So Not My Boss Crush

Chapter 1

Staying up late last night seemed so virtuous at the time.

I swept up sawdust.

I counted stacks of linoleum.

I finally moved that bucket of scrapped trim board out of the shower so I could, you know, shower.

But now that it’s morning, I am sorely regretting my three a.m. bedtime.

“Here,” a female voice chirps. “Drink.”

My eyes water and I close my jaw, which was gaping open, and then fight off a second yawn. Did I brush my hair this morning? I don’t think I did. If I could stop yawning, that’d be fabulous.

A blurry Lizzy looms at the edge of the desk, her bright pink blazer nearly painful to my sleep-deprived eyes. Too bright. This whole day is too bright. I want to be in bed, covers pulled tight to my chin.

The mug of coffee before me has steam curling up like a heavenly mist.

“Another late night?” Lizzy bites into a powder-dusted donut.

My stomach growls. Breakfast. Right. Forgot about that when my alarm woke me out of a sound sleep an hour ago. Of course, I snoozed it.

Several times.

Too manytimes.

So many times, I fell into a dream in which I was once again counting linoleum panels.

“Coffee… thank you,” I mutter, clutching the mug.

“You’ve got to stop, Gwen. You can’t keep this up.”

“I can’t stop. The roofer… I owe… Ugh.” My thoughts jumble, and I give up on the whole sentence-forming thing. That part of my brain requires an hour of wakefulness and one cup of coffee before functioning, and I’m still shy of those marks.

Also, thinking about the three grand I owe that roofer isn’t an appropriate Monday morning thought. I’ve learned over the years that it’s best to try to think positive thoughts on Monday mornings to avoid the dreaded blues.

“You can’t keep burning the candles at both ends, Gwen. Get Clay to do his part, for goodness’ sake. This project was supposed to be a team effort. You’re pulling all these late nights and then trying to work all day while he’s—what?—playing video games? Is he even working these days?”

“Not working… He quit the sandwich shop.”

Thoughts about my younger brother’s ways also go under the ‘depressing’ column, so I bite my lip before going on about how he didn’t even make it through the two-week probationary period at his last job.

“What’s the deal, then?” Lizzy asks. “You shouldn’t owe a roofer. Clay should be up there hammering shingles.”

“His knee…” I grumble.

I will not voice my suspicions about my little brother’s knee injury aloud. I love him too much. I can’t bad mouth him behind his back.

But inside, a snippy voice notes that his injury seems awfully convenient, given that it’s keeping him from picking up his share of the responsibilities with the house-flipping project we’re chin-deep in.

Two days ago, I saw him jog lightly across the lawn to grab a rogue frisbee that soared over the shrubs. He flung it back to the kids playing across the yard and then quickly went back to limping when he saw me watching.

Nope. Don’t want to think about that.

“Coffee,” I mumble again. “Glorious coffee. Don’t worry about me, Lizzy; I’ll be fine.”

“I will worry about you if I want. It’s my mother-hen side.”

“I’m a little groggy, but I’ll snap out of it. And, thankfully, today’s low-key. I’ll get by and catch up on rest eventually…”

“Fine, if you say so. But I’m cooking a giant pot of chicken noodle soup tonight and bringing some over to that construction zone you call ‘home’ these days. That way, at least you won’t have to cook in that disaster of a kitchen tonight.”

She pops the last bite of donut in her mouth and then rolls a leather chair to nestle close to mine. “Okay, down to business… I need to check out all the pick-pack-and-weigh forms Todd Daniels filled out in the warehouse over the past two weeks. His supervisor filed a safety violation, and I’m trying to understand what’s happening. Think you can help?”

I’m mid-sip.

Rather than wait, she walks her fingers over the rack of file folders propped on my desk, then plucks the red one out. “Oh… goody. Here they are.”

“Daniels is in Warehouse Two. Those forms should be toward the back.”

“Thanks, hon.” She scrutinizes my face and pinches her brows. “Maybe some grub would help you wake up. Go grab a donut.”

“I really should wade through some emails before I take a break.” I stifle another yawn into my cup.

“You have sawdust in your hair.” She leans in to pluck it out.

I groan. “I think I need to start today over.”

“What you need is a donut. There’s a box in the break room. And grab a second one for me, too, will you? Red-filled. Whatever that is, it’s good. Cherry-flavored jelly?”

“Raspberry jelly, I think.”

“Party-on-my-tongue flavor.”

“That blazer is a party.”

