Baby for the Bosshole Read online

  Another analyst goes into the Hell Cave and comes out looking like her high school crush told her she was ugly and her vagina smelled like dead fish.

  Poor Diana.

  The worst thing is about the office layout is that people might not hear what Emmett says, but they can see your humiliation. This is why, no matter what my boss says or does to me, I paste on a smile. I’ll be damned if anybody’s going to see how I really feel after an Emmett Lasker encounter.

  By eleven fifteen, I’ve had three coffees, reviewed the Excel model one last time, making sure it looks perfect, and emailed it to Emmett. I don’t know how long the lunch interview is going to take, but I don’t want this deliverable hanging over my head the entire time I’m at the restaurant.

  I check Emmett’s office. The door’s closed. And I didn’t see him leave after he got his midmorning coffee, so it’s probably safe to make a quick exit before he notices I’m not slaving away to make him money.

  My purse slung over my arm, I trot to the elevator bank. I keep my eyes forward, not looking at anybody. The key is to look like I have an urgent business meeting to get to, not that I’m sneaking off to a secret job interview.

  I hit the elevator button and wait for the car to arrive. It’s coming all the way from the lobby. Still, I have time. I’ve built in a ten-minute cushion just to be safe.

  I look over my shoulder at Emmett’s office. The door’s still closed; he has no idea.

  If Emmett were even the slightest bit of a decent human being underneath that gorgeous package, I might feel a little bad. After all, hiring me despite his misgivings has made me a valuable commodity. But all I’m feeling is exhilaration. And a desperate hope that he won’t notice anything until I have a firm offer.

  After what seems like an eternity, the elevator pings and I make my escape.

  I drive over to the Aylster Hotel, park and get to Nieve, a posh bistro decorated in snowy white, with exactly ten minutes to spare.

  A maître d’ in a crisp white jacket stands at the entrance to the restaurant. I give him my interviewer’s name—Marion Blaire. He nods without checking the reservation log and takes me back to a private booth. It’s set with a white tablecloth and a gorgeous centerpiece made with blue and lavender flowers I don’t recognize.

  Marion’s already at the table, nursing a glass of champagne that’s still fizzing. It’s a little surprising that he’s here so early.

  “Amy! Hi, I’m Marion Blaire. Nice to finally meet you.” He stands and extends a hand.

  I pump it a couple of times. “Hi, Marion. Nice to meet you, too.”

  The camera on his computer must be subpar, because he looks much better in person. He’s a prototypical American golden boy with sandy hair, cornflower-blue eyes and a wide, bleach-assisted grin. He wears a three-piece suit, too formal for SoCal, but he might be overdressed to compensate for his age. He’s in his mid-thirties, too young to be a junior partner at a private equity firm. But that doesn’t matter, since he’s senior enough within the Blaire Group to make hiring decisions.

  I plan to impress the hell out of him.

  Our waiter takes our lunch order. I ask for lightly seared sliced sea bream in green sauce, since it’s easy to eat and talk this way. Marion opts for steak with mashed potatoes.

  We chitchat a bit, mainly personal stuff. I let Marion take the lead, since he’s the interviewer. I tell him about my dad in Vegas, and he tells me about his father, who works at the top of the Blaire Group, then about his mother’s trips.

  “She absolutely loves to travel.”

  I merely smile and say, “Awesome,” since I don’t have a female parental figure to speak adoringly about.

  Our food arrives, and he starts the actual interview. “Before we begin, I just want you to know the in-person interview is something we do just to make sure. So you don’t have to be overly nervous or anything. We really liked your résumé and experience. And the Zoom talk was very productive.”

  “Thanks.” I give him a smile. I know why we’re here, but it’s always nice to hear positive reinforcement.

  “So. Why are you thinking about leaving Emmett Lasker?”

  An odd way to phrase the question. Most people would name the firm, not my boss himself. And most wouldn’t gaze at me like they’re eager to hear what a horrible human being he is.

