Baby for the Bosshole Page 12

  He looks down. “Oh. Yeah. From a gym bag I keep in my car. Always have a fresh set in there.”

  Okay, so he has been here all night. And I’m… Yeah, I’m practically naked. I didn’t even put on a nightshirt. Oh my God, does this mean…?

  I pull the sheet tighter around me and surreptitiously slide one hand down my body. Okay, at least I have panties on…but who the hell knows what really happened last night? I could’ve thrown myself at him. Or he could’ve taken out his most excellently shaped penis again, luring me with the promise of another super orgasm.

  “What happened?” I blurt out. I need the facts before I react.

  “Take these first.” He pushes the water and the pills at me.

  Okay, he’s right about that. I down them and thank him.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, sitting back.

  A little personal distance. Good. “So. Um…” I clear my throat. “What happened?” Please don’t tell me I humiliated myself.

  “Don’t you remember?” His tone says that every second of last night should be permanently etched in my memory.

  Crap. “Um…not really?”

  “You threw yourself at me.”

  “Oh, I did not.” My denial is swift and firm, but inside I’m saying, Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!

  He nods. “You did. Repeatedly. Called me hot, too. You also had what sounded like an especially filthy dream about me.”

  Did I moan his name while sleeping? “Again?”

  His eyebrows almost hit his hairline. “Just how many filthy dreams have you had about me?”

  “None! I misspoke.”

  “I doubt that. You have a tendency to say everything very frankly when you’ve been drinking.”

  Holy shit. Did I really tell him about the dream? And did I have another one? But… That doesn’t add up. If I’d had another dirty dream, I should’ve woken up wet, even if I can’t remember it now. I was soaked yesterday.

  “You also get very explicit,” he adds.

  “No, you’re lying, because I’m not—” I shut my mouth so hard that my teeth click.

  Emmett waits a beat. “Not what?”

  “Nothing.” I refuse to discuss my vagina’s moisture level with my boss on a Sunday morning when I’m naked except for panties under the sheet. Nope, no way.

  What I need to do is find out why he’s here, and why I’m in the state I’m in. But first, I need to make myself feel human again.

  “Could you give me some privacy?” I say with all the cool nonchalance I can muster.

  “Sure, I can do that.” He gives me a small smirk, then gets out of my armchair and shuts the door behind him.

  I sit up and immediately regret moving so fast. It feels like I’m going to die. My brain seems to actually jiggle inside my skull.

  Isn’t alcohol supposed to make your brain shrink? Okay, this is the last time I’m going to get greedy when somebody offers to pay for my drinks. There is no free lunch.

  I cautiously make my way to the bathroom, pee, brush my teeth and shower. Thank God Sasha’s out of town. Normally it’d be extremely rude, but I hope Emmett leaves without a word. But given my luck, I doubt that’ll happen. I squeeze the water out of my hair, then towel it dry, since I don’t have time to do anything with it right now. There’s no way I’m letting Emmett roam free in my living room and kitchen. He might discover something to find fault with—whether with me or Sasha. And then there will be the enormous inconvenience of some new “training” project. I swear, the man can suck the time out of anyone’s life. He’s like a boss who’s really a time-vampire. Bossferatu.

  But before I can face him again, I need to come up with a strategy. I can’t ask him to tell me the truth about last night because he can just make up whatever he wants. He already claimed I was sexually into him, which I don’t believe. Not even a little.

  Alcohol has never made me want to sleep with a guy. Ever. It relaxes me, and it makes me laugh more than usual, but that’s about it. Emmett’s just making stuff up to get back at me for seeing him masturbate, then screwing him and running out. I thought he wanted to tacitly ignore that particular incident, but he must’ve changed his mind and decided to go on the offensive.

  Which…isn’t a bad idea. I can go on the offensive, too, and declare nothing happened last night. It’s his word against mine. I shouldn’t be naïve enough to trust that he’s going to be honest about anything. He’s the kind of boss who tells me my perfectly fine Excel models need adjustments, just for fun.

