10. How Not to Kiss Your Boss
10
HOW NOT TO KISS YOUR BOSS
ALEX
If I were taking a course in “How to be a CEO,” I would definitely flunk the hell out of it right now.
After Mac stormed out of my office this morning, I spent three hours pretending to read quarterly reports while actually analyzing every interaction we've had since she started. Each heated debate about corporate culture. Each time she predicted a problem before it happened. Each post from our anonymous blogger that matched her observations with suspicious accuracy.
The evidence is compelling. The timing too perfect.
But here's the real problem: I'm not as angry about it as I should be.
"You've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes," Emma observes, dropping another stack of crisis reports on my desk. "Should I update your calendar to include 'brooding time' between meetings?"
"I don't brood."
"Of course not, sir. You engage in strategic contemplation. With frowning. "
I give up on pretending to read. "Has Ms. Gallo submitted her feedback analysis?"
"No, but she has created quite a stir in the break room. Apparently, her anonymous feedback program inspired Keith from DevOps to start what he's calling a 'revolutionary suggestion wall.'"
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not. But you should know that he's using the meditation room as his 'headquarters of corporate consciousness-raising.'" She makes air quotes with devastating accuracy. "HR is concerned."
"HR is always concerned." I check my watch: 7:45 PM. Most normal people would be headed home. Then again, most normal people don't run companies while suspecting their corporate culture consultant might be their biggest critic. "Anything else?"
"Just Mr. Grayson Dixon’s hourly text asking if you've 'compromised the bachelor pact' yet." She hands me my phone with its dozen missed messages. "Should I start a spreadsheet to track his anxiety?"
"That won't be necessary."
She's halfway to the door when Mac bursts in, curls escaping their professional updo, jacket slightly askew, looking like she's either discovered gold or another corporate crisis.
"You need to see this." She's slightly out of breath, which shouldn't be attractive but somehow is. "Now."
After our confrontation this morning about the blogger's identity – about her identity – I should suggest a meeting tomorrow. Should maintain professional distance. Should definitely not notice how her cheeks are flushed or how her eyes spark with that same passion that keeps making me forget she might be plotting my company's downfall.
"What exactly do I need to see?"
"Keith's feedback wall has evolved into something... unprecedented." She runs a hand through her curls, dislodging more of them. "You have to see it yourself. The meditation room looks like a conspiracy theorist's evidence board, but with Post-it notes about coffee privileges and ergonomic chair inequity."
I should say no. Should remember that twenty minutes ago I was cataloging evidence of her possible double identity. Should definitely not be intrigued by how she manages to make corporate rebellion sound fascinating.
"Lead the way, Ms. Gallo."
Emma's eyebrows hit her hairline, but she just makes another note on her tablet. Probably updating that risk assessment matrix she thinks I don't know about.
The walk to the meditation room is silent, charged with the morning's unfinished confrontation. Mac keeps shooting me looks when she thinks I'm not watching, and I keep pretending not to notice.
"This is what I wanted to show you." She pushes open the meditation room door, gesturing at the wall of Post-it notes covering one side. In the fading evening light, the colors make a chaotic rainbow of employee grievances. "Three hours ago, Keith started what he calls a 'grassroots feedback initiative.' Apparently, the anonymous surveys weren't radical enough for him."
I step closer to read one of the notes: "The coffee machine's 'basic' setting is classist. French press liberation now!"
"He's organized them by theme," Mac points out, moving beside me. "Pink for compensation complaints, blue for management issues, yellow for... emotional support animal requests? Someone wants to bring their emotional support iguana to meetings."
"That would be Linda from Legal." I scan another note. "Though I'm more concerned about this one demanding 'revolution in the name of better snacks.'"
"At least they're being specific about their demands." She reaches past me to adjust a crooked note, and I catch that hint of espresso and flowers again. "Unlike the board's vague concerns about 'maintaining traditional corporate structure.'"
And just like that, we're back to this morning's tension. To suspicions and accusations and the way she'd looked at me before she fled my office.
I open my mouth to... what? Accuse her again? Ask her directly about the blog? Admit that part of me admires her methods, even if she is trying to expose my company's flaws?
That's when the lights go out.
And because the universe sometimes likes to play with your balls when it royally screws you, that's also when the electronic lock clicks shut.
Fucking lovely.
"This is ridiculous." Mac jiggles the handle again, but the electronic lock remains stubbornly dark. The same lock that had snapped shut when the power went out five minutes ago. "Who puts an electronic lock on a meditation room?"
"The same people who thought mandatory meditation was a good idea?" I offer, trying not to focus on how small the room feels in the dark.
Or how close she's standing. Or how she smells like espresso and something floral that makes my groin tighten inside my slacks.
"Can't you override it or something? You own the building."
"Technically, the building owns itself. It's a tax thing." I pull out my phone, its glow casting weird shadows on the meditation cushions. "No signal. The backup generators should kick in soon."
"Great." She slumps against the wall. "Trapped in Brad's Crying Corner during a blackout. This is definitely not how I planned to spend my evening."
Neither did I.
We'd been in the middle of a heated discussion about the employee feedback program when the lights went out. Mac had been gesturing passionately about toxicity metrics, I'd been trying not to notice how the sunset made her hair look like fire, and then... darkness.
Now we're stuck in what is arguably the most emotionally charged twelve square feet in Seattle's tech district.
"Look on the bright side," I say, using my phone's flashlight to examine the room. "At least we have... thirty meditation cushions and a wellness journal for entertainment."