“What, this?” She gives me a mischievous grin, flips the lapels up, and pouts her lips as if posing for a camera. The cut is outdated, and the shoulder pads give it a boxy look.

I smile at her antics and slurp down more life-saving brew. “Where did you get it?”

“It was my mom’s from when she worked the front desk at the news station. I borrowed it for Halloween last year and never gave it back.”

“It’s flashy.”

“If I have to get up and out of the house each morning in office-casual, I’m going to at least have fun with it.” She plucks at the sleeve of my baggy, brown sweater. “Speaking of… You could use a little ‘flashy’ in your repertoire. This thing looks like something a grandfather would wear for an afternoon of gardening.”

She’s scarily on-point with her assessment. “Get out of my head!” I quip. “My mom hand-knit this sweater, and I swear, the name of the pattern was Garden Cardigan.”

“No way!”

“Way.”

She laughs. “Are we becoming telepathically joined, Gwen Temple?”

“Six years of working with a person may do that.”

She taps the side of her head of blond curls. “Getting the message now?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Er… donut. You’re thinking about one.”

“Not lemon-filled, ‘kay? ”

I slide my fingertips over my wavy locks as I walk toward the break room, searching for any more sawdust flakes. I need to fight off the Monday slump today, and having Lizzy at my desk for a little while this morning will help.

I’ll help her sort through the shipping forms, then answer the usual gazillion emails, make it to lunch, and then the afternoon will slip by with the routine tasks: phone calls, invoices, the Monday three p.m. Shipping Department meeting.

I’ll be back home before I know it, and maybe I could sneak in a nap before starting the evening of house-flipping tasks.

Maybe.

Probably not.

I know what my life’s been like lately. The mess I call home is barely livable, and it’s hard to rest when there’s so, so much to get done.

The break room door gapes open. But before I reach it, I hear a booming voice farther down the hallway.

Deep, resonant, demanding.

My boss.

Epic Elevate’s CEO and founder, Brock Benson, steps around the corner of the hallway, and my senses are bombarded on all fronts: I can smell the spicy mix of his cologne and body wash. His dazzlingly handsome face makes me blink a few times in a daze because seeing him is always like coming face-to-face with a larger-than-life celebrity.

And that voice.

So smooth and rich and suave, I feel as though it’s being wasted in the hallway, unheard by the hundreds of thousands of fans who subscribe to his podcast.

He walks my way with his confident, energetic stride, and his executive assistant, Mandy, trails behind him.

I search for a doorway to duck into.

As a rule, I avoid Brock.

When I first started working for him, I tried to do the professional thing and greet him whenever he passed through the shipping department each morning. But whenever I looked up from my desk and said my polite “good morning, Mr. Benson” or a plain old “Hello, sir,” he just ignored me.

As in, flat-out refused to look my way.

No greeting in return.

No nod of acknowledgment.

Nothing.

At first, I was offended. But over the years, I’ve learned being invisible to Brock Benson is actually a good thing. I get a paycheck religiously, and I don’t have to deal with micromanagement, which is his style with the company’s favorites.

Today, however, there is nowhere to hide.

The hallway is decorated in typical Epic Elevate style: modern and minimalist. The polished black granite floor shimmers. A few sleek black-and-white photos adorn the matte-gray walls.

No nook to take cover in. No vending machine to face. No water fountain, chair, table, or stairwell to carry me mercifully out of his pathway.

There’s nowhere to go except forward.

I try not to stare but can’t help looking at him. Unfortunately, he’s the type of guy who does that to women.

A glimpse of his red-and-black shirt gives me a clue about his style du jour before I even take in the rest of his outfit. He’s rocking a lumberjack-themed look today. His plaid shirt hangs open over a black tee that hugs his muscular form. Black pants taper over his stylishly relaxed, tongue-poking-out leather boots.

A silver necklace hangs over his burly chest. The long black stone that hangs off the silver chain begs questions. As in: ‘So, Brock, tell us about this stone you’re wearing. Is that obsidian?’

I’ve listened to enough of his podcasts to imagine his response, too. ‘It is obsidian, good eye, good eye. Yeah, I got this from a good friend and client. We were in the Philippines. I was helping him train for a big upcoming mixed martial arts tournament. And actually, there’s a great story behind this piece…’

Then, in true Brock form, he’d launch into some captivating tale of adventure.

The public adores Brock for the workout programs he shares with the world and his clothing brand, the tales he tells on his podcast, and any show he’s a guest on.

