1
My boss is a fucking asshole.
If he wasn’t handing me a paycheck every month, I would be throwing
my last pair of unbroken, non-horribly-smelling heels at his face one by
one. I love those heels. They’re my babies and the last ones I have, but
damn, I’d sacrifice them for a good cause. This man needs a right
smacking.
Let me explain. I’ve never been very fond of my boss. He’s an
obnoxious asshole who tramples all over my privacy, as well as personal
time. As his assistant, he expects me to be there for him 24/7, ready for any
order he has to give me.
I could’ve gotten used to it if it wasn’t for the fact that he ignores the
shit out of me. I’m only there when he needs me, and that’s it.
Conversations? Don’t happen. Chatting like a normal human being? Not in
it. Social interaction, you know, asking about my week or saying ‘you look
cute in that dress,’ not by a long shot. A little kindness goes a long way, but
not with him. Unless I fish for it, but no way in hell am I going to stoop that
low.
I often wondered if he treated his previous assistants the same way, but
then I realize that might be why I got the job in the first place … because
they all left. Of course, this job pays too well, so I’ve made it my personal
ambition to stick with him for as long as I can muster. As long as the cash
keeps flowing and I can pay my bills, I’m happy. Maybe it’s also the fact
that I consider staying some sort of achievement, despite the cocky asshole
sitting in the chair in front of me.
I’ve learned to deal with his aloofness over time. I treat him with equal
stuck-up bitchiness by not giving him an inch of emotion during our brief
exchanges, but not to the point of actually getting fired. I might get the sack
now, though, because I’m about to shatter glasses with my voice.
“What?!” I yell.
“Oh, c’mon, it’s only for a couple of months.”
He’s referring to his latest crazy request. He wants me as his wife.
His fake wife. As in, pretending to be married.
Leo fucking King, the CEO of W, a women’s magazine, wants me—a
big, curvy fake redhead—to be his wife?
This assistant job was just pushed to a whole new level of crazy.
“No. Oh, no, no, no,” I say, frowning.
He raises his eyebrows in that same annoying way whenever he won’t
take no for an answer. Oh, hell no. Shit’s about to hit the fan.
“You haven’t even thought about it,” he says.
“I don’t need to think about it,” I say, shaking my head. “Are you
crazy?”
He smirks. “Maybe just a little.”
“For thinking I would actually do it, yeah!”
He lowers his eyebrows with a faint smile on his face. “Oh, c’mon,
Samantha …” The way he speaks my name, like he owns it, gives me
goosebumps. “You’re not even a little curious?”
“What? No, what would I be curious about?” I mumble, but some little
voice in my head tries to pry my lips open to ask for more information. I
drown the fucker in Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks. Sugar rush and
coffee keeps me on the saner side. Need as much of that shit as I can get to
deal with this asshole.
When he opens his mouth, I’m slurping up my ‘heroine’ for the day,
and I’m totally not prepared for what he says.
“What it would be like.” He raises one cheeky eyebrow, slowly.
I cringe, trying to keep the laughter inside. I fail. Miserably. So badly, I
spout my coffee all over the floor.
My bad. I’m not sorry. This dude … really?
“Sorry, I couldn’t – I’ll clean it up later,” I mutter, still recovering from
my outburst. I want to laugh but pressing my lips together so hard it hurts
seems to do the trick.
“You’d better,” he muses, clearing his throat. “You seem very
amused.”
“You’re right, this is hilarious. As a matter of fact, I’ve never enjoyed
any moment with you as much as these two minutes. This is amazing,
Mister King, this prank … you’ve taken this asshole routine to a whole new
level.”
He smiles, not even slightly amused; it’s more of an ‘I’ll punish you
later’ smile. “Except this isn’t Punked and we’re not on MTV.”
“You’re not serious, are you? Because if you are, I’ll need to leave for
like ten minutes.”
“You’re robbing me of more time with you?”
Robbing him? That’s a laugh. I squint. “So I can get some more coffee
so I can drown this day away. Besides, it’s not like you want more time with
me. I know you want me to agree, but throwing me a bone isn’t going to
work. I’m not that easy.”
