Baby for the Bosshole Page 8

  “Yet? Yet? I’ll have—”

  “Yeah, yeah, settle down. Everyone knows you’re where you are because you work your ass off. We all see the hours you put in, the deals you’ve executed. You’re also starting to manage and support our portfolio companies, so… You’re doing the work of somebody above you. And we saw the annual ranking.”

  That’s a list of the top five performers the firm posts in the break room after the yearly evaluations are done. To make things fair, the grouping is done by rank and year, such as the top five first-year analysts, the top five second-year analysts and so on. The only people who aren’t ranked are partners. Probably because their egos couldn’t agree on who should be number one.

  I was floored when I topped my list last year. Given that Emmett asks me to redo my work almost every day, I didn’t expect to see my name up there.

  “Everyone at the firm knows you deserve the top spot,” Sasha says. “Actually, nobody will be surprised if you top the list again this June. A lot of people outside the firm know it, too. Venture capital is a small world, and people talk.”

  Sasha would know. She goes to a lot of those get-togethers, unlike me. I wish I could, but I almost never have time off. At least people aren’t disparaging my work behind my back.

  “You told me you planned to quit in two months,” she says.

  “Yep. That hasn’t changed.”

  “So… If you want to go for it…” Sasha winks.

  “No, no, no.” My protest is too quick. So I add, “Even if I didn’t work for him anymore, running into him could be awkward if we slept together.”

  You’re a damn liar. His dick in your vagina counts as “sleeping together.”

  “But you kissed him,” Sasha says.

  “It wasn’t me. It was this girl I know. I told you that already.” Dear lord, I’m turning into Emmett. Utterly shameless. At least I don’t have my hand over my bare crotch.

  “And tongues were involved…”

  Nope. Not admitting anything. “Yeah. Between the girl I know and the boss she kissed.”

  “And you must’ve liked it enough to talk to me about it.”

  “Not me. Her.”

  She steamrolls on. “If you didn’t care for it, you would’ve cut things off.”

  “I’ll tell her that.”

  “She already knows. ’Cause that’s how you were with all the guys you’ve dated.”

  “What? I’m not, like, unfeeling!”

  “Didn’t say you were,” she says kindly. “But you don’t like to waste energy on someone you’ve decided isn’t worth it. You cut your losses and move on. If I hadn’t asked you about the trip, you wouldn’t have told me about breaking up with Rick until later. Anyway, I think it’s admirable that you don’t squander your time and focus that way. I could seriously learn some stuff from you.”

  She’s overestimating my…cold-bloodedness. I just haven’t met anybody I developed enough feelings for to care so deeply about. But when I do, I plan to get serious and marry the guy.

  “Anyway, all I’m saying is if you want to do more than just explore Emmett’s esophagus with your tongue, it’s not going to hurt your rep. That’s all.” She taps the countertop with her fingers. “I would totally take advantage of him if I were in your shoes. The best time to do a hot dude from your office is right before you’re about to quit. That way, if things don’t go well, you don’t have to see him again.”

  She makes great points. If I go to work for Marion Blaire, I definitely won’t run into Emmett again anytime soon.

  Sasha has no clue how tempting her suggestion sounds. Especially after that mind-destroying sex and my filthy dream involving Emmett and other positions we could try to see if the last night’s orgasm was a fluke.

  My hormones scream it is totally replicable—and I should do him again.

  Chapter Nine

  Amy

  I’m in the lobby at four twenty-five p.m., waiting for one of the elevators to come down from the upper floors they’ve been at—some poor suckers are working the weekend like me—and grateful for the modern technology that enables me to effortlessly get to the thirty-fifth floor. If I had to climb that many stairs, I’d just collapse right here and cry.

  The lobby is empty except for a few people who have the employee pass to bypass the main lock. Security’s off today because expecting security to work on weekends is cruel and unusual, although expecting everyone else to do it is apparently totally fair.

  I mentally chastise myself for being petty. The office is in the nicest part of the city. Nobody’s going to come in to rob us on a weekend. Not that anybody tries to rob us during the week, either.