  Satisfied for the moment with my plan of action, I put on a fitted shirt, denim shorts and flip-flops and step out of the bedroom. Emmett’s large, masculine self is in the kitchen. He braces his hands against the edge of the sink and gives me a small scowl. “There’s nothing to eat in this place.”

  “And you’re surprised?”

  “Well…yeah. Most women have something in their fridge.”

  “Most women probably have time to go to the grocery store and buy stuff.” I give him a look. “They probably also have time to cook it.”

  “That explains why you’ve lost weight since starting the job,” he mutters.

  “I’m surprised you noticed. I only lost, like, two or three pounds.”

  “Two or three you didn’t need to lose.” He sighs.

  “Well, don’t make it sound like I’m starving myself on purpose. It’s your fault.” Normally, I wouldn’t point such things out, but I have less than eight weeks left at GrantEm Capital. I view it as a public service to the person who’ll be filling my position.

  “Still, you should— Wait a minute. My fault?” He looks at me like I told him the moon is made of cheesecake.

  Is this man for real? “Yes! I barely have time to sleep, much less eat.”

  His eyebrows arch. “Are you accusing me of overworking you?”

  “Ding, ding, ding!”

  “Nonsense. I just make sure you spend your time productively.”

  “Yeah, making you money.”

  “No, making us money. Which is productive.”

  Productive meaning profitable. I know corporate bullshit-speak. It’s one of the things you learn while getting your MBA.

  Besides, he seems annoyed as he looks around my kitchen, and I’m tired of this visual censure. “I have some coffee if you want.”

  “What I want is food with my coffee.”

  Bossy asshole. “Would you like me to feed you?” I say with a fake smile.

  He smiles back, except he looks oddly…satisfied. And slightly teasing. My apartment feels too hot all of a sudden.

  “It’s the least you can do for what I had to suffer last night,” he says.

  It’s unfair that I remember nothing. And he’s going to hold that over me forever at the rate this is going. On the other hand, it looks like he brought me home safely and didn’t try anything weird, so I probably should feed him something. Especially considering it’s already after ten. I bet Sasha has some stale cereal in her section of the pantry I can filch.

  “How about we get some brunch?” he says, before I can offer the cereal. “Come on.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Amy

  Emmett drives. Strapped into the passenger seat, I keep my mouth shut. My head hurts too much to discuss anything tricky—like sex or sex-related stuff. The only thing I can talk about on autopilot is work, but that’s the last thing I’m going to bring up. I’m not reminding the man of some task he can assign me. I plan to have this day fully off.

  You know it’s sad when the only thing you can think to talk about with your boss is work and sex.

  I ignore the judgmental voice. It doesn’t have eyes to see how gorgeous Emmett is.

  He gives me a glance from time to time, but the only thing he can see is that my mouth is curved into a pat smile, since I’m wearing reflective sunglasses.

  Emmett doesn’t try to start a conversation, but that doesn’t mean his mind is empty and calm. Or even innocent. He could be thinking about creative ways to make money in the bond market. Although fixed income security isn’t exciting enough to be his thing, he “dabbles,” according to some of the interviews I read about him.

  Or he could be thinking about sex.

  Of course, but it’s probably sex in general, not sex with me specifically. Men supposedly think about sex every seven seconds. No man can think about specific sex with a specific person that often. Men prefer more variety.

  He could be thinking about various positions with you.

  That conjures up my dirty bent-over-in-his-office dream. I squeeze my eyes shut to force it out my head.

  Emmett stops his Lamborghini in front of the Aylster Hotel. I eye the swanky building thinking, Uh-oh. Nieve, where I had my interview with Marion Blaire, is on the first floor. And it’s famous for brunch. When Dad visited, I brought him here and we had the most fabulous time.

  Unfortunately, I don’t foresee a fabulous time with Emmett Lasker.