Tales about traveling the world, mingling with celebrities, and achieving feats us mere mortals could only dream of. Tales of determination and domination. Grit and glory.

When he and Mandy are only a few feet away, I see the short scar that reaches from the outer corner of his left eyebrow to his temple.

“And I want Pete to edit the audio,” he dictates, “not that Dominic guy you hired last time. He fell short.”

“Pete on edits,” Mandy mutters as she jots notes on a tablet strapped to her hand.

“And get him to tweak the intro. I still don’t like it. I want less from Leo, more from Jordan, more from me. Cut all that banter about post-workout protein shakes at the end; we’ll put that out to fans as bonus content. I want it to wrap up with the teaser about the episode, but tell Pete to make the transition smoother.”

“Intro… tweaked.” Mandy scribbles furiously. Her shoulder brushes mine as she passes in a cloud of perfume that mingles with Brock’s cologne.

His demands continue, but I stop listening now that they’re behind me.

I’ve yet again gone unnoticed.

Relieved, I slip into the break room. When I stand by the box of donuts on the table and look out toward the door, I have a view of the elevators that will take Brock up to his fourth-floor office.

He’s on the phone now. When he laughs, it’s as big and booming as his voice. His smile is handsome in a way that’s impossible to deny. Dimples dig into his cheeks, and his brown eyes are lively.

Mandy’s shoulders are tucked up near her ears, and her eyes are pinched. The poor thing looks stressed. When she glances toward the break room door, I hold up the pink box of donuts and wiggle it.

A minute later, she shares some parting words with Brock, and then she heads my way.

“Girl, you’re an angel,” she gushes, reaching for a cruller. “I have been chasing after that man since six a.m., and I haven’t had a minute to grab sustenance. I’m about to faint.”

“I wish I could take all the credit, but I didn’t buy them. I just shared the good news.”

“Well then, someone in this company’s a thoughtful, donut-buying angel, and it isn’t Brock, I’ll tell you that much. He’s doing no-carbs again and getting ready for the GQ photoshoot. Oh, darn, that reminds me, I forgot to call them back…”

Worry lines dig into her brow as she sets down her cruller and pulls a cell from her pocket. She juggles the tablet and cell, switching back and forth as she taps messages into each.

Her voice is a reedy squeak, high with stress. “I swear, if I don’t write things down, they’re gone these days. Slip straight through the cracks! Brock’s days are chaos, go-go-go from the minute he wakes up ‘til he goes to sleep. Keeping up with him is like managing six people at the same time. I don’t know where he gets his energy. And he piles it all on me, and I’m like, dude, you need six assistants, not one. Plus, he’s asking me to do personal assistant stuff, like run his errands. Guess what he has me doing today, for example?”

“Um… pick up dry cleaning?”

“That’ll be tomorrow.” She rolls her eyes. “Yuck. I always dread that job because he’s a perfectionist about his wardrobe and always finds something wrong with whatever they return. No, today it’s a run up to his estate to find a bikini bottom and get it into the mail, Priority shipping. And he called the task ‘urgent.’ Goodness knows his date, whatever-her-name-was, can’t get back here to Windsor to pick it up herself. And, of course, she simply must have it before she jets off to Cabo later this week… These people and their ‘emergencies.’ I swear, I’m getting so sick of it, I can’t even tell you.”

The cell phone in her hands rings, interrupting her rant.

“Hang on…” She cringes when she looks at the screen. “Oh… no. No, no.Her again. Brock’s sister. Kate. Agh. They don’t get along. Well, he doesn’t get along with her. For her part, she wants to be this close.” She crosses her fingers to show me as the phone continues to jangle. “I just don’t see why she insists on calling me multiple times a day. I’ve told her—I pass her messages along. It’s not my fault Brock won’t call her back.”

I fill my coffee cup as she answers the phone, then pour a mug for her.

“Does he know you feel overworked?” I ask once she gets off the line. I extend the mug to her.

She sips gratefully, much like I did when Lizzy extended the same offering. Here in the office, caffeine is our love language.

“I can’t tell him that, Gwen. You know I can’t tell him that. You know how much he expects of us.”

She’s right.

Brock Benson makes his high standards for the staff known via weekly inspiration videos in our inboxes each Wednesday morning—complete with a soundtrack, nifty editing, and action tips.

The videos feature our CEO in all his glory—usually sweaty, with some kind of post-workout glow—delivering words about hard work, enthusiasm, and taking life by the horns.

Living every day to the fullest. Taking action. Going above and beyond.

