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 my personal time. As his assistant, he expects me to be there for him 24/7, ready for any order he has to give.
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? They don’t happen. Chatting like a normal human being? Not a chance. 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 there’s no way in hell I’m stooping that low.
I often wondered if he treated his previous assistants the same way, but then I realized 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. 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 the glass 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 keep me on the saner side. I 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 that 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 Punk’d 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 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 about 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 distracts me 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.
