Page 3 of Boss Me Around

He’s moving so he can get some distance from the boisterous group and listen to that voicemail he’s clearly just noticed. My voicemail. The voicemail that will ruin my life, wreck my reputation as a boss and fully adult human, and possibly rip a hole in the fabric of space-time.

Surely, the force of my embarrassment will be strong enough to damage the integrity of reality itself! None of us will ever be the same. In the name of preserving the world as we know it, I’m practically obligated to sprint toward Christian like a mother rescuing a toddler from traffic and tackle him to the ground.

Right?

By the time the logical part of me warns that I’m only making things worse, I’m already flying through the air, on a collision course with Christian’s chest.

Chapter Two

CHRISTIAN MCGUIRE

A man trying very hard to forget

how much he wants to bang his boss.

(And who’s failing…miserably.)

Manifesting.

It’s the big buzz word in self-help and entrepreneurial circles these days. The gist of it is this: You want something? Then you need to keep your shiny, happy thoughts focused on the thing you desire, never doubting that in due time the universe will make your dreams come true.

Like most self-help fads, I’m pretty sure it’s bullshit.

I’ve been trying to manifest a buyer for my bike shop for months and haven’t received a single reasonable offer. I also spent most of high school willing my body to grow a few extra inches, so I’d have an edge in basketball, but it never happened. I remain a perfectly reasonable, but in no way baller-extraordinary, six one.

Some things—like genetics and the economy of rural Minnesota—are beyond the power of hippy, woo-woo vibes. Before tonight, I would have said most, if not all things are beyond the power of hippy, woo-woo vibes. But then I had a fleeting wish that my secret crush would call me and when I checked my phone a beat later, there it was…a voicemail from Starling Baxter.

Starling, who I haven’t been able to get out of my head for months.

Starling, who dances naked through my steamiest sex dreams.

Starling, who is off-limits for many reasons including, but not limited to—she’s my boss, my new sister-in-law, a stone-cold weirdo obsessed with her pet turkey, and a neat freak who takes down pizza with a knife and fork so as not to soil her dainty fingers.

She’s also the first woman in years to make my heart do that racing, flipping, happy-squeezing thing it does when the attraction is more than physical.

When you can’t wait to see a woman because of her smile, her laugh, and the way you feel when she shows up at your desk to ask if you’ve seen the ferret in kennel six who likes to wear aviator goggles…

Then she takes your hand and drags you through the administrative offices into the shelter to see the ferret. And the entire time, you’re complaining about needing to get back to work, but really, all you can think about is how amazing it feels to touch her. Even just her hand. And then you get back to your desk and spend the rest of the afternoon having vivid, completely inappropriate fantasies about bending your sexy coworker over her desk after hours and showing her just how devoted you would be to her pleasure, should she decide she wants to be more than just friends.

But even if Starling were interested, which I’m pretty sure she’s not, we can’t be more than friends.

If I started dating Starling, my brother would kill me. Barrett is married to Starling’s big sister, super protective of his new sister-in-law, and rightly assumes I’m a manwhore with no interest in happily ever after. I don’t even want happy for now. I want friendship and fucking and a genial parting of ways when the friendly fucking is through.

That’s it.

Additionally, I’m leaving town soon and Starling is firmly entrenched in Bad Dog. She’s told me roughly ten thousand times how happy she is to be home now that she’s finished with college.

What kind of dick would want to ruin that by putting moving on the table—or a hassle-filled, long-distance relationship?

A big dick, that’s who. And not in the good way.

Additionally, additionally, Starling is too young for me. Five years might not seem like much on paper, but in reality, Starling is a babe in the woods compared to my been-around-the-block self. She grew up sheltered, with a protective mother who insisted both her daughters play by the rules. As a result, Starling’s never ridden a motorcycle, stayed out past midnight, gone winter swimming in the lake on a dare like every other teen in Bad Dog, or made out with someone she wasn’t dating.

And she’s only had one serious, long-term boyfriend, a douchebag she met at college who cheated on her and broke her sweet heart.

Despite her quick wit and smartass sense of humor, Starling is sweet. Sweet and innocent and looking for Prince Charming, not a jaded man who probably wouldn’t know how to love a girl like her, even if he tried. And I don’t intend to try. After Ashland, my ex, ripped my world apart with her breed of “romance,” I swore off relationships for good.

Casual is my thing and will continue to be my thing until the day I die, old and alone and still blissfully emotionally intact.

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