The Boss Crush

“Nice job,” she says halfheartedly, not really caring at all about the outcome. Her eyes are dull, lacking any real interest. I know that look, it’s the look she gives when she really doesn’t give a shit. “Listen,” she goes on to say immediately, “I want you to put the new girl—what’s her name again?”

“Dalia.”

She really doesn’t remember her. My sister is so single minded. She only focuses on herself.

“Right, Dalia. I want her on this campaign.” Sandy leans against the door, picking at the bed of one of her nails. She isn’t even looking at me anymore. “Let’s throw her in headfirst and see if she can swim.” Holding out her hand, she twists it back and forth, examining her nail polish.

“And if she can’t?”

Her eyes float up to mine, her expression flat as she shrugs a shoulder. “We fire her ass. What else would we do? We wouldn’t keep someone who can’t even float, Lyle.”

Arching a brow, I angle my head. “Just like that? Fire her after one project? No second chances, no time to adjust. Really, Sandy?”

“Yeah,” she says, darting her eyes up to mine, and dropping her hand down weightlessly. “Just like that. Why? You have a problem with my decision?” Folding her arms over her chest, she gives me the look.

It’s the same look our mother would give us when we were kids, the same look she’s given me for years if I challenge her or don’t agree with her. Her eyes squint hard, astute, and icy. Her brows crinkle and drop, causing sharp lines across her forehead.

“Sandy, come on. It just seems like basing the decision to fire someone off their first project isn’t really fair. Why don’t we give her something easier to start with, give her a little time to settle in before we challenge her? I mean, what’s the point of hiring someone just to fire them a week later?”

Impatience fills her eyes like angry weeds, causing her head to fall heavily to her shoulder. “There’s no point in wasting time and money on someone who sucks, Lyle, it’s as simple as that. Put her on the Fergeson campaign, and fire her if she can’t hold her own.”

She leans back on the sharp point of her heel and spins out the door. Lazily, she waves an arm in the air, and says, “You know what needs to happen, you don’t need me to keep reminding you. Take care of your shit, Lyle, I’m going to lunch.”

Sitting down at my desk, I press the pads of my fingers to my lips, and sigh. My eyes drop to the intercom, knowing I have to call Dalia in, and tell her about the change to her schedule.

You’re her boss. Remember that!

This shouldn’t be hard, but it is. I don’t want to give her a task that my sister is willing to fire her over if it isn’t perfect. And that’s what Sandy expects; perfection.

It isn’t fair, and I really don’t like the thought of it. She just got here, let me enjoy her some before sending her away.

Pushing the button, I say, “Giada, can you please send Dalia to my office?”

“I’ll call her now, Mr. Vox.”

Sitting back in my chair, I rake my fingers through my hair, and close my eyes. Taking in a deep breath, I let it out slow.

Don’t let her get to you, stay in control!

Opening my eyes, she comes around the corner at the same time. My dick throbs just seeing her, pulsing and hungry for a taste.

Damn it, I’m not sure how I’m going to keep myself in control. So much for staying in control.

Her shapely curves are accentuated by her dress. It hugs her hips, fitting tightly around her tits, and pushing them up so her cleavage is busting out the top.

The buttons down the center bulge, threatening to snap off. She fumbles with her hands at her waist as she stands in the doorway.

“You wanted to see me?”

She looks nervous.

The idea is exciting, sending another surge of heat to my cock. Maybe she’s nervous because she’s thinking about the kiss that almost was. Or maybe she’s thinking about how badly she wishes I had made a move.

Biting my bottom lip, I tug it in and smile. “Come in and take a seat. I want to talk to you about something.”

Timidly, she moves to the chair and sits. We’re both quiet. I’m letting whatever she’s thinking fester for a bit. Her thighs are rubbing back and forth as her hands keep clasping and opening around the arms of the chair.

Her eyes jump around all over. They’re on my face, the ceiling, on the floor, and on the pictures on the wall. They don’t stay in one place for long.

Finally, I rest my elbows on the desk and ask, “Do you know who Dylan Fergeson is?”