  Well. Emmett Lasker is the biggest bosshole in this half of the galaxy, but I’m not going to trash-talk my boss to a potential employer.

  I paste on a neutral smile. “I’m looking for new challenges and opportunities, and I think the Blaire Group can provide that.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m just surprised because most think of venture capital as an exit opportunity, not something you grind through looking for something better.”

  “Sure. But private equity is also a great exit opportunity.” I expected a question like this. “I like the deals the Blaire Group has done, and I think that’s where I can grow the most professionally.”

  “Won’t you miss working for Emmett Lasker? He has a rep.”

  Again bringing up Emmett. Marion is the second son of the founder of the Blaire Group, and there was probably a bit of nepotism involved for him to make junior partner at his age. Emmett, on the other hand, founded his own firm with one of his brothers. So Marion might be feeling a little inferior by comparison.

  But I’m not going to let him know I suspect any of that. “I’ve spent almost two years with him, so the reputation doesn’t hold much attraction for me anymore.”

  A corner of his mouth quirks up. “Aces. The whole feet of clay thing, eh?” He smirks and takes a bite of his steak. “So tell me about your hobbies. Anything interesting?”

  I can’t tell him my main hobby is trying to get as much sleep as possible, so I lie. “Not really. But I enjoy reading.” He doesn’t need to know the last book I read was The Mathematics of Financial Derivatives for my MBA.

  “So do I,” he says with a smile.

  Bet the last thing he read was somebody’s PowerPoint presentation. I can relate. Most people like to claim they’re readers because it makes them appear smart, even if the only thing they read is social media. Modern life keeps us too busy to sit around just reading.

  We chat some more between bites. My fish is excellent, but I’d like it more if I didn’t have to fake some of my answers to appear well rounded and normal. The last thing I want is for Marion to think I’m harried or suffering under Emmett Lasker’s authoritarian dictatorship. The goal is look like I can effortlessly handle anything and everything thrown my way.

  Marion gets our check, then smiles. “Here’s my card. I really enjoyed talking with you, and I’ll be in touch within a week with our decision.”

  I smile back, taking the card. “Thank you.”

  As I drive back to the office, I take deep breaths. I’m a little puzzled that Marion didn’t seem that interested in my work experience. Although he was present during the Zoom interview and we spoke a lot about the deals and so on I’ve worked on, I expected him to have at least one or two additional questions. He spent most of our lunch discussing our personal interests—while making sure to throw in questions about Emmett.

  On the other hand, interviewers all have their own style. He could be one of those people who only hire people they can be friends with.

  “Think positive,” I tell myself as I park and run back up to the office. If the Blaire Group wasn’t pretty sure about hiring me, Marion wouldn’t have wasted his time meeting for lunch. He could’ve flown back to Virginia after his morning meeting.

  And there are other firms out there. I have eight weeks to make my escape.

  Chapter Three

  Emmett

  Five twenty-nine p.m.

  I look at the digital clock on my desk and watch the seconds tick by. Even through my office door, I can feel the palpable excitement of a few of the analysts and associates over their weekend plans.

  I tap on the Pulse icon in my phone. As a rule, I don’t do social media—it rots your brain and sucks up time and energy. But Pulse is something I own a thirty-six percent stake in. Most importantly, it’s where an up-and-coming influencer wannabe named Rick does his Rick on Romance spiel. The account’s content is geared toward single men trying to navigate the life complication called a relationship.

  In my opinion, if you’re over the age of eighteen, you should know how to wine and dine women properly. But according to the follower count for Rick on Romance, over five hundred thousand men out there are pathetically clueless and desperate.

  Rick’s latest video has just gone live. He’s in his SUV, a pair of reflective sunglasses wrapped around a narrow-ish face that reminds me of a horse. Not a sexy stallion, but a boring workhorse. The kind that farmers used to tie to a wagon full of shit to fertilize their fields.

  “So I’m taking my girl out for our six-month anniversary.” His voice is full of faux excitement.

