume they are either boring, vapid, or shitty in bed.

I don’t want to think about him sleeping with them.

I, on the other hand, am not the hottest bachelorette in Spring City. I’m not the hottest bachelorette in the building. Hell, I’m not even the hottest bachelorette on this floor, and I’m one of only four single women working for Manning Industries.

As his executive assistant, my job requires me being by Mr. Manning’s side whenever and wherever he wants, which means I’m sometimes the distant third wheel on aforementioned dates. A duty I absolutely abhor. But as his assistant, I’m the only one who sees him when he’s not putting on airs for the cameras. That is, except for his brother, Camden, who acts as his social director and is the pimp who sets Coulter up with all the supermodels.

It’s that rare glimpse into the man behind the image that sparked my fantasies months ago. Under the thousand-dollar suits and hundred-dollar haircuts is a boy whose driving goal is to live up to his late grandfather’s memory and be the success his father never was, bringing Manning Industries back from the verge of bankruptcy.

That boy is sweet, thoughtful, and charming.

That boy stole my heart last winter at a ski lodge up north.

That boy has no idea I exist.

My phone rings—it’s his line. “Yes, Mr. Manning?”

“Could you order us lunch?”

“No date this afternoon?” I quip, unable to stop myself. Thankfully, he’s used to my saucy side. I suspect he even likes it.

He chuckles. “Not today. I’m in the mood for sushi. Order the usual times two for Camden and me, and whatever you want.”

“Okay, anything else?”

“Have you seen the month-end financials from Jack yet?”

I refresh my email and shake my head. “Not yet.”

“He’s late. Give him a call. I want those financials by two. Shane is coming at three, correct?”

“Yes, and the marketing team is presenting to you at four.”

“Great. Lunch, Miss Pierce. Now.”

“On it.” I hang up and launch a delivery app. Then I call Jack, giving him the what-for, before returning to the marketing presentation. I review and give everything my stamp of approval before it goes in front of my boss. All the departments have learned to trust my judgment because I know what he wants to see and how he wants to see it.

Working for Manning Industries as an executive assistant is a dream job, and yet, I’m Coulter’s sixth assistant in the last several years. He pays well, but expects a lot, a mini-version of himself who can be available to do whatever, whenever—which I’m capable of being with my non-existent social life. I have a business finance degree from SCCU. I read theFinancial Timesevery morning, and skim the tech trades every afternoon.

I do what I can to be the best assistant possible to Coulter Manning.

I’d love to be more, but I’ve accepted that it’s never going to happen. Not with the kind of women his brother lines up for him. I don’t fit into their world. I can barely put myself together enough to hang out in the background while they work the room, schmoozing with investors, industry leaders, and local celebrities at these high-profile events.

“Hey.” Margot bounces into my office and props her hips against my desk. She’s bachelorette two of four that works here, and I’d say she’s a lot prettier than me. She has glossy red curls versus my limp, boring blonde hair. She is curvy, but in the perfect way where her extra weight is in her boobs and ass. I carry a bit of extra weight everywhere, which makes me thick instead of curvy and is not nearly as much fun. She’s also got better fashion sense—always wearing some kind of vintage, 50’s housewife garment—with a bubblier personality. “What are you doing for lunch?”

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