“Such a shame,” he says, licking his lips, which distracts me
momentarily.
To any woman, he would be an eye-fuck. Like those guys you see on
those runway shows and you just wanna lick them. He’s like that – chiseled
jaw, kissable lips, sparkling brown eyes, scruffy stubble, sleek suit. Who
knows what more he’s hiding underneath? Except, he’s a jerk, so thinking
of it only makes me want to hurl. Or at least, I force myself to remember
that I should. Nothing pretty on the outside can mask the ugly on the inside.
I try to keep that in mind every time he has me distracted with his
handsomeness; I shroud myself in loathing, just for the sake of my honor.
“… You assume too much, Miss Webber. Throwing you a bone is the
opposite of what I want to achieve.”
“You want me to run out of this office then? Because you’re achieving
that in a minute.” I chortle. “You can ask me a lot, but being your wife is at
the bottom of my list of things-I-have-to-do-for-my-boss, and that list is a
mile long.”
“Funny,” he muses. “You’re so funny.”
“You, too,” I retort.
We’re so not funny.
This is so not funny. Not in a million years.
If he’s actually serious, that is – which I still doubt because what in the
effing hell? Who would ask something like that? And why?
Now he just sits there, staring at me, his hands folded on the table, and
I’m seeing his serious face in action. I’ve only heard of it in rumors before,
the impact it has on people he wants to get shit done with, and I’ve always
assumed they were exaggerating. They weren’t. This look rips panties off.
Those eyes are like cracking whips, forcing you to beg for mercy.
Oh my god, how am I ever going to work my way out of this without
losing this job? I’m starting to get this feeling, like I don’t even have a
choice in the matter, because he keeps his eyes on me at all times, his
fingers strumming continuously.
This is happening, whether I like it or not.
Oh, dear.
Well, I’m not going down easily. If he wants to pin me down and make
me do something I know I’ll regret, I’d better get as much out of it as I can
get. Time for some big girl panties and overrated confidence. This fat girl
has some demands up her sleeve, and she isn’t saying ‘yes’ for anything
less.
“Okay, so let’s for a second assume you are serious about wanting me
to be your wife. What’s the reason behind this request? Because as your
assistant, I’m supposed to be ‘working’ for you in this office, not in your
home, so if you require my assistance there I’m afraid you’ll have to think
of some kind of reward. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Because there
is no way in hell I’d ever agree with this.”
“Oh, Samantha… you have no idea how much I require your
assistance. For example, there are plenty of times I’m dying for some
‘personal’ assistance at home … and if it was in the contract, I’d definitely
make use of your ‘assistance.’”
The way he says ‘personal,' in that low voice of his, has me
momentarily frozen in place, eyes peeled.
“Hypothetically speaking, of course.” He smiles slyly. “The reason will
be explained once you agree. And as for a reward, I can think of a few
things …” He frowns, and while he cocks his head to check for someone
passing through the hallway, he bites his lip.
Oh, sweet lord. This is too much.
His eyes find their way back to me again. “I could give you anything
you want … anything you desire. You’d just have to ask.” He smirks.
“Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“You’re bribing me now?” I place my coffee on the table and cross my
arms. “Hypothetically speaking.”
“I would call it a proper incentive.”
“Not good enough,” I say.
This guy has some nerve. After all that ignoring, I’m having a hard
time believing his interest or innuendos are real. I know this man, and I
know he thrives to tease. He’s never given me a glance, though. Not once.
It’s like I don’t exist, at least not as a ‘sexual interest’ to him, whatever the
hell that means, because I have no clue what he likes. All I know is that I
was never ‘it’, and it bugs me that he throws it into our conversations right
this very moment. It’s so out of the blue, I can’t help but associate it with
just another cheap trick at getting me to agree.
“What kind of reward are you looking for then?” he says, rolling back
his chair.
As he stands up, I take a deep breath to keep my posture. I feel weak in
the knees as he comes toward me. His vibe has always been so
overpowering as if he’s trying to claim the very air we breathe. Everything.
Doesn’t matter what, he needs to control it.
Now, even my decision.
“I want a raise,” I boldly state.