Mac grabs the journal, flipping it open. "Oh my god. Listen to this: 'Dear Wellness Journal, today I learned that you can't actually trade NFTs for real money. In unrelated news, does anyone know a good bankruptcy lawyer?'"
"That's definitely Brad."
"Here's another one: 'I've named the plant in the corner Gerald because it looks judgmental and refuses to grow.'" She squints at the page. "That's... surprisingly accurate, actually."
A distant rumble of thunder makes us both jump.
“God almighty.” Mac peers out the small window. “Just what this situation needs—atmospheric effects."
I try not to think about how this feels like the setup to every romance film ever made. Two people trapped together during a storm, forced to confront their...
Nah. Not opening that Pandora’s Box of pure fuckery.
"Your sister's probably wondering where you are," I say, mostly to distract myself from how the room seems to be getting smaller.
"Oh god." Mac checks her dead phone. "She's probably already called Nonna. I should warn you – if I don't check in soon, there's a high probability of an Italian rescue mission involving industrial quantities of pasta."
"Is that what happened to the last CEO who crossed you?"
"No, he just got a courtesy curse-out. The pasta punishment is reserved for family emergencies." She pauses. "Although technically, you did fire me on my birthday, so maybe you qualify for both."
Lightning flashes outside, illuminating her face for a moment. She's closer than I realized, close enough that I can the blush on her delicate cheekbones.
"I didn't know it was your birthday," I remind her.
"True. But you did hire me back just to spy on me."
"I hired you back because you were right."
"About?"
"Everything." I move closer, because apparently my self-preservation instinct takes coffee breaks. "The culture problems. The retention issues. The way we've been doing everything wrong while convincing ourselves it was right."
"Careful, Mr. Drake." Her voice drops lower. "That sounds dangerously close to admitting fault."
"Maybe I'm tired of being careful."
Another flash of lightning, another rumble of thunder. The storm's getting closer.
"Speaking of careful..." She takes a step back, bumping into what appears to be a shelf of meditation books. Several volumes of "Mindfulness for Middle Management" rain down on her head.
I catch her before she falls, and suddenly we're doing another romance film thing—one where time stops and breathing becomes optional.
Seconds later, she’s still in my arms, and neither of us seems capable of moving. I inch closer, the oxygen seizing inside my chest.
"This is a bad idea," she whispers.
"Probably."
"We're supposed to be discussing the feedback program."
"Definitely."
"And you still think I'm your anonymous critic."
"Most likely. "
"And I still think you're everything wrong with tech leadership."
"Apparently."
"So this would be completely unprofessional."
"Utterly."
Her hands are somehow on my chest, probably from trying to catch herself. My hands are still on her waist, definitely not from trying to catch myself.
"Alex..."
The lights choose that exact moment to come back on.
And because the universe has a sense of humor, they reveal Brad from Accounting, standing in the now-open doorway with a box of tissues and Emma—my EA—right behind him with what appears to be crisis management paperwork.
"Oh." Brad clutches his tissues. "Is... is this a bad time? I was having feelings about cryptocurrency again."
Mac jumps back so fast she knocks over a Buddha statue. I barely catch it before it becomes a very un-zen casualty of corporate tension.
"Mr. Drake." Emma's voice could freeze hell. "The crisis management team is waiting on a conference call. Something about Keith from DevOps starting a proletarian uprising in the break room earlier today?”
"He did what?" Mac straightens her jacket, professional mask sliding back into place.
"Apparently the coffee machine is now the 'People's Percolator,'" Brad supplies. "He's demanding equal access to the premium beans and better working conditions for the intern who refills it."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Please tell me he's not using the ping pong paddle as a revolutionary symbol again."
"Worse." Emma checks her tablet. "He's using the meditation cushions to build barricades. Something about 'seizing the means of relaxation.' "
Mac makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cry. "I should... go handle that."
"Ms. Gallo." I catch her arm before she can escape. "We're not done with our discussion."
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment the tension from earlier crackles back to life.
"Later," she says softly. Then louder, for our audience: "I'll have the feedback analysis on your desk in the morning, Mr. Drake."
She leaves, taking the scent of espresso and flowers with her. I watch her go, very aware of the speculative looks from our impromptu audience.
"So..." Brad shifts awkwardly. "Should I come back later? Or..."
"The meditation room is all yours, Brad." I straighten my tie, trying to look like a CEO who definitely wasn't just about to kiss his corporate culture consultant. "Try not to have any feelings about NFTs on the good cushions."
"Sir?" Emma falls into step beside me as I head for the conference room. "About what we just..."
"Not a word."
"Of course." She taps her tablet. "Should I cancel your dinner with the board tomorrow? Given the... situation?"
"Which situation? You mean with Ms. Gallo or the communist revolution in our break room?"
"Both seem relevant to the board's interests."
I stop walking. "Emma?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Schedule an all-hands meeting for tomorrow. And get me everything we have on coffee machine equity standards."
"Very good, sir." She makes a note. "And the... other situation?"
I think about Mac's face in the lightning flashes, about the way she felt in my arms, about how completely screwed I am .
"That situation is... ongoing."
"I'll update your risk assessment matrices accordingly."
My phone buzzes – a text from Grayson:
GRAYSON: Connor looked up a picture of that consultant and said she’s hotter than that beach we got drunk on in Bali. Please tell me you're not about to lose us the bachelor yacht
I ignore it, heading for the conference room where apparently I need to negotiate with a Marxist barista uprising.
Just another Monday at Drake Enterprises.
At least the meditation cushions are finally being used for something productive.
Even if that something is a proletarian revolution.