Grumpy Boss

We were partners, as far as I was concerned.

A black town car drove us from the airport into Manhattan. I’d never been to New York before, and I tried not to gape around me at the incredible building towering over the streets, at the profusion of people walking in groups packed along the sidewalks, at the bustle and the motion. Philadelphia was a big city, with a lot of activity, but it was dwarfed by New York’s sheer size. I was intimidated, but I tried not to show it.

I’d barely been away from the Philly region. I grew up in the northeast in a little townhouse that smelled like mothballs and my grandmom’s cigarettes. The furthest I ever went away from home was Penn State, and even that wasn’t so far.

New York felt like a fairytale, or a world I’d never known before. If Rees noticed that I was actively trying not to stare, he didn’t show it. Really, he didn’t show much of anything: since the moment we took off, he’d barely looked at me twice, and acted like I didn’t exist.

Which was probably for the best. I kept thinking to that morning, and the way I’d teased him, taking off my shirt where I knew he could see me, coming out again half-dressed, letting him look at me, parading myself in front of him like that—it was so pathetic and stupid. Some dumb, insane part of me wanted to take him up on his offer to have sex right then and there, since maybe he was right, maybe fucking and getting it out of the way would relieve whatever insane feeling I had for him. Letting it fest might only make it worse, complicate things, leave it a mystery and make me want it more.

He was an attractive man, as much as I hated to admit it, and he was right. There was tension between us, thicker than the Grand Canyon. I wanted to let him drive his hand into my hair and push me up against the door of the car, his teeth biting my button lip as his other hand reaches down between my legs—

“We’re here,” he said, peering out the window as the car pulled over in front of a nondescript townhouse. “East 74th street. Good spot.”

I frowned at him then looked outside again. “I thought we were meeting at his office.”

“Mirko doesn’t have an office,” he said, climbing out of the car. I scrambled to catch up as he walked toward the door tucked in the center of the building. It looked like it spanned twice as wide as all the other homes on the block, with large bay windows and a gorgeous facade. Rees knocked once then rang the bell, and a middle-aged woman wearing a black button-down shirt and black pants answered.

“Hello, Mr. Rees,” she said with a light accent. She had dark hair down around her shoulders, a small nose, light brown skin, and a big smile.

Rees smiled back. “Hi Louisa. He’s expecting us.”

“Yes he is. He’s out back though, in the courtyard.”

“Of course he is.” Rees followed Louisa inside, and I hurried after them, my heels making a light slacking on the smooth hardwood floors.

I’d never seen so much wealth in my life. Priceless pots, thick Persian rugs, oil paintings that looked like they belonged in the museum, and a smattering of sculptures lined the hallways. I caught glimpses of other rooms: a sparkling kitchen bigger than my apartment, an office in all wood and leather, a sitting room with enough space for fifty. Everything was plush, manicured, dusted, and pristine. I could’ve paid my rent by stealing a single work of art from the hallway alone.

Louisa took us out a back door and onto a porch that overlooked a concrete-slab back yard. It was twice that size of what I expected, with benches and a bird bath, and skinny trees with long, green leaves. It was a fairytale, tucked in the middle of an urban environment, the sort of place I thought Jane Austen would’ve had tea if she were absurdly wealthy.

“Thank you,” Rees said to Louisa, who smiled and slipped away. A man sat down on the bench, wearing a pair of shorts and a button-up camp shirt with an airplane motif repeated across the bright blue fabric. He had a gray straw hat tilted forward, a white cup in one hand, and a newspaper in the other.

Rees gave me a look that I struggled to read, but I wasn’t sure I could understand body language, given how overwhelmed I felt. He walked down the steps and into the back yard, and the man on the bench looked up, lowering the paper. He had bright blue eyes, a bushy white beard, and a wrinkled face, with thick laugh lines and a hooked nose.