  After handing his car off to the valet, Emmett leads me across the marble floor of the lobby. Chandeliers sparkle above us from the tall ceiling. Well-heeled guests lounge in cushy seats. The air smells faintly of the hotel’s signature scent—something floral and slightly spicy that conjures up a feeling of opulent indulgence.

  Emmett places a hand at my elbow like a gentleman. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s my boss and I’ve been dragged here like a hapless hamster to a snake cage, this would all be great.

  Please don’t go to Nieve. Not Nieve.

  But, of course, we end up in front of the gorgeous ivory bistro. And also of course, the same maître d’ from Friday is standing in the entrance with a warm, welcoming smile. And he recognizes me.

  “Good morning. Welcome back.” He beams at me.

  “Hi.”

  Emmett gives me a sideways glance. “You come here often? We can try some other place…”

  “No, no,” I say hurriedly. “It was, like, last month.”

  “Last month?”

  “With Rick.” I cringe inwardly. I really should’ve said with Dad, except he doesn’t visit that often and I had a brain fart. Dates with Rick were always on budget. Nieve would’ve blown twenty dates’ worth in one shot.

  Now Emmett’s staring at me like he can see straight down to the core of my lying soul. It’s making me want to drop to my knees and confess.

  Hold firm. Emmett has no clue what you’re up to socially. You don’t post anything on social media!

  The maître d’ gives me another smile. This time, it signals, I understand. “Would you like a table for two?”

  “Please,” I say most sincerely.

  He signals one of the uniformed staff, and the man takes us to a table near the window. He pulls out one chair right as Emmett pulls out another. I hesitate for a second. My boss cocks an imperious eyebrow.

  I take the chair Emmett offers, and then he sits down in the chair the server pulled out.

  I open the white leather-bound menu and stare at the brunch options. Without touching his own menu, Emmett orders a pot of coffee and champagne.

  “Anything to drink for you, miss?” the waiter asks.

  My eyes fall on the sparkly silver page inset that explains their champagne brunch. You can add a glass of Dom Pérignon to your brunch to elevate it.

  I don’t know about elevating my meal, but I’m probably going to need alcohol to get through this brunch with Emmett. Besides, it isn’t like I’ll be knocking back cheap liquor. One thing about champagne—it’s so elegant, it won’t make you look like an alcoholic who starts drinking before noon.

  “The same for me,” I say. “And I’d like some French toast, with extra berries and whipped cream, and syrup on the side.” I shut the menu.

  “Three-cheese omelet with an extra order of bacon,” Emmett says. “Whole wheat toast, butter and jam on the side.”

  The waiter repeats the order and leaves. I fidget a little, then down the icy water the waiter poured for me. The man returns with coffee in a gorgeous silver pot. He serves us, then leaves again.

  I sip the liquid caffeine, my mind whirring. Emmett is silent, which is ratcheting up my anxiety level. This isn’t like him. We don’t have the kind of relationship that allows for a quiet, relaxed brunch on Sunday.

  You also don’t have the kind of relationship that allows for a quickie in the office. Or getting yourself plastered and having him drive you home.

  It’s like the universe somehow took a wrong turn on Friday and derailed my well-ordered life. Maybe I need to sacrifice an accountant to the Excel gods or something to get things back on track. A virgin accountant, which shouldn’t be too hard to fin—

  My phone buzzes. A text! Yay!

  Thrilled with the distraction, I pull out my phone from the purse. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

  Emmett gives me a magnanimous go-ahead gesture.

  –Dad: Hey, sweetie pie, lots of love from Vegas! How you doing?

  The text has Dad’s new selfie. I smile.

  –Me: I’m doing great. How are you?

  –Dad: I’m doing fantastic. By the way, I’m going to be in L.A. at the end of next month.

  –Me: Awesome!

  –Dad: Xavier’s getting married, and I told him I’d be there.