  I pull out my phone to check messages. Nothing from Dad or Emmett. But there are over one hundred unread texts from Rick.

  I’ve already made myself clear. There’s nothing left between us that requires this many messages.

  Out of morbid curiosity, I open the conversation thread.

  –Rick: You can’t do this to me!

  Sure I can. This one came almost immediately after I told him I’d pick my career over him. He must’ve been glued to his phone to reply so fast.

  –Rick: Our relationship can’t be tossed out like garbage.

  –Rick: Do you hear me?

  –Rick: I can’t believe this! Do you think you’re going to get a nicer and more understanding boyfriend than me?

  Wow. Doesn’t he get tired of saying the same thing over a hundred times? He should at least consider copying and pasting to spare his thumbs.

  –Rick: And I’ll prove it right now. I’ll give you another chance.

  Seriously pathetic. Besides, he has to have some inkling that he isn’t as into me as he claims. Every time we manage to go out, he’s more interested in taking selfies and photos of the restaurants and food and posting them online than he is in me. He also makes sure to write a descriptive sentence or two and add all the appropriate hashtags. Half our time is spent updating his Pulse feed. That is not the behavior of a man who’s into his girl.

  I continue scrolling. Rick got a bit more creative after three a.m. Staying up that late text-bombing your ex is the privilege of a man who enjoys an overabundance of sleep.

  He should have just gone to sleep in that nice, rustic cabin in Tahoe. He knows I don’t stay up unless I absolutely have to. By three in the morning I’m dead to the world.

  Except yesterday. While Rick was up messaging me, I was having my X-rated dream about Emmett—

  Stop thinking about that dream!

  Actually, I need to stop thinking about everything that happened right now if I’m going to face my boss.

  I scroll through Rick’s more recent texts. No other choice, since all the major markets are closed and there’s no financial news to check.

  –Rick: You think your job means something now, but at the end of day, jobs are nothing. Interchangeable. People are unique.

  I purse my mouth. I’ve met people I later found to be boring and interchangeable. Mostly men who get upset when they realize my career is important to me.

  –Rick: Jobs don’t keep you warm at night, babe.

  They keep me fed. They also pay for my student loans. Does he know student loans aren’t dischargeable through bankruptcy? You have to be dead to be free of them. But I value my life too much to die, so I need a good-paying job. Like the one I have.

  I don’t bother to text my thoughts because Rick wouldn’t understand. He dropped out of college and brags that was the best decision he’s ever made. Of course, he also whines endlessly about the student loans he has to pay back.

  Yeah, there’s no refund if you quit, either.

  –Rick: Jobs don’t give you babies.

  Does he think I want to have his babies?

  –Rick: Nobody writes HERE LIES A CAPITALIST on their headstone!

  “Nobody writes, ‘Here lies some dude’s girlfriend,’ on their headstone, either,” Emmett says from behind me.

  I almost jump out of my shoes. Emmett sounds mildly amused and condescending. Of course, he’s exactly the type of guy who’d write, “Here lies a capitalist,” on his headstone.

  “Are you reading my texts?” I ask, too dumbfounded at this behavior to pull off the cool and natural act I was hoping for. He’s never done this—but then, we’d never kissed or had sex before. Does he think he’s entitled to read my texts now because of what happened last night?

  No! Nothing happened last night after eleven fifty-nine p.m.!

  Praying Emmett can’t sense my racing pulse, I watch closely for any sign of I-slept-with-you-heh-heh-heh or that things have changed between us. He isn’t smirking or giving me a lusty look. Just behaving like he always does—with a sense of intellectual superiority over all of us mere mortals.

  “In fact, I am.” He leans closer to squint at my screen. I go still as his spicy, scent flows over me. There’s a faint whiff of spearmint on his breath, a fresh, cool smell of soap on his skin. The heat from his body envelops me. The lust I felt during my dream stirs, warming my blood. My toes curl in my shoes. The emptiness inside me grows more intense, emptier.

