Page 2 of Dating the Boss

“I’m having lunch in today. Why?”

“Just wondering.” She fiddles with things on my desk. A tiny succulent. The pen cup. My stapler.

I snatch my stapler from her hand. “What devious plots are you cooking up in your head now?”

She smiles. “What are you doing on Valentine’s Day?”

I roll my eyes and direct my gaze to my computer screen. “Most likely nothing.”

“You should come out with me.”

Sighing, I glance up at her. “Really? A girl’s night on Valentine’s Day. Could we be more pathetic?”

She frowns. “First of all, celebrating friendship on Valentine’s Day is not pathetic. I mean, what is a relationship except a friendship with sex? We can have a girls’ night and go home to our vibrators, and I guarantee that’s a date better than the last five you’ve had.”

Shaking my head, I chuckle. “Better than the last ten, easily. At least when I go home to my vibrator, I know I’ll be getting off.”

“Exactly.”

“So, what did you have in mind for V-Day?”

“Well,” she says, pulling a folded piece of paper out from her skirt pocket. “Check this out!”

I unfold the paper and read the contents, my mind taking a minute to wrap around the advertisement. “Speed dating?”

“Yeah!” she chirps.

“No.” I snort.

“Yes, Brooklyn.” She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “We are going to try this. Worse case, we’ll have fodder to talk and laugh about afterward. Best case, we’ll meet a nice guy or two.”

My eyes go back to the advertisement. “I already want to claw my skin off.”

She waves me away. “Don’t be dramatic. Now click on the link in your email and complete the registration I already started for you.”

“We have to register?”

“Yes, we have to be selected. They aren’t letting in just any shmoo off the street. They’re vetting the applicants, attempting to only bring in good dating candidates.” She spreads her hands, as if revealing an invisible billboard. “Picture it. They need to bring in twenty decent males and twenty fantastic females, and they have a proven track record of bringing good people together.”

“So, there’s a chance we might not get chosen.”

She purses her lips and then waves her hands over her body. “Of course, we’ll be picked. We’re fabulous.”

“But I can hope?”

She narrows her eyes and walks around my desk, crowding me against my computer. Then she points to an email. “This one. Click on this one.”

I sigh and do as I’m told. The email opens, asking me to confirm my registration, and next thing I know, I’m printing a confirmation email with an agenda.

“This doesn’t say we’re being considered; it says we’re signed up.”

“I know!” She jumps and claps her hands together. “I told you we were golden.”

The ding of the elevator interrupts the ass chewing I’m ready to launch. “Saved by the delivery driver.” I slide my gaze her way.

She smiles and dances on her toes on her way out the door. “We’ll talk about outfits later.”

I wave the delivery driver over and pull petty cash out of my top drawer. Five minutes later, I’ve plated lunch, and I knock on Coulter’s door before walking in, my Valentine’s Day dilemma forgotten for the moment.

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