Perfect Boss

“And your shit job doesn’t pay a living wage. Am I getting this right so far?” he says.

My shoulders drop and I close my eyes. I should jump out of one of those windows. The glass looks pretty thick. I’d probably just knock myself out and wake up back in this nightmare again. I glance at the door. Stay or run? Decisions.

Since I’m about to be fired, I might as well be honest. “My job is difficult. I’ve always wanted a job in the fashion industry, and I’ve put a lot of time and effort into it with little reward, if I’m being honest. It might be more tolerable if I didn’t have to work under that little greasy McNugget down there, but I do—or at least I did—and so no, it’s not the greatest job.”

That felt good to say out loud. I’m glad it’s off my chest. Now it’s time to have my ass handed to me. I sit back in the chair and prepare for a tongue lashing.

“What if I offered you something better?” he says.

Wait, what’s happening? I stare at him, waiting for him to say more, something like ‘you might’ve gotten something better if you hadn’t called your job “shit”.’ But he doesn’t follow it up with anything and I’m confused as hell. I tell the owner of the company my job is shit and suddenly I’m up for a promotion? No, this can’t be right. There has to be a catch.

“Like that?” I wrack my brain, trying to think of what types of jobs I’m qualified for. There are several, but those positions are already filled. Unless someone else is about to be fired. I cross my fingers and hope if someone gets fired, it’s my troll of a boss. The guy really is a complete idiot and doesn’t deserve to be in charge of anyone.

“I need a personal assistant.”

I lift my head, eyes widening. Me, the personal assistant to one of the wealthiest and most influential people in the city? I could do it, of course. The job would certainly be difficult. He’s a busy man and a personal assistant would basically be in charge of running his life, but I’m up for the challenge for sure, especially if the price is right. And I have to admit, being with Marcus Steere day in and day out sounds pretty good to me. A little eye candy is definitely a bonus.

When I look at him, he wears an expression that makes me think there’s a ‘but’ at the end of this deal.

So let’s just get on with it. “But?” I say, lowering my level of excitement.

“But …” he says, looking slightly awkward which is surprisingly endearing on him. He is so polished and stalwart in his role as ‘rich guy who has his shit together,’ that it’s hard to picture him as anything else. I find this human side of him far more approachable, which makes whatever ‘but’ coming my way not as scary.

He clears his throat and continues. “Part of this personal assistant job is pretending to be my wife.”

I choke out a cough. I thought I was prepared for anything, but I did not see that coming.

“Your what?” I say, standing up, then sitting back down again after getting dizzy from standing up too fast.

His long fingers drum the top of the desk. “I need someone to go with me to Paris for a business meeting. My ex-wife will be there. She owns a rather large share of the company and I’d like to buy it from her. The problem is, she’s under the impression that she and I will be together again someday and so she doesn’t want to sell me the shares for fear of its permanence. If she sees that I’ve moved on and have married someone else, perhaps she’ll be willing to let go.”

I still haven’t quite gotten past the part where he wants me to pretend to be his wife. All the details start to catch up with me one by one and a bigger picture comes into view. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I mean, pretending to be the wife of one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen doesn’t sound like a bad gig if I’m being honest, but I’m not sure I have the breeding to pull it off.

No one is going to look at me and think ‘now there’s a rich man’s wife.’ I’m more like the kind of girl someone would look at and think ‘now there’s the wife of a rough-neck stuck on an oil rig.’ Not that there’s anything wrong with me. I get plenty of attention from men of all means, but I’m a bit rough around the edges—street-style I guess you might call it. Everything I own is affordable. Target is as high-end as I go when it comes to shopping. Last time I had wine, it was from a discount store and came in a box. I’ve never been in a plane before—nor do I ever want to be in one because flying seems terrifying. So, yeah, not exactly what you would call sophisticated. I don’t know what his ex-wife is like, but I’m guessing she probably doesn’t live in her car and I doubt she’s wearing yesterday’s clothes.

