Chapter 3
“You will go work for Brian with an ‘I’ over my dead body.” He snatches the drink right out of my hand.
“What do you have against Brian with an ‘I’?”
“He wants you.”
“Why do you care?” It’s not like I ever date anyone. I don’t have the time.
Just this Tuesday, I got a surprise text from the captain of the Thrusters, asking me to be his date to the New Year’s party, but I turned him down.
“I don’t know why he asked me,” I told Sloan, who was waiting for a meeting with the Dread Lord.
“Girl, you’ve had a glow up. All the footballers are gagging over you. Remember when Rinaldo asked if you’d be watching the field for him, and you said yes?”
“I was just being nice! I didn’t know that was flirting.”
“Okay, killer.”
I told her I work too much to date. Every time I even think of going out, the Dread Lord manages to get invited to some yacht party or gala opening and needs me at his side to read people or remind him of their names.
“It would like Piers to be a dog in the manager,” Sloan said.
I had to look that phrase up. It means he doesn’t want me but doesn’t want anyone else to have me, either. I thought Sloan was joking, but now I think she was right. She’s VP of Sales, so she’s even better at reading people than me.
“I’m not going to work for All Cap,” I say. “Brian is gross.”
“Which Brian?”
“Both of them. I’m done with having a boss.”
“So what’s the plan if you run out of money?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“You could reel in a rich husband.”
I snort and gesture to myself. “Do I look like trophy wife material?”
He says nothing, just looks at me in his intense way. Like he’s seeing me, the real me, and he likes what he sees.
Sweet Santa, I wish that were true, but it’s not. He just wants to make me squirm.
Why am I even trying to have a conversation with him? I’m day-drinking for the first time. Enjoying my new freedom, that’s the task at hand.
“Give me my drink back.”
“No.”
I try to grab his arm and end up wrestling with him. He spins me around, clamping me against his body. He’s so much bigger than me, it’s not a fair fight. I wish I were wearing my red boots so I could stab his foot with my heel.
My body, already flooded with feelings, gets confused and thinks it’s the start of sexy time. My breasts swell, and my pulse picks up, pounding between my legs. I’m weak with desire, which sucks because I’m supposed to be pummelling Piers, not swooning in his arms.
While I’m struggling to get free, he raises my glass to his lips.
“No!” I shout.
But it’s too late. He chugs the creamy, light brown liquid, the muscles of his throat working in a smooth movement.
Baileys. He hates Baileys. And he’s lactose intolerant.
“Ah, disgusting.” He grabs the highball of whiskey and uses it to wash out his mouth.
“Why?” I cry. “Why would you do this?” First, he took away Christmas, so I turned to whiskey, and then he took that, too!
“You’re acting ridiculous.” His color is high, but his voice is sharp as ever. He can hold his liquor. I’ve never seen him affected by it.
Except that one night. But I vowed to myself to forget that night.
“Let me go.” I kick at his shin until he does. I put a few feet between us and gesture to the liquor cabinet. “One thing. You couldn’t let me have this one thing?”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Oh, I’m thinking clearly.” My voice is a little slurred, but I soldier on. “I’m thinking more clearly than I ever have.”
Piers swallows. He half turns away and rests a hand over his stomach. The lactose must be hitting him.
“You need to take your pill,” I mutter. “It’s upstairs in my bag.” I’m mad at him, but I don’t want him in needless discomfort. Unless I decide to punch him in the stomach.
“I’m all right,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
When he turns to me again, he hits me with the full blast of his charm. “You can’t quit Wellesley.” His tone is soft. Persuading. “Who will take care of me?”
My heart soars. He noticed! He noticed I take care of him.
“Who will entertain me during long meetings? Keep me company in my cavernous office? Comfort me when the Fed raises rates?”
The picture he’s painting of me is almost sweet. Almost.
He’s just trying to keep me under his thumb. I used to love being made to feel small by him, but… I’ve outgrown that.
“You don’t need me.” It hurts, but I’m going to remind him of the woman he wants. “You have Scary Sandra.”
His brows rise. “Scary Sandra?”
Oops. I didn’t mean to call her that out loud. “Your ‘consultant.’” I put air quotes around consultant. That’s what she’s called on his calendar, but I know better.
He blinks, like he doesn’t know who I’m talking about. And isn’t it just like him to forget the beautiful woman he’s been seeing since September?
“Tall, blonde, wears a lot of red?” She looks like a sexy librarian crossed with a dominatrix. I can’t really see Piers tolerating someone else taking charge, but I wonder… “You’ve had weekly meetings with her for the past four months.” Since Marty’s funeral. “I assume you’re banging her.”