  His girl? Ha! He hasn’t done any of the things I’d expect a real boyfriend to do for his girlfriend. Like take her out to a decent restaurant. And not regard every date as an opportunity to grow his follower count.

  He’s treating Amy like a prop in his zeal to “guide” men who are even more hopeless than he is. That should be criminalized for the sake of all the poor women out there. Rick and his kind are why women are convinced that all the good men are either taken or gay.

  “It’s important to celebrate every milestone, you know,” he continues.

  Is it now?

  “So I reserved a rustic cabin in Lake Tahoe.”

  But why? When I asked, “Cabin or all-inclusive resort?” Amy picked resort, no hesitation. He should know her preference if he’s really her boyfriend. I know what she likes, and I’m just her boss!

  “Only the very best for my girl.” He grins, flashing large, square teeth. I guess he can say he’s hung like a horse…from the gums. And what’s up with that gap between the two front incisors?

  What does Amy see in this guy?

  She’s a second-year associate at GrantEm Capital, the venture capital firm I founded with my brother Grant. She has a degree in economics from Harvard, a two-year stint as an analyst at Goldman Sachs and an MBA from Wharton. It’s a damn impressive résumé. Too bad all those amazing qualifications and education didn’t do a thing to improve her judgment in men.

  When a woman is as hot and smart as Amy, she can do better than Rick. The guy’s a six at best. And not a solid six. A sad, barely there, slippery-grip-on-a-six six.

  Rick laughs. He sounds like a donkey.

  Forget the six. He’s a five.

  “And we’re going to go hiking because it’s good to be active when you’re having fun,” he says.

  What’s he smoking? Amy likes getting massages when she wants to kick back and pamper herself. Hiking is her idea of torture. How can he not know this?

  “I’m also packing this for our meals.” He waves a roll of aluminum foil.

  For a split second I wonder if he plans to feed her the foil. But no—he intends to wrap stuff in the foil and toss it into a fire to cook.

  He can’t take her to a nice restaurant? Given a choice, Amy prefers room service versus cooking it yourself. I know because I asked.

  How self-centered do you have to be to date a woman for six months and not know anything about her? How narcissistic do you have to be to plan activities that only you’re going to like?

  What a garbage human being. He reminds me of my dad—without the money and drive.

  “And when the time is right, I’m going to surprise her with something romantic I picked up from a cute booth at a fair. It’s a bit nontraditional, but it has the coolest design. I’ll share a picture of it once I give it her.”

  Uh, no. Amy likes diamonds, not some cheap costume jewelry you picked up from a fair.

  Given how little he’s spent on this so-called milestone celebration, I’m sure he waited until the last minute of the fair and bought whatever was half off in the seller’s desperate attempt to offload unsold inventory.

  “Share how you’re romancing your girl with #rickonromance so I can be sure to check out how you’re doing!” he says cheerily.

  I close Pulse and check the time again. Five thirty-four. Amy’s probably ready to head out. To Lake Fucking Tahoe. That bit about “6MAT” on her calendar didn’t fool me for a second. Five circles and a star. Pssh. Like an outing to Tahoe is some big deal.

  I have no idea what bullshit Rick fed her to get her excited about the trip, but when a guy says “rustic cabin” with that insincere aw-shucks-I’m-just-an-everyday-guy-romancing-a-cute-girl smile, he means a primitive shithole without electricity, running water or room service. A quarter step above a cave, possum-pelt rug upgrade optional.

  If I were to take Amy on a six-month anniversary, I’d spring for an overwater bungalow in French Polynesia with a glass floor so we could see all the sea creatures swimming in the crystal-clear water underneath our feet. A place so exclusive and secluded we’d need to charter a yacht to get there and a full staff to cater to our every whim.

  After all, Amy is a sparkly diamond kind of girl. She shouldn’t have to settle.

  Maybe she knows that deep inside, which is why she lied to me so shamefully about what the circles and star meant. I’m not sure about the 6MAT she added today, but it has nothing to do with making me her priority.

