4. Peter Hatches a Plan
4
Peter Hatches a Plan
I have a battle plan in place, put together after I was given homework by Veronica. She gave me a list of movies to watch with horrible bosses abusing the hell out of their assistants, all of whom are intelligent, plucky, and cute as a button.
Peter: every single movie is a romantic comedy. The only one who didn’t fall in love with his/her boss was the assistant in that Devil Wears Prada movie.
Veronica: that was such a wasted opportunity. Who wouldn’t go full on lesbian for Meryl Streep?
Peter: me
Veronica: you know what I mean!
Peter: I’m not saying I wouldn’t fuck her. Meryl’s got that hot cougar energy going on. But I’m not planning on fucking Kristoff, so not sure all those rom coms were the way to go.
Veronica: did you at least get some good ideas?
Peter: actually, I did
Veronica: You’re welcome
Peter: sarcastic bitch
Veronica: that’s why you love me
Peter: “love”
Veronica: [eye roll emoji] When does your campaign start?
Peter: shots have already been fired
Kristoff’s desk is right outside my office and I can see him through the glass wall that separates us. His back is ramrod straight and I can practically see waves of impotent rage radiate off him. As my grandma used to say, he’s both madder than a wet hen and wound tight as a clock. He’s human C4, waiting to be ignited so he can explode all over the place.
I pick up my Starbucks cup, labeled “Petre” because I guess that’s how you spell my name in Baristaland, and take a sip. It’s stone cold, which shouldn’t be a surprise because I bought it over two hours ago. I have several options at this point that a rational human being might choose from. I could have a replacement delivered, use the extremely expensive espresso machine or Keurig here in my office, or just drink it cold. I just got my MBA after being a college student for six years. I can drink coffee at any temperature from boiling hot to unintentionally ice cold. It’s coffee. Life-giving caffeine. It shouldn’t be wasted. When I’m sure Kristoff isn’t looking, I throw it down my throat. Then I text his company phone because Petre might drink hours old cold coffee but Peter Verona, future CEO of Minola Corp, does not.
The Boss: come into my office
Kristoff jumps comically. When his old work phone was confiscated and this new one provided, I had the IT guys do me a solid and make his notifications as loud as possible, unable to be changed, and sound like an air horn. They tell me I can have the sound changed to anything I want at any time. Endless possibilities await.
It makes me want to rub my hands together and cackle like a cartoon villain.
Instead of obeying me by standing up and coming in here, Kristoff replies back by text.
Kit: Why is my name in this phone Kit? And why can’t I change it? IT tells me it’s impossible, which is BS. This is completely unacceptable.
I laugh because righteous indignation is a cute look for him. That makes me pause. Kristoff Minola is in no way cute. I can acknowledge he’s aesthetically pleasing, but he’s not really my type. And the cuteness isn’t real. It’s… theoretical cuteness. Moreover, all I can see is his back. It’s nicely broad, and fills his suit jacket beautifully, but it’s still just a back and not cute in any way.
I picture Kristoff’s back stripped bare, his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, and muscles clenching and unclenching as someone pounds into what I imagine to be a tight ass. None of that is cute, but my dick is completely on board.
Kristoff is gay and I’m pan but screwing him over in the literal sense isn’t part of my battle plan. My cock, which has its own opinions on things, disagrees. Obviously, I’m overdue to get laid, and it’s not going to be my evil stepbrother. Ever.
Before I can get into an argument with my dick over why we won’t be fucking Kristoff, I see that there’s another message on my company phone.
Kit: duck you. I mean DUCK you. I DID NOT TYPE DUCK DANGIT. Or dangit. That’s not even a word. How the heck is my autocorrect doing this? F U C J WHY CAN’T I TYPE K?
It takes everything I have not to burst into laughter. I see Kristoff stand up and can’t help a grin spreading across my face, but I stomp it down and manage a reasonable expression of sangfroid as he turns around and glares at me. If wishes were rocket launchers, I’d be toast. Luckily for me, they’re not.
