Chapter 4
Setting Boundaries
Many articles have been written, and many courses run on becoming a successful entrepreneur.
Most of those articles mention one key attribute that runs through all the founders of thriving businesses: perseverance.
When I left my meeting with Anders on Friday, I had not considered this, but I am reminded of it as I set my bag down under my desk on Monday morning.
On my desk is a box with distinctive burnt orange packaging, stark against the pristine white surface.
It’s unmissable to me or anyone else in the office who should walk on by.
I recognise it immediately. I don’t even have to read the blocky lettering of the logo to know it’s one of the finest artisanal chocolatiers in London.
It is actually my favourite chocolatier.
I check around, even under the box but there is no note.
For one moment, I stand frozen. It has to be Anders though, right?
A box this big is extortionate. It’s an extravagant gift.
Or maybe it’s not a gift for me? Maybe he’s reconciled with Imogen and wants me to send this to her?
But that doesn’t make sense. Anders is a tech guru who could get this delivered with one click. It’s on my desk. It has to be for me.
Finally, I engage my brain. There’s no packaging, so it must have been hand-delivered.
It's someone who works here, but if it’s one of the guys, that’s even more problematic than the mystery gift-giver being Anders.
Whatever it is, whoever it is, it’s trouble.
It would only take one employee to see it for tongues to start wagging and, unfortunately, too many of them would wag with salacious glee.
I’m bending over, rooting through my handbag, praying I’ve stuffed a foldaway bag in it somewhere, when I hear the worst possible words.
“Morning, Cora.”
I shoot up, my head missing the desktop by an inch.
Steve of the Man-Bun, as Dana has dubbed him, is in front of my desk, a laptop bag strapped across their chest. Today, the topknot is missing, replaced with a sleek ponytail hanging between their shoulder blades.
Their eyes lock straight onto the orange beacon sitting on my desk.
“Wow!” they say. “Your boyfriend must have stuffed up big time.”
“I’m single,” I correct automatically, then realise my mistake. There has to be a reason for expensive chocolates. If I don’t supply one, their imagination will.
“It’s a gift for a friend,” I lie. I hate lying. “I had it delivered here. So I can take it with me tonight.” That should work. Lots of our staff get stuff delivered here.
“Lucky fellow,” Steve says, tipping their head.
Damn Anders. A box of this size and value must be a token of interest. “Woman,” I correct. “It’s for a woman.”
“Oh!” Steve’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t realise.”
Damn it. “A friend,” I add hastily. “She’s a friend. It’s a significant birthday… and she’s going through some stuff.” Please God, don’t let them pry any further.
Steve's smile breaks out. They really have a lovely smile. It’s just a shame about the ponytail. “I’m glad to hear that.” Then they catch themself. “That you’ve got a friend.” They obviously think again. “And not that she’s going through stuff.”
This is excruciating. “I was just looking for a bag to carry it in, but…” I trail off with a shrug.
“Oh, here.” They unzip their satchel and pull out a tote bag printed with the name of a chip manufacturer. They offer it to me. “Drop it back to me tomorrow.”
I don’t want to encourage them, but I can’t leave the box lying around much longer without it generating more attention.
How many more lies would I have to tell?
I take the bag, smiling my thanks, and shove the troublesome chocolates inside.
When I’ve safely stashed it under my desk, I ask, “Did you want Anders?”
“Oh,” they look surprised. “No, just you.”
I wait expectantly. “Er. That report you wanted for the management meeting — I’ll have it ready by lunch,” they say.
We both know that message could have been delivered in an email.
Dana is right. My heart plummets. Steve is interested.
And I wish I could return their interest. They’re a nice person with a cute enough face but that hairstyle does nothing for them.
It might make me shallow, but I look at them and there’s not an ounce of attraction.
Yet they’re wedded to their hair. It’s understandable.
Most women are similarly attached to their long locks just as some men are to their bushy beards.
I water down my smile. “Okay, thanks.” I need to get rid of them and there’s only one way to definitively do that.
I need to go where they can’t follow. While I had been hoping to postpone this conversation as long as possible, it’s now my rescue.
Grabbing a pen and notepad, I tap on Anders’s office door.
I hear a grunt. Taking it as permission to enter, I throw one last glance at Steve over my shoulder. They’ve turned away, their slender frame heading toward the open-plan kitchen and break-out area, ponytail swaying gently.
Anders is mid Downward Dog. He does this.
He claims yoga loosens his muscles and re-invigorates his brain after a prolonged stint at his computer.
I’ve walked in on him many times before in a variety of poses.
But this Monday morning, I find it particularly disconcerting to come face-to-butt with my employer.
Especially as it’s a fine, sculpted butt, one not out of place on a Grecian statue.
Nor does it help that his T-shirt has ridden up, revealing his taut stomach and the end of a dusting of tawny hair.
I look away quickly, my lower gut tightening.
What am I doing ogling my boss’s butt? My eyes are perfectly functional eyes, so I’ve always realised Anders is fit.
But never have I noticed how toned is his physique and how well-formed his buttocks.
Abashed, I wait while he drops to his knees, tucks his head down and stretches his arms out.
A shiver traces down my spine as I watch his forearms stretch and flex.
This is all his fault. His proposal has unbalanced our familiar dynamic.
Now, intimate thoughts, ones I cannot allow, are creeping in.
He holds the child pose for a few seconds, then slowly uncurls, his body moving with grace and power.
With each additional second I wait, my lust climbs higher.
