Rude Boss

He doesn’t know this, but he ain’t taking me anywhere. I’m starting to think the CEO is missing a few critical screws. I’d take my chances on the Titanic before I step a foot on his yacht.

“Have you ever been here?” he asks.

“No.”

“I have. Once. May I suggest you try the shrimp tacos?”

“What if I don’t want the shrimp tacos?”

“Then don’t get them. I’m not trying to be authoritative. I was simply making a suggestion.”

“Fine,” I say, lowering the menu. “I’ll take your suggestion.”

He tells the waitress our orders. He orders a Bloody Mary. I opt for the Bayou Sunset – Rum, Grenadine, orange juice and Sprite – hoping it will help me make it through this.

The waitress walks away, and it’s just me and him. This place isn’t crawling with guests at three in the afternoon – the mid-point between lunch and dinner, so we’re pretty much seated in a spot where we have a decent amount of privacy.

I intentionally avoid eye contact with him when I say, “I want to know why you feel it’s appropriate to show up at my apartment like you belong there.”

Silence.

He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel him staring at me from across the table. I take out my phone just to have a distraction – something that would keep me from looking at him, but the heat he’s generating is making me flush. I need some…

“Here’s some water until your drinks arrive,” the waitress says.

Right on time!

I pick up the glass and chug water through the straw. While doing so, I make the mistake of glancing over at Mr. DePaul. He’s still staring.

Irritated by this nonsense, I look at him and say, “What are you doing?”

He smiles. “There you are. I was waiting for you to look at me.”

“Is that a job requirement?”

“We’re not at the job.”

“Exactly. Soooo…why did you come to my apartment today?”

“Because I wanted to see you.” He makes this slow, flicking motion with his middle finger and thumb like he’s plucking something, but there’s nothing there. And the look he gives me has me on fire. Never in my thirty-four years of living has a man ever looked at me with so much desire in his eyes. Or maybe I’m reading this thing all wrong. What’s desirable to a millionaire about a woman who can’t furnish her apartment until she gets her next couple of paychecks?

“You wanted to see me for what?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I just wanted to see you.”

I flush. My muscles twitch. A fluttering sensation runs across my stomach. Is he flirting with me?

The waitress returns with our drinks. I chug mine, hoping the alcohol will give me a hint of courage to say what I need to say to this man, but again, my words are lost as I watch him drink the Bloody Mary. And he has the nerve to bite one of the pieces of celery they used for garnishment, dip it in the drink and bite it again.

I must be frowning because, the next thing I know, he’s asking, “Why are you making that face?”

“Your drink…it looks absolutely disgusting. I wouldn’t order anything with the word blood in the name.”

“That’s because you’re afraid to try new things. You need to live a little.”

“How do you know what I am? You don’t know me. I started working for you like three weeks ago, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you’re infiltrating my life.”

“Infiltrating?” he says, stirring the drink with the celery and taking another bite like he has a drink and appetizer all in one. “How is taking you to lunch infiltrating your life?”