Kristoff marches to the glass door of my office and slams it open, or at least tries to. Because it’s glass, it’s got this kind of hydraulic door stop to keep that from happening, so instead of slamming it just kind of sighs and stops before the door can collide with the wall, which is also glass. It’s impressive engineering, as it should be, because Minola Corp, or rather one of its subsidiaries, invented it.
“What. The. Actual. Fuck?” I can practically smell the smoke coming out from Kristoff’s ears.
I look up at him. “Inappropriate language contributes to a hostile work environment, Kit. Please don’t make me remind you again.”
Kristoff closes his eyes and is probably counting to ten. “Why—no— how is my phone doing this?”
“Doing what?” I ask. I look down at my computer and pretend to be typing something important.
“You know damn well what,” he snaps back. I think he’s about five seconds away from throwing hands, but I like to live dangerously.
“That’s strike two, Kristoff. One more verbal violation of our code of conduct and I will be forced to write you up.”
“For having a conversation?” Kristoff asks. “That’s bullshit.”
I look up at Kristoff and shake my head. “I did warn you. Twice, in fact. I’m afraid that now I will be giving you a write up. If you’re not already aware, three write-ups in less than six months is cause for automatic termination of employment at Minola Corp.”
Kristoff’s overly pretty mouth drops open in astonishment or outrage, or maybe both. I imagine looking down at those soft, open lips and shoving my cock inside his mouth over and over. It’s a damn good thing my desk has a modesty panel. Then I imagine him under my desk, hidden by that panel, sucking me off then letting my cock stay warm in his mouth. Now I have to reach under the desk and arrange my cock into a less uncomfortable position.
Control yourself , I think. He’s your stepbrother and the worst excuse for a human being you know. Stop getting hard when I think about fucking him. And brain, stop thinking about fucking him. It’s gross.
I expect Kristoff to splutter and tell me that I can’t get away with what I’m doing, but he surprises me. “I see,” is all he says in frigid tones. “What, precisely, can I assist you with?”
That’s so much better. Good boy. I want to pat his head and then give him a treat. I should bring some in. I wonder what the Kristoff equivalent of a Milk Bone is. Although it occurs to me it’s missing something.
“Sir,” I say.
Those weird pale silver eyes of his look confused. “What?”
“You forgot to say Sir.”
Kristoff’s eyes bug out with outrage then narrow. “No, I didn’t.”
I make a buzzer noise. “Wrong Answer. Care to try again?”
“Calling you Sir is at no point addressed within the corporate code of conduct handbook,” he says stiffly.
We’ll just see about that. But I can put a pin in it for another day. “Mr. Verona will do,” I allow.
Kristoff clenches his jaw then asks, “Is there something you needed from me, Mr. Verona?”
I smile at Kristoff smugly. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Kit?”
“My name is Kristoff,” he grates out. “It is not, nor has it ever ben, Kit.”
“You can help me, Kit , by getting me coffee.”
He stares at me. “There’s an espresso machine right behind you.”
“I know. I want coffee from Intelligentsia.”
“Of course you do,” Kristoff mutters.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with it.” I open my wallet and take out a ticket. “While you’re at it, pick up my dry-cleaning. The name of the shop is on the ticket. I expect you back within thirty minutes. Any time you waste past a half hour will have to be made up at the end of the evening. I hope you understand me.”
Kristoff’s mouth opens then snaps shut. His eyes convey his irritation adequately, though. “What is your order for Intelligentsia?”
I smile at him and mentally crack my knuckles. “A double flat white made with one-third almond milk and two-thirds coconut milk, extra hot.”
He gives me a look that would melt concrete then turns on his heel and leaves my office.
To that sexy back I call out, “The clock is ticking, Kit. Better get a move on.”
Kristoff doesn’t turn around or say anything, but I can hear him growl and note that he does, in fact, start to walk more quickly.