Coldhearted Boss

“I’m Taylor,” I offer, trying to alleviate the awkwardness. “Ethan’s assistant.”

I don’t embarrass either of us by pointing out that I am, indeed, a woman. If people were duped by my hilariously poor disguise, that’s on them.

He nods and quickly reins in his reaction. “Right. Of course. What do you need?”

I haven’t had much interaction with Hudson, but he seems like a loyal servant to Lockwood Construction. I have to play my cards just right.

A gentle smile spreads across my face. “I know you’re probably very busy and likely don’t want to be dealing with this right now, but I was wondering if there was any way for me to transfer to a different position on the crew?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Just…I was wondering if there was anyone else looking for an assistant?” My eyes flick up to his face. “You! Maybe? Do you need an assistant?”

His cheeks redden and he tugs at the collar on his shirt. “I’m not authorized to shift personnel around like that.” He’s looking away, planning his escape.

My smile turns pleading. “Oh, I know I’m being a nuisance, and I would never want to get you into trouble. I’m just not sure this position with Ethan is the right fit for me. Maybe you and I would work better together?”

I need him on my side. I need him to want—no, need—me as his assistant. I wish I could prove my skills right here on the spot. Wait! Listen to how well I take a message! Watch how good I am with the copier!

As it is, he fidgets and shuffles his feet, angling to get around me. I’ve really put him on the spot. He can barely look me in the eye.

“It’s Ethan you need to discuss this with,” he says, sounding resolute.

“And if I can’t speak with Ethan…for reasons I’d rather not say…does he have a boss? Or a supervisor of some sort?”

That question elicits a hearty laugh from Hudson. “No, Ethan does not have a boss. He has three partners, but they won’t override a decision like this.”

“And what about an HR department? Do you guys have one of those?”

I didn’t see any HR-looking people around the camp last week.

“Not here on site. There are a few people back in Austin.” He narrows his eyes now, skeptical of me. “We’ve never had a crewmember request to meet with them. Are you looking to make a formal complaint about Ethan?”

A formal complaint? That sounds official and permanent. No, I don’t think I want to go down that path yet, not only because I’m not sure what chain of events that would set off, but because I don’t exactly have my hands clean in this situation. If I called HR, what would Ethan do? Call the police? At this point, it’s his word against mine.

With a tight smile, I step back and shake my head. “You know, maybe I’ll try to handle this by myself first. Who knows, maybe we just have a few growing pains we need to work through.”

He’s smiling again, happy to see I’m going to be a team player. This guy is Ethan’s loyal pet, through and through. Noted.

I scratch through that part of my plan and move on to the next important step: finding somewhere else to sleep. Obviously, I can’t stay in the cabin with Ethan.

So, before night falls, I set up a pallet on the floor in Jeremy’s bunkhouse. I even thought ahead and brought a spare blanket and pillow from back home. I have all sorts of fantasies about how well it will go, how soundly I’ll sleep until morning. Unfortunately, Jeremy’s spot is in the middle of the bunkhouse, therefore I have to set up my pallet in the middle of the bunkhouse. He caves and offers to let me have his bed, but I insist that’s not fair. I’m all for equality. He doesn’t have to sleep on the floor just because Ethan and I don’t get along. A few other nice guys offer their beds too—some try to insist upon it—but I turn them all down and continue setting up my pallet.

“It’s nice! Homey, even!” I say, pointing down to it.

It’s a bald-faced lie. It’s a thin blanket on top of dusty wooden floorboards. After I lie down, half of me is sticking out into the walkway. In the middle of the night, while I’m up listening to God-knows-what scuttling across the floor near my head, someone gets up to use the bathroom and steps on my foot. It feels as though they break all my bones and my barely muffled shriek wakes up half the bunkhouse.

“Sorry! Sorry,” the guy whispers, feeling bad for accidentally stepping on me.

“It’s my fault,” I whisper back, and then for the remainder of the night, I lie awake with my legs tucked up against my chest in the fetal position and my hand outstretched over my head, ready to swat away any creepy-crawly bugs that want to come near me.