“What would I have to do?” I say, giving him a knowing look, because there are certain things that husbands and wives expect from each other that I’m not willing to give for any amount of money.

He laughs, obviously seeing where I’m going with this. It strikes me as odd and catches me a bit off guard, how casual he is even though he looks pristine. His laugh is melodious and puts me at ease.

“Nothing like that. Your only job will be to accompany me to the meeting and be seen with me in public—oh, and to look at me adoringly. I really need you to sell this relationship.”

Well, looking at him adoringly shouldn’t be all that hard. It’s difficult not to. He’s beautiful.

“Okay, that sounds easy enough. What else?” I ask.

“We’ll need to present a united front here, at this store. Word needs to get back to my ex that I’ve moved on and what better than a little gossip to get it there. She’ll never believe me if I tell her myself. She’ll sense a trick.”

The thought of everyone at the store, co-workers I’ve been around since I started working here four years ago, thinking I’ve slept my way to the top doesn’t sit well with me, but neither does another night sleeping in my car. I still need to get ahold of my insurance company. Maybe they’ll cut me a check soon and I can pass on this bizarre offer. As tempting as it sounds to be holed up in a room with him and hanging on the arm of arguably the sexiest man alive, I don’t know if it’s worth losing the respect of my co-workers. After this arrangement is over and he gets his company back, we’ll stop pretending to be a couple and I’m going to have to face these people on a daily basis—that is, if I still have my job after that.

“And, of course, you’ll be paid well,” he says

There they are, the magic words I’ve been waiting for. I sit forward, eagerly waiting.

“Aside from a significant pay raise as my personal assistant, you’ll get a bonus for pretending to be my wife.”

“A bonus?”

I get this warm, fuzzy feeling inside. During the holidays all the employees get a thousand-dollar bonus and usually some new expensive tech device. That kind of money would be a life-saver right now.

I cross my fingers and say to myself, over and over, please let it be a thousand-dollars, please let it be a thousand dollars.

“Yes, a bonus. On top of your new wages, I will buy you a new house.”

I nearly fall out of my chair. “A house?” I say, my voice a high keen. I’m barely able to contain myself.

“Yes, Ruby, a house.” He shows me the most adorable playful smile that makes my heart thud in my chest.

I tell my heart to knock that shit off. This is business. No time to be fooling around with a crush on the man who holds my future in his very big, very nice looking hands.

This sounds too good to be true. It probably is. I want to say yes, but I can’t. Not yet. I have to see what my insurance says first.

“Can I think about it?” I ask.

“Of course. Take the day off. Talk to the McNugget downstairs and let him know you’re taking a personal day. I’ll make sure you won’t be written up.”

My face heats up and I’m embarrassed for letting him know how much I can’t stand the store manager. I’ve been so unprofessional. I can’t believe I haven’t been fired yet. There’s still time for me to screw that up, though. I need to get out of here and get my head straight.

?

?Thank you,” I say.

He hands me a card with his personal number on it. When I reach for it, our fingers touch and I feel a spark of something that makes me tingle all over. His eyes widen the slightest bit and I wonder if he felt it too.

After I leave, I lean against the wall outside of his office and let out a long breath. I have so much to think about. But first I have to pee. Oh right, and make a phone call.

2

I spend the rest of the day on the phone with the insurance company. Turns out if you burn your house down through every fault of your own, they don’t want to give you money for it. I’m not getting a single penny.

I lean back in the seat of my car, heart racing. I close my eyes to keep the world from tilting. My hands fist in my hair and I scream. A blood-curdling, animal-raging scream. And then I start to cry. All of that money I invested into my home was for nothing. That was years of saving, not to mention all of the priceless things I owned that had belonged to my parents. Things I’d planned to give to my children one day after I started a family of my own.

I want to curl up in the back of my car and cry some more—that ugly type of crying that gives you wrinkles and makes your features look as though your face is melting. I’m just about to do that when my phone chimes. I look at it and there’s a text from an unknown number: Are you all right?

I furrow my brow in confusion and type back: Who is this?

Unknown number: Look up