  Xavier is Dad’s dearest friend, and he moved to L.A. last year. He perpetually falls in and out of love, and this is his fifth marriage. Surprising he isn’t going for an elopement in Vegas. You’d think the whole ceremony thing would lose its luster after the first few times.

  –Dad: Thought I’d visit you for a couple of days, if that’s okay.

  If Emmett wasn’t sitting right across from me, I’d be yelping with excitement.

  –Me: That would be totally great!

  Sasha’s usually not around on weekends because she’s jetting out to San Francisco. But I’ll ping her later just to be sure. If she’s staying in L.A. and doesn’t feel comfortable having Dad around, I can always put him up in a hotel.

  –Dad: Great. Looking forward to it!

  –Me: Me too!

  I send him a bazillion hearts. Since I’m not taking a selfie, I add the following:

  –Me: At a business brunch with my boss right now.

  –Dad: I understand. Man, that guy works you too hard. :(

  Yeah, no kidding. But honesty would worry him, and it’s unnecessary when I’m going to be done with Emmett Lasker soon.

  –Me: That’s why he pays me the big bucks. Anyway, gotta go. Love you! XOXO!

  –Dad: Love you too, sweetie pie!

  “Someone from the firm?” Emmett says as I put away the phone.

  “No, it was my father. He’s going to visit at the end of next month.” I smile, then sober a little. “By the way, you aren’t going to make me work on that weekend, are you? I really want to spend some time with him.”

  Emmett looks a little surprised. “You’d rather hang out with your father than work?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Why?”

  Because I’m normal, and don’t love work above literally everything else in the universe? “Because I love him. He’s the best dad ever.” I give Emmett my most pleading look. “I’ll work nonstop until then if that’s what it takes.”

  The skin between his eyebrows furrows. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll let you have the time off. But if you change your mind, just let me know.” His tone implies he won’t be surprised if I do.

  I look at him. In a way, it seems like it’s for the first time. “Don’t you love your father?”

  He smiles. “Of course. I wouldn’t be here with you if it weren’t for one of his errant swimmers.”

  I can’t decide if he’s joking or not. The smile is a bit thin, but then, it isn’t often that Emmett really lets go with a grin. And even somebody as vile as Emmett probably loves his dad. “So you understand why this is important to me.”

  “I suppose. But tell me what makes him special to you.”

  A direct question, in the same tone he uses to ask me to justify assumptions on the latest projections. It’s almost like he can’t imagine what would make a father special to anybody. “It’d take the entire day to tell you everything.”

  “Give me some highlights.”

  “Okay, well… He gave up so much for me, including a career in the military. You can’t really be in the Marine Corps and raise a girl as a single parent.”

  He frowns a little. “What happened to your mother?”

  “Gone,” I say, not wanting to get into the sordid details of how she abandoned us.

  “I see. Sorry to hear that.”

  I give him a tight smile. Most people assume my answer means she’s dead. Which is pretty close to the truth, since she’s dead to me. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Still. That’s gotta hurt. I can’t imagine not having my mother around.” His expression changes. The eyes soften; the smile warms a bit. Even his tone turns…tender.

  Which is weird, because all the tabloids and gossip sites basically labeled his mother a gold digger. But then, maybe he doesn’t care about that. After all, she fulfilled the most basic of all motherly duties—sticking around. Mine didn’t bother.

  “Anyway, Dad didn’t have a social life or anything. He was too busy learning a trade and taking care of me. He’s a mechanic now. A really great one,” I say proudly. “He taught me how to do basic repairs and change tires. Says a woman needs to know how to do that stuff more than men, since more bad things can happen to a woman who gets stuck because of a breakdown. Plus, some unscrupulous mechanics think it’s okay to rip a woman off because they think we won’t know.” I shake my head. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be at GrantEm Capital if it weren’t for my dad cheering me on, believing in me and making sure I knew I was loved no matter what. So once I sort out my student loans, I’m buying him a beachfront cottage.”

  “He wants you to buy him a property?” Emmett sounds stunned.