  I hold my breath to avoid inhaling any more of his addictive scent and stiffen my knees so I don’t fidget. Based on his attitude, I’m almost certain he’s more or less forgotten about the sex. It was great for me, but Emmett Lasker probably has great sex all the time. Pretty women are always on his arm at various social functions. And I’m not naïve enough to think that they only touch him up to his elbows.

  Hold on a minute. That redhead! The one he was debating between diamonds and pearls for! Isn’t he dating her?

  But if he is, why did he say my name while having solo fun in his…?

  Unless… Her name is Amy, too…

  Oh shit. But I can’t ask him now. If he’s acting like nothing’s happened, I’m certainly not going to drag us into that minefield.

  “Doesn’t he sleep?” Emmett’s voice holds a hint of contempt. “Or have things to do? When did you break up with him?”

  My gut tells me he’s also saying, “I can’t believe you stayed with him this long,” which makes no sense—and, annoyingly enough, cranks up my shame and defensiveness. He doesn’t know Rick. I’ve never discussed my personal life with Emmett. And I’d bet my bonus he didn’t even know I was dating.

  “Yesterday.” The answer is clipped to discourage further discussion. I don’t want to talk to Emmett about Rick. Doing so would be as embarrassing as discussing a finger painting I did in kindergarten with Picasso.

  “Why?” Emmett says.

  Guess he’s going for his shamelessly obtuse tack again. I look at the elevators. A car is waiting.

  I step up and press the button, and of course Emmett follows right after me. But there’s nothing to be done about it. The doors shut, and the car starts to ascend.

  Emmett is standing close enough to look at my screen if he wants. He smells even better in the enclosed space. The elevator, which is big enough to accommodate at least twelve adults, seems tiny. I feel like a trapped animal.

  “So… You going to answer my question?” His tone says he will have his answer.

  Demanding bosshole! “He was upset that I canceled our plans, so he was like, ‘Me or the job,’ and I said the job,” I say very fast, praying he only catches maybe a quarter of what I’m saying but is satisfied anyway. Also, I didn’t technically cancel, but I don’t want to get into details with Emmett. It’s already embarrassing enough that he’s read those pathetic texts from Rick. Emmett’s probably judging me for sure now—how could you be so blind as to date somebody this awful?

  In my defense, I dumped Rick. Still… I should’ve known even before I started. Done my due diligence, like I always do when GrantEm is doing market and industry assessments. If I had, I would’ve known Rick was junk and not wasted my precious time on a doomed relationship.

  Emmett beams like an athlete who just set a world record at the Olympic Games. “I didn’t hear you. Say that again.”

  I squint up at him. He totally heard every word out of my mouth. Is this some kind of weird torment he’s adopted because he’s upset about me barging in on him last night? Or maybe he’s annoyed about the kiss-turned-sex, which made him feel extra cheap?

  I want to keep my mouth shut, but he looks too expectant. He hasn’t okayed my Excel model. I should humor him until then.

  “He was upset I canceled our plans on him, so he said, ‘Me or the job,’ and I said job,” I repeat.

  Emmett nods. By then, we’re on our floor, thank God!

  “My office,” he says, all brisk and back to business.

  I sag with relief at the change in demeanor. I can handle professional Emmett.

  On the other hand… His office means the scene of crime. I just hope it doesn’t remind him of what happened last night, especially when he’s acting normal—irritating and bossy.

  I also hope there’s no sign of my thong.

  Actually, scratch that. No sign would probably mean he picked it up, although I can’t picture him bending down to pick up someone’s already-worn underwear. Hopefully, I’ll find it before he does and can subtly take care of it.

  I follow him into his office, make sure to take the other couch and boot my laptop while surreptitiously scanning the area under the couch of shame.

  Nothing. Did he fling it somewhere last night after ripping it off me? The details were lost in the haze of pleasure.

  I hope it’s in some dark corner of his office, to be discovered by a janitor. That would be less embarrassing than Emmett keeping it. And a janitor won’t know who it belongs to. He’ll just assume Emmett’s a perv.

