Baby for the Bosshole

The moment’s shattered as she offers up a tall glass of frosted purple-green concoction from hell. But I’m a gentleman, so I give her a grateful smile as I take the vile shit. “Mmm, berries!”

I’d rather die in my eighties with carcinogenically grilled dead cow floating in my veins than live to be a robust hundred with this antioxidant goo keeping me young and wrinkle-free. But she honestly believes I love this crap—it’s a long story—so I down it with a huge grin that hurts my face even as the shake violates my palate like Atilla the Hun violated Europe. This should show her my appreciation—and ensure she returns to my place every morning.

And if I walk around topless long enough, maybe she’ll notice I’m not just her boss, but a man, too.

Maybe you should accidentally drop your towel tomorrow morning. She’ll definitely notice that.

Oh, please. That’s so clichéd. I don’t do clichés.

Because parading around in a towel isn’t a cliché.

Doesn’t count. That was an accident. I got up late one morning, and she came into the room just as I stepped out of bathroom. Maybe I should buy a transparent towel. Surely something like that is available somewhere on this vast planet.

While I’m guzzling down the supposedly life-recharging breakfast of champion rabbits, Evie rattles the day’s agenda off her tablet. A meeting to be rearranged at the other party’s request.

“Some people have no respect for my time or schedule,” I say, mildly annoyed because it’s the second time they’ve asked to reschedule.

“Or maybe they know you can afford to be flexible.”

“Still kind of presumptuous. You didn’t say yes, did you?”

“Not yet.”

That’s my girl. Always clear on where to draw the line. “Good. I hate it when people act like I enjoy being flexible or changing my mind. Once I make up my mind, I don’t change.”

“Of course not, Mr. Sterling.”

When I’m finished with the veggie desecration, she hands me my coffee. Finally. I take as big of a gulp as possible to erase the lingering taste of kale. I should convince my brother Justin to buy up every kale farm on the planet, burn the shit to the ground and salt the soil.

Carrying the travel mug, I start to go out to the car that’ll be waiting.

“Other way,” Evie says.

“What?”

“Miguel’s not here today,”

“He’s not?”

“You gave him the week off.”

Oh, that’s right. His wife’s about to pop their second baby out any day now, and I gave him a paid week off. Pregnant women apparently become needier and/or crazier around this time, according to Justin, who has a kid and should know. Plus Miguel is a great guy, and he deserves time off.

“Okay. Thanks for the reminder.”

I turn and head to the garage, Evie following closely, her heels clacking quietly. As soon as I open the door, the lights come on. I step inside and peruse my collection. It’s hard to decide what to drive out of the ten cars I have. I steal a glance at Evie. Instead of admiring the various examples of world-class mechanical engineering, she’s staring at something on her tablet.

Well then. I choose the Bugatti. This gleaming black-and-red babe is a beaut. Very impressive, too. It better be, for a cool nineteen million. I’ve only taken it out for a spin twice, and not with anybody else. Evie should be flattered.

I open the door for her. “Get in, Ms. Parker.”

She blinks as though startled. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling, but I’m afraid I spaced out a bit.”

“You did?” This is very unusual.

Red stains her cheeks. It’s really cute. “Yeah, I brought my car here.”

Right, because Miguel didn’t drive her. But she followed me into the garage because our routine is sharing a ride to the office. So. Disrupted morning routines can fluster even the unflappable Ms. Parker, huh?