Page 4 of Hard on the Boss

Two

Marin

I owe my brother and sister-in-law a lot for getting me an interview with famous author William Biel. My older brother’s wife Alexandria happens to be Mr. Biel’s literary agent. When it was decided that the author needed help in etiquette training, as well as an important keynote speech, my brother and Alexandria thought of me.

It’s an exciting opportunity. After finishing graduate school I was so sure my dream career would immediately fall into my lap. But it never did. Maybe because I still don’t know what my dream career even is. I’ve done somewhat similar work, helping people with resumes and book proposals and such, but mostly, I’ve realized more of what I don’t want to do.

I need to be creative, to do something meaningful, to feel like I’m helping.

Working with someone as well known as Mr. Biel? It could definitely be worse.

I know I was a little hard on him at our first dinner, but I want to do this job right, because I honestly believe that I can help him. And because he seemed to respond well to that. William isn’t a man who beats around the bush and wouldn’t want me to, either, that much I know.

We meet up almost daily, in all kinds of settings ranging from casual coffee shops to fine dining restaurants. Mostly we work on his speech. But every outing, every interaction, gives him the chance to practice the fine art of actually speaking to strangers. Like, in real life.

“All these meals are gonna make me fat,” William complains around a mouthful of country fried steak.

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “Look at you.”

“Look at me what?”

“You’re in great shape.” Translation: he’s smokin’. All that time spent alone, he was putting that body of his to good use. I picture him like a lumberjack, throwing his ax down on a tree stump, flexing those arms.

Is it hot in here? Holy hell. They seriously need to kick up the A/C.

“For a writer,” William scoffs. “C’mon. I see every head turn when you walk in a room. They see me”—he leans comfortably in his side of the booth, pointing back at himself—“and think, how in hell is that guy with that woman?”

After my master’s degree, one would think I’ve decided to get a Ph.D. in rolling my eyes. “You’re a flirt. Can we focus?”

“Yes, yes, didn’t mean to keep you from your important task of conditioning me back into civilization.” He chuckles.

“You’re doing great,” I assure him.

I was feeling pretty confident at the interview, not gonna lie. Yet somehow I still couldn’t believe it when he said I got the job. To be honest, I was nervous. As if I had kind of been hoping…that I wouldn’t.

Can’t cross a line that is never drawn.

William is cute in this bumbling sort of way. I find him endearing. Not to mention crazy, like obscenely sexy. That’s the part I try to ignore with every ounce of my being. Falling for the boss is pretty much the opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing here—instilling the man with at least some amount of social decorum.

To be honest it is his ill manner that is what I find so very appealing. It isn’t even that bad, he’s just somewhat cantankerous sometimes, marches to the beat of his own drum. Expects candor but doesn’t easily dole it out—not really, not all the way deep.

It is so unlike me to be this attracted to a man like him. Manners are kind of my thing. I don’t have a lot of work experience—true—but I am sort of perfect for this job.

Growing up, I traveled a lot with my parents. They were diplomats, so we were always globe-trotting, meeting people from all over, and learning new customs fast. There is politically correct, and then there is simply correct—the standard being vastly different for different people from different places. My brother Wolfgang was carted around too, but not as much as me. He was older and off on his own before my parents became so busy. And once they were down to one kid, it was easier to tow me along. I didn’t always love it, but I didn’t hate it.

Like William, I know what it feels like to feel like you have never belonged. The difference? He can be more comfortable with himself when he’s by himself. I’m most comfortable when I’m around strangers. And William…well he’s starting to feel very much like not a stranger. But not really like a boss either. That’s dangerous.

It’s only been a couple of weeks and yet, around him I feel so…exposed. Like when William looks at me he sees all the way in. When we first met I had chalked it up to those intensely dark and expressive, soulful eyes of his.

But now, I wonder if it is because he is starting to get to know me. When our talks descend into the personal, how much is he listening? What’s he remember?

With a very unladylike gulp of strawberry milkshake, I drown the lump of anxiety that has started to appear every time we have these meetings. Each time coming back with a vengeance. I lick milkshake off my lips.

“Let’s go over your speech again.”

“What speech?” William says with a gruff pfft sound between those lips. Stop looking at his lips.

“Exactly,” I gigglishly reply. Stop all that giggling!

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