  I steal a quick look in my boss’s direction. Did he just smirk?

  Oh yes he did. He might not have found my thong, but he hasn’t forgotten a thing about last night. I inhale deeply. Gotta re-center myself.

  Should we discuss what happened last night and set things straight? Nobody’s in the office, so it’s a perfect time. But he isn’t hinting he wants to talk about it, which I guess means that we should pretend like it never happened.

  More than fine by me.

  Clinging to what’s left of my sanity and professionalism, I pull up Excel. I quickly plug the missing projections and assumptions into the model. The work that took me over an hour last night only takes minutes with my brain functioning better. Why can’t Emmett let me sleep more regularly?

  He reviews the exhibits and projections I sent him this morning while I tinker with Excel. I tell myself it doesn’t matter what his verdict is. I plan on spending this evening working.

  “Okay. This looks good,” he says finally.

  I freeze. Did I hear that right? This is the first time he’s told me everything looks fine without asking for corrections. This is almost as surreal as me walking in on him and kissing him and…stuff last night.

  Just to be sure, I say, “Really?”

  “Yeah. Nice work.”

  I search for a sign that his response has something to do with the fact that we had sex. But he looks like he always does when he provides feedback on my work.

  “Exactly what I expected,” he says.

  Oh wow. I should definitely buy a lottery ticket today. “Well…great. I’m glad.”

  He peers at me over his laptop screen. “Do you know why I needed them today?”

  The way he looks at me makes me feel like a math-challenged high school senior in trig class. But I know better than to fake that I know. Emmett Lasker smells bullshit better than a shark smells blood. “Not really.”

  “It’s important to have all the data and trends about manufacturing and distribution of the prototype before heading into a meeting with potential partners. It helps us get the best deal. Bernie has some good ideas, but he doesn’t have a financial mindset. That’s where we come in, and we can’t go into a war without ammunition.”

  That makes sense. Unlike some venture capital firms, GrantEm Capital doesn’t merely provide funding to entrepreneurs with big ideas. The firm also hand-holds them, making sure that everything they do meets all the regulatory requirements, the deals they make are fair and scalable and so on. Most ventures fail spectacularly. But our support ensures that the entrepreneurs we fund have the best possible chance at success.

  “Do you think the portable water filter and desalination device he wants to make are viable?” I ask, curious about exactly what Emmett envisions with this venture. Bernie Schumacher’s idea is huge, and if it takes off, it’ll change the world in ways I probably can’t imagine, similar to how before Amazon came along people couldn’t have visualized how online commerce and publishing would be transformed. I understand numbers and projections, but I don’t always see how an idea, investment and timing can all mesh into a lever that revolutionizes an entire sector.

  “No telling at this point, but I hope so. Clean water is scarce in a lot of the world, and easy access would make all the difference in a lot of people’s lives. Just imagine what could happen if people don’t have to waste their entire morning walking two miles down to a river to get water. I mean, children have to do this. If we have this, they could go to school instead.” Emmett’s eyes shine.

  Anybody else, and I’d say he was thrilled with the possibility of making the world a better place. But with Emmett, I can’t decide if he’s excited about the vision of how this venture he’s funding might improve the quality of people’s lives or if it’s all the money he could make if it succeeds. Given his demon-boss nature, probably the latter.

  “Water doesn’t sound sexy,” he continues, “but only because people like you and me have enough. To someone who doesn’t…”

  He sounds like he truly believes in the idea. Despite knowing his profit drive as well as I do, even I buy into the vision he’s weaving. It makes me want to be part of the team that makes it possible.

  The man is a devil. He probably keeps a pitchfork somewhere in this office. But the late-afternoon sunlight pouring in through the windows behind him creates a gorgeous golden halo around his body. It’s difficult not to just become mesmerized with him. He’s so beautiful, like an angel. This is why even though he’s a pain in the ass to deal with, he can still get my libido worked up.