  I look at the Excel projections on one of the new business ideas we’re funding. Amy sent them this morning before heading out to a long lunch, undoubtedly to pick up last-minute stuff for her trip. She probably doesn’t think I noticed, but I notice everything about her.

  Her work is good. Only needs a few minor adjustments. But I’ll be damned if she goes to some Tahoe cave this weekend.

  Besides, it’s good training for her to do some negative projections and rebuild the entire model. I’ve done that many times, just for fun.

  Five thirty-seven.

  I get up and head out. Some of the staff are ready to call it a day; some are still working away on their laptops. At GrantEm, Friday doesn’t always mean you get the next two days off. But that’s why we pay top dollar. You can’t expect people to work the hours we demand and not compensate them properly.

  Amy’s desk isn’t far from my office. From where I stand, I can see her well. Intelligent baby-blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes. High cheekbones that would make most models shriek with envy. A slightly pointed, pixie-like chin. A wide and soft mouth that reminds me of Japanese camellia blossoms in full bloom. Her golden hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, making her look like a kid fresh out of college. A pale cream top and charcoal-gray skirt fit her slim body well, showcasing the swell of her breasts and long, pretty legs. She’s lost some weight since she joined GrantEm, which is a shame, because she didn’t need to.

  But I’ve seen what Rick’s been feeding her on the few dates they were able to sneak in despite my best efforts to save her. I’d lose weight too if I had to eat what passes for food in Rick’s world.

  As I study her, need clutches my gut, hot and brutal. It’s grown more intense over the past several months. But I shove it aside, put on my most charming boss smile and go over.

  “Amy.”

  She looks up at me, all professional and pleasant. “Hi, Emmett. Heading out?”

  Her tone says she already knows the answer to that: No, I have work to do.

  “No,” I say, refusing to add the rest. I’ve been working more and more since Amy started. No interest in dating, clubbing or going out. No interest in devoting more hours to working out, playing tennis or scuba diving. That leaves me with work as the only activity left to fill my free time. It’s a good thing I enjoy working.

  “Then…?” Wariness creeps into her gaze.

  She has nothing to worry about. I’m saving her from a weekend in Hell Rustica. “I reviewed the projections you sent me. I think they’re too optimistic, given the industry and some of the market indicators, which you should look up and incorporate into the model you’ve created. So. Can you adjust it, using more realistic scenarios?”

  “Sure.” A properly cooperative tone. “When do you need it?”

  “Today. I need to review it to make sure it’s ready for the meeting on Monday. Plus, it’d be great if you could find the pricing projections for the raw material needed for production of water filters, as well as labor costs in Vietnam and Thailand.”

  The bottom half of her face remains friendly and professional. The top half? It’s shooting death laser through her furious eyes. If life were a cartoon, there would be a thought bubble over her head with a lot of fuck yous and assholes.

  Perversely enough, the notion heats my blood. I’m fucked up. But then, being normal would be a miracle, given my background.

  “I know you’ll be able to knock it out the park, no problem.” I beam. “I’ll wait for the updated Excel in my office. I have a few things to go over anyway.”

  See? I’m not a complete asshole. I’m not throwing work in her lap—thereby saving her from a weekend worse than death—then calling it a day and leaving. Not at all. I’ll stay and work as well.

  Of course, it’s possible working isn’t one of Amy’s hobbies, but hey, we can’t always do what we want.

  Just like I can’t do what I want with Amy.

  Chapter Four

  Amy

  Fuck my life.

  No. Fuck my boss.

  He has to be high to ask me to redo the projections with more “realistic” assumptions. All of them were already done with the most conservative outlook. He knows this. Hell, everyone at GrantEm knows this!

  And yet he isn’t happy.

  What does he want? A financial apocalypse scenario?

  I glare at the closed door to his office. I can’t believe I ever found him hot.

  Slowly, my anger builds to a raging fury. I’m an idiot, and all the fancy degrees I’ve collected haven’t helped me see anything more than skin deep.