Perfect Boss

I look up and see a new black Jaguar parked in front of me among the Corollas and the Civics. It looks out of place with its sleek lines and custom paint. Leaning against the back of the car is Marcus Steere. He raises his hand and gives me a stiff wave.

My stomach sinks when I realize he just watched me have a meltdown, and again I’m struck with the overwhelming urge to crawl into the back of my car and never come out—the trunk this time, where it’s dark and he can’t find me.

As he comes around to the passenger side of the car, my hands start to shake. No, please don’t get in the car, it’s such a mess in here! Not only that, but it’s a piece of shit. An early 2000s sub-compact with over two-hundred thousand miles on the odometer. It breaks down more often than it runs, and the guy at the auto shop is so familiar with me that he knows the sound of my voice on the other end of the phone without me even saying my name.

To make matters worse, whoever owned the car before me smoked and the stale smell of cigarettes still lingers, plus there are burn-holes in the fabric. My leopard print seat covers hide the holes in the front seats, but there’s no hope for the back or floor boards.

He can’t read my mind, so he opens the door and slides into the seat beside me.

He looks around and frowns. He clearly doesn’t like what he sees. “I really don’t pay you enough, do I?”

Can someone die from humiliation? Kill me now. “No, you don’t.”

He gives me that sideways smile of his that is just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. The fact that it’s aimed at me feels like charity because I am nothing to smile at right now.

I think this might be the first time I’ve really paid attention to his face. When I was in his office, I was mostly focused on all his cool stuff. At first glance, he’s handsome. Anyone can see that. But when you really study his face, you see all the little nuances: the straight nose; the small scar that runs across his top lip; a dimple in one cheek but not the other; the cleft in his chin. He’s not just handsome, but interesting to look at. It’s those little details that make him look human and touchable and kissable, instead of just like a mannequin .

“I bet my offer is starting to sound pretty good right about now,” he says.

I imagine being on his arm, pretending to be his wife, looking at him longingly and not just because it’s expected. To my surprise, I want to have the job as his wife, and not just because of the money.

“I’ll do it,” I say a bit too eagerly.

His sideways smile turns into a full grin. “Perfect. Before you leave for the day, why don’t you go in and let Leonard know he’ll need to hire a replacement.”

I nod. I hate the idea of facing my boss—former boss—again, but the thought of him knowing I’ll be taking a position as Marcus Steere’s personal assistant, and out-ranking him for that matter, is going to be priceless.

As I walk back into the building, my mind is a hurricane of confusion. The money I’m getting is going to change my life, and that’s what I should be thinking about, but underneath that is the excitement about working so close to Marcus Steere.

As I walk to the office I’ve worked in for the last four years, I’m giddy. There’s still an underlying sense of disappointment that my house is gone, but there’s hope, too.

Leonard looks up from his desk and watches me walk across the room. As I start to clean out my desk, a smirk forms on his thin turtle lips.

“It’s about time you got canned,” he says smugly.

I give him back the same smirk he gives me. “Actually, I didn’t get fired, I got promoted.”

His eyes narrow. “Bullshit.”

I laugh in surprise. Leonard is a stickler for the rules, and I know for a fact that words like ‘bullshit’ aren’t allowed in the workplace.

“Not bullshit. Mr. Steere seems to think my job here is below me, so he made me his personal assistant. Looks like I’ll be your superior now.”

He stands up so suddenly it knocks his chair over and startles me. “Bullshit,” he says louder, almost yelling it. Several of the workers on the floor glance toward the office. I fight the smile pulling at my lips. “I’ve been putting in for a position as his PA for years. There’s no way you got that job over me.”

I put the last of my things in a box. “Ask him,” I say with a shrug and head out to my car.

It’s kind of nice to have an entire day to myself. Last time I had a day off in the middle of the week was when I had the flu a year ago. I’m going to have to figure out what to do about my living situation. My new job as a PA is going to finally give me a living wage, but I won’t get paid for another week. In the meantime, I need a place to stay. Spending the night in my car was well and good for the night, but finding a place to park so I won’t get towed seems an impossible task. It’s difficult to find parking during the day for a couple hours, let alone an entire night. The city is extremely picky about cars staying in one place for any length of time.

Once I’m in my car, I head over to the diner. I need to tell Alba the news. It’s the lunch rush, so the parking lot is packed. I park in the alley when I can’t find anything in the lot or on the street. As long as no trucks show up to make a delivery, I should be good. I’ve been hanging around this diner long enough to know deliveries happen early in the morning and late at night before closing.

Inside the diner I find the last available seat at the counter and plop down with a heavy sigh. Alba is running around with a carafe of water in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. When she sees me, a large smile spreads across her face. A regular sitting at the end of the counter comments that she never smiles at him like that. She’s quick to respond that her best smiles are reserved for her best friend.

She moves swiftly and efficiently as if she were gliding on rails. “Pie?” she says, overturning a coffee cup and sliding it toward me. I catch it before it slips off the end of the counter.

“Cobbler, please.”

After she scrambles around for a while, checking to make sure her customers have everything they need, she gets her mom to cover her tables so she can go on break. She hops on a stool next to me and puts two pieces of peach cobbler between us.

“Tell me everything,” she says. “Have you talked to your insurance?”

“Yes,” I say, my mouth full after stuffing my face with a forkful of pie.

“And?”

“And they aren’t going to give me any money for my house.”

She pauses mid-bite. “What?”

“It’s fine because I got a rai

se and I’ll be getting a bonus in a few weeks.”

I don’t tell her what that bonus is. I figured I should tell her the story in baby steps because the entire offer is so surreal.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she says.

I chew what’s in my mouth, giving myself some time to figure out how to explain without it sounding like a Pretty Woman situation. I mean, getting paid to pretend I’m someone’s wife doesn’t exactly sound like a legit business deal.

“The bonus is enough to get me into a new house.”

“That’s amazing. It’s about time that weasel Leonard rewards you for all the hard work you do,” Alba says.

“Actually, that weasel is no longer my boss, Marcus Steere is.”

“The Marcus Steere?” Her mouth falls open and it’s full of food, which kind of grosses me out, so I reach out and push her chin so it closes.

She laughs. “What, you don’t want to see this?” She sticks out tongue and I laugh and try not to gag at the same time.

“Stop. And yes, the Marcus Steere is now my boss. I’m his personal assistant and his …” I mumble the last words.

She wrinkles her brow. “I didn’t catch that last part.”

I hesitate because it sounds so bad. Better to rip the band aid off. “He’s paying me to pretend to be his wife.”

“What?!” The word belts from her mouth and everyone in the diner turns to look at us.

“Jesus, Alba, keep it down.”

Her mom glares at us. I shrug an apology.

“Oh my God, are you serious? You’re going to have to go into more detail because I’m struggling to figure out a scenario where any of this makes sense. How did you possibly go from being a clerk in a high-end clothing store to being the personal assistant and pretend wife of fucking Marcus Steere?”

“It’s a long story.”