“Sandra.” Recognition dawns on his face, and then he looks like he’s about to laugh.
My heart sinks to my socks. “Yeah. She can comfort you.”
“Is this why you want to quit?” His soft tone is so unexpected, it makes me catch my breath. “You’re jealous of Sandra?”
“What? No, I’m not jealous.” I am totally jealous. “Why would I be jealous?”
“I am not banging Sandra.” He puts a finger under my chin. “Wellesley, look at me.”
I don’t look at him. I look anywhere but at him. “No.” A sigh shudders out of me, but then I harden my voice. “I’m quitting because I deserve better than you.”
His hand falls away. I stare at the liquor cabinet so I can get through my little speech.
“You didn’t need to drag me up here for work.
You knew this holiday was important to me because of my mom.
But you made sure I was trapped up here.
With you. To be miserable. I’m done putting you first. I’ve done that these past few years and…
” I bite back the rest: Nothing’s going to change.
You’ll never see the real me.
I want you to see the real me.
“I need to prioritize myself. Protect myself. It’s clear you’re never going to do that. You don’t respect people. At this point, I don’t think you’re capable of it.”
He doesn’t say anything. His silence says it all.
Did I go too far? No, I could say much worse. Your parents were jerks and fucked you up beyond repair. But it’s okay, you have your money to keep you warm.
Let Scary Sandra make sure you take your Lactase pill.
I don’t say any of that. But I don’t give in, either.
I let the silence stretch, and finally, he moves away. His slow footsteps recede until his brogues reach the carpet. He shuts the door.
There it is. I knew he would leave. He’s going back to his stock tickers and end-of-the-year reports, where he belongs.
There’s no reason for me to feel like I’ve broken something beyond repair.
By eleven, I have a taste for whiskey. The more I drink, the less gross it tastes!
Whiskey makes everything better. Whiskey understands.
After Piers left me alone, I went upstairs and dealt with some unfinished business.
I emailed Johann and Benji, Pier’s private chef and personal trainer, letting them know their future point of contact would no longer be me, but their schedule shouldn’t change for the rest of the year.
I also sent a staff-wide email doubling the bonuses of everyone in the company.
I should email Sandra, too, but I decide Piers can deal with her himself.
Before I lost my nerve, I ran a bath and drowned my phone and iPad. I’ll probably regret it, but in the moment, it felt good.
I officially have no job. I’m free!
I find the sound system and figure out how to change all the TVs to a channel that replays “It’s A Wonderful Life” over and over again. Once that was playing on every screen, I turned on the house speakers and started blasting Christmas carols through the entire mansion.
I’d like to see him Bah Humbug his way out of this.
Now I’m in the home spa, sitting in the hot tub, wearing nothing but a Santa hat and singing, Deck the halls with la la lolly. I don’t remember the words to this carol, but it doesn’t matter as long as I shout the fa la las. Which I do. With gusto.
The hot tub was built into an alcove surrounded by more picture windows. I toast the mountains and gray sky and the clouds that are spitting snow again. We’re going to be stuck here for a while. But it doesn’t matter! Nothing matters!
The spa is on the lowest level of this ten-thousand-square-foot house. I can hibernate down here. Sleep on the massage bed next to the sauna. I doubt the Dread Lord and I will ever cross paths again.
I never have to see him again.
And if I feel a little sad about that, it’s only because I haven’t had enough to drink!
I’ll miss him, though. Not just the perks of the job but seeing him every day.
I’ll miss his pretty face. And the way he says “Wellesley” in that stern voice. Is that what he’s like in bed? Deliciously strict and stern?
Crap, now I’m horny.
Not that I actually want to be in bed with my boss. Former boss. No, I’m just a normal, healthy woman whose libido is raging because she hasn’t gotten laid in years.
I’m going to have to start fantasizing about someone else. It’s possible I never wanted Piers; I just need to imagine someone saying mean things in a British accent to get off. Lots of people probably have that kink.
I can find porn I like instead. Or change it up and imagine a footballer instead.
But when my imagination starts flowing, it’s still a tall, dark, and handsome boss chastising his assistant.
Enough of this impertinence, he clips, his plummy accent as sharp and as sparkling as Waterford crystal. Hands on the desk and bend over.
Crap, now I’m panting. My boobs are swollen and tender, and the insistent throbbing between my legs means my pussy is demanding an orgasm.