He smirks. “Oh, you’ll get a rise out of me all right.”
Somehow, that statement heats up my cheeks like nothing else he’s
ever said before. Goddammit.
“Miss Webber, is it that you enjoy taunting me or do you just want to
be punished?” He squints. “I must say, you are extra sassy today. I like it.”
He tries to touch a string of my hair, which hangs in front of my face,
but I block his hand and avoid it. Sweep across the floor like a ninja. Out of
the danger zone where snakes bite my ass.
He takes a deep breath and then sighs. “All right, I’ll give you a raise.”
He laughs, clearing his throat afterwards.
This has to be a cruel taunt because he keeps mentioning raise and I
keep glancing at his package every time he says it. I swear to god, these
treacherous eyes should be gouged out.
“Hypothetically speaking, of course,” I add.
Suddenly, the amused look on his face disappears. “This isn’t a game
or a joke, Miss Webber. As my assistant, it’s your job to supply whatever I
want you to supply. Now, I want you to be my wife. I won’t take no for an
answer.”
I cringe. “What? You’re not even giving me a choice?” Somehow, I
knew this was going to happen.
“You have a choice, but if you want to keep your job, I suggest you say
yes.”
My jaw drops. “This is ridiculous.” I look around. “Where’s the
camera?”
“For the last time, Miss Webber. This isn’t a joke. I need you to
become my wife for a few weeks. It’s not much, and you won’t get any
other strange requests from me other than this.”
“It can’t get any stranger than this,” I interject. “You’re going to extort
me?”
“I wouldn’t call it that …”
“But it is …” I shake my head. “This is insane. You’re insane.”
“You have no idea …but thanks for the compliment,” he muses to spite
me. “The point is, I need you for this, and I’m willing to double your
salary.”
I stare him blank in the face. “Triple.”
“Fine.” He holds out his hand. “For as long as I need you, you’ll be my
wife.”
“Pretend-wife.” I swallow.
“As real as we can both muster up.”
“That’s going to be hard, and I don’t mean for me.”
He smirks. “There are a lot of remarks floating through my head right
now, like other things that are hard, but I’ll spare you. For now.”
He didn’t spare me one bit.
“Ha-ha,” I say. “If I do this, I want it on paper.”
He squints. “Aw, you don’t trust me, Samantha? You, out of all
people.”
“Trust is earned. You just wasted it all by giving me no choice in the
matter.”
“I know what I did, but I promise you it’ll be worth it. I’ll make it so
you won’t regret this.”
I sigh, closing my eyes. “I’m crazy for doing this …” I hold out my
hand. “Ignoring that little voice in my head right now.”
“Keep ignoring that voice, Miss Webber. It makes life easier. Does for
me.”
“Ha, like you ever have such a thing.”
“Oh, I do. For instance, there’s this thing in my pants that keeps
pointing in all directions, but if I let it make all the decisions, this company
would be down in the gutter pretty quickly.”
Not just this company but this conversation, too. Holy damn.
“I didn’t have my second coffee yet, Mister King, can we spare the
dick talk for later, after lunch maybe?”
He laughs. “I’ll take that offer.”
I sigh loudly; tired of all the sexual innuendos he’s throwing at me. I
hold out my hand. “Let’s get this over with.”
He shakes my hand, and I know that I just made a deal that’ll kill me.
It’ll definitely kill my career, all right, if I don’t manage to keep this
quiet. The chances that this comes out is about fifty percent, which means I
have to get as much out of this as I can before someone blows the whistle
and exposes us.
An assistant and her boss, getting it on? That’s hot news. Definitely
wrecks any chances to be taken seriously.
A boss pretending to be married to his assistant? Well, that just makes
headlines. Tabloids sniff this juicy news out like dogs on the hunt, and I
know it’ll ruin him if this is ever exposed.
Which is why I’m adamant about finding out what exactly is it that
drives him to do this. What the reason is for this charade. It has to be a good
one since he’s willing to risk it all.
This isn’t just risking his own company; he’s even risking my career.
I think I need to spike my coffee today. And maybe the rest of the
week. Or month.
Fuck it; I’ll need a whole bottle of whiskey to get through this day.