That kind of motivational mumbo jumbo seems to work for him, given that he’s as fit as a pro athlete and owns a multi-million dollar company.

Now that I think of it, those video messages must take a lot of work to produce.

Work I suspect Mandy’s been tasked with managing, behind the scenes.

“It sounds like you think he’s asking too much of you,” I say.

She’s practically inhaling the donut now in her hands. With her mouth full, she moans. “Sugar, I love you. I really, really do.”

She washes the bites down with coffee and then gives me a pleading, desperate look. “The thing about Brock is, he never sits. You know? Like he’ll go for a run first thing in the morning, then work out, and then pace all over the place, going from here to there. It never stops. Never. I am so stressed. No?—”

She shakes her head, stuffs the rest of the donut between her lips, and chews frantically. “Stressed doesn’t even begin to?—”

The phone in her hand rings loudly again.

Her petite, narrow shoulders jerk up toward her ears in a flinch. Coffee sloshes out onto the sleeve of her white blouse. “I swear, I want to drop this thing into a garbage disposal and see what happens.”

We both wait until the ringing stops.

Even I’m beginning to dislike the sound, and I’m in no way responsible for the problems on the other end of each call. Thank heavens.

She frowns down at the phone like she’s calculating how best to destroy it. “I even hear this thing ringing in my dreams,” she grumbles. “My brain is traumatized.”

“I know what you mean. Only, I’m haunted by linoleum these days.”

“Linoleum?”

I wave the question off. “It’s a long story.”

A long story that involves a trip to the hardware store that my brother bailed on, a poor estimate of the surface area of a kitchen floor by math-challenged moi, and a feeling of dread that I way over-purchased.

I should have measured.

I don’t have money in my budget for mistakes like that.

“What am I going to do, Gwen?” Mandy asks.

“You need to prioritize your happiness.” In a flash, I realize I’m doling out life advice that I really should be listening to myself. “You have to put yourself first at least once in a while, Mandy. He should give you breaks, for one thing. You can’t help anyone else if you’re bone dry on inner resources, frazzled to the max. It’s like that saying about the plane and the oxygen tubing.”

She scrunches her brow. “Plane… plane… Why did that word just make my stomach drop? Oh, shoot.” Her eyes grow wide. “Plane tickets! I was supposed to call Leo’s PA, Tate, with the details after booking Brock’s flight… I totally forgot…”

She grabs the tablet she abandoned on the table and swipes at the screen frantically. Then, while staring at the tablet screen, she texts on the cell phone, muttering aloud as she goes: “Tate, touching base with you regarding… Florida, March… first class flight… eleven a.m. from Boston Logan International…”

She glances up at me with a frown. “Oh my gosh, Tate will freak out that I didn’t get him this info earlier. He knows as well as I do that Brock and Leo like to travel together. I really screwed this up. Give me a minute while I get this message out. Sorry.”

“No problem. Sounds important.”

I again wait, and when I spot tears gathering in her eyes, I resist the urge to take the phone from her. When she finishes tapping the screen, I step in and wrap my arms around her in a hug. “Mandy, if it’s this bad, you have to talk to him.”

“He won’t understand. He’s a monster, Gwen. No, an Energizer Bunny. No, an Energizer Monster… I don’t think that’s even a thing. Is that a thing?”

“Not a thing.”

“I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re balancing a lot of things. It’s understandable. This will pass… What can I do to help?”

“Can you go back in time six months and warn me not to work for him?”

“Time travel is not my area of expertise.”

“Drat.”

“Now, if you have questions about the Epic Elevate Digital Home Gym package, fire away. I bet I could answer any question you aim my way and arrange to have an order shipped out to you, pronto.”

She gives me a half smile. “Thanks.”

“Maybe you should talk to him. You said you can’t, but beneath all the demands and high energy, he’s human like the rest of us, and he does have a heart.”

“He does? Are you sure? I’ve never seen evidence of that.” She takes a jagged breath, and more tears snake out. “He never says thank you, Gwen. He never asks me how I’m doing. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s an ego-maniac…”

She sniffs and wipes tears from her eyes. “I mean, I have my own things I want to do, and tending to all his needs day after day after day… it’s, like, degrading, in a way. Demoralizing. I’m losing myself.”

“Walk back to my desk with me.” I gesture toward the door. “Lizzy’s over there, and I bet she’ll have some great thoughts to share about your situation.”

Mandy fights back more tears and nods. “Thanks. This is—this is helping.”

The donut box has over a dozen glazed, powdered, twisted, and hole-adorned treats