I gulp. When he is finally standing, facing me, his trademark lop-sided grin spreads and those dangerous eyes light up.
“Did you like them?” he asks, looking like a teenager who’s just given me a Valentine. It’s soppy. It’s cute. It’s endearing. I pause. He’s answered my question, and he looks so vulnerable it feels harsh and uncouth to object to his gift. I feel myself melting.
But no, he’s not a teen. He’s a CEO with inappropriately expensive artisanal chocolates. Are they the opening salvo in a love-bombing campaign? Or are they an apology for his unwarranted proposal? Part of me is not sure Anders is capable of moulding his intractable character into a love-bomb.
Maybe motive doesn’t matter. Hardening my heart, I speak, voice low. “You can’t do this!”
“Do what?”
“Leave me gifts at work.” I point through the closed door in the direction of my desk. “Every gossip in the company will be whispering that I’m sleeping with you.”
“Well, they might be a bit precipitous,” he grins again, “but they won’t be wrong in the long run.”
Scratch the apology gift option. “No! I said no. Did you not hear me on Friday?”
“I heard you. And I accept your refusal. But I can still try to convince you I’m right.
” Those clear blue eyes fix on mine. Uh-oh.
I steel myself to resist. I’m long practised at this.
“You’ve worked for me for long enough. You should know I’m always right.
But I think maybe you need me to woo you. ”
“Woo me?” I am not normally slow, but today not all my brain cells seem to be firing and the mesmerising effect of his gaze is not helping.
“Yes. The old-fashioned way.” He spreads his arms wide and I manage to break eye contact as I follow his movements. “The way our grandparents did it. Before it turned into buy her a drink and give her three orgasms.”
I don’t know how to unpack this. Nor what to address first. The idea he can overturn my refusal, the unbalanced dynamic of boss and employee, the inappropriateness of extravagant gifts on my desk at work, or his perception that a date is a drink and three orgasms. I mean, who gives three orgasms?
In my experience, you’re lucky if you get one.
I settle for, “No.”
“You don’t like them?” he asks, his brows drawing together in puzzlement. “But they’re the ones you bought yourself as a Christmas gift from me last year. I found the order on my card statement and got the biggest box they do.”
Which explains how he knows my Achilles heel. Full marks for ingenuity. But that shouldn’t surprise me. He’s built an entire company on his imagination, his resourcefulness and his drive.
“No wooing,” I clarify. “No chocolates. In fact, you can take them back. Eat them yourself.”
“No, thanks.” He gives a careless shrug. “If you don’t want them, bin them. Or share them about. The programmers are all gannets. They live on chocolate.”
I can’t help it; I sniff in horror. The thought of the coders inhaling those handmade works of art like they inhale Snickers bars breaks my resolve.
Those chocolates should be cherished, savoured one gorgeous mouthful each night.
Not absent-mindedly scarfed down between swigs of coffee as they shoot up some third-world country.
He’s got me. Those chocolates need to go to someone who appreciates them.
Me. And possibly Fiona. I couldn’t bin them and handing them out to the coders is the human equivalent of chucking them out.
Besides, if I share them around, Steve will know I was lying.
They’ll wonder and while I don’t doubt they’d never guess the truth, in this case, their guesses could be even more damaging.
“I’ll sort the chocolates,” I say. They’ll be coming home with me tonight.
“But no more buying expensive gifts. It’s a waste of money.
” Then I realise that’s not likely to persuade him.
Anders has never shied away from spending money on something he thinks worthwhile.
But my boss is a logical man. Reason can usually persuade him.
Lifting my chin, I say, “You need to understand: the only time I will ever marry is if I am utterly, madly, deeply in love with you.” And Effie would have to love him too, but I don’t mention her. “Not once in our conversation on Friday did you mention love.”
He frowns. Then his face opens like he’s had an epiphany. “Ah! You’re part Asian.”
I bristle, ready to fight. “What’s that got to do with this?”
But he nods, excited. “Asians cite love as necessary for a long, stable marriage. But research shows Europeans,” he indicates generally, “find sex, commitment and a supportive partner sufficient. I’m good at sex, I offered commitment and I think you’ll find I’d be supportive of whatever you want to do.
You’ve worked for me for three years. Haven’t you always found me supportive? ”
I nod dumbly as it’s true.
“Americans,” he continues, pointing to himself, “add religion into the mix. But I’m not much into God, so we’ll give that one a pass, unless it’s an issue for you?”
He moves to sit down and waves me to the adjacent sofa. I sit, not sure my legs will withstand any further illustrations of his prowess at sex. One part of my mind is still obsessing over his earlier comment about three orgasms.
“I’m pretty sure you understand the mechanics of sex. And I’ve had ample proof over the years of your support for me.” His eyes find mine again, oozing his sincerity, but this time I look away. “As I’ve already committed to this arrangement,” he says, “all that remained was for you to commit too.”
“Except I’ve already told you, I won’t marry someone I don’t love.”
“I understand,” he says.
Seizing the opportunity of a conciliatory Anders, I continue. “No more inappropriate gifts at work? I will not walk in to find another present on my desk? I really don’t want to become a target of office gossip.”
“Understood.” He nods twice as if to underscore his acceptance, but his eyes have veered away. I know what that means. His mind is elsewhere. I stand, smoothing my hands over my skirt.
“I’ll get back to work,” I say unnecessarily as I open his office door. He’s still on the sofa, his brain overclocking.
Time to get back to my desk – and maybe one teeny tiny chocolate treat. It’s purely medicinal. A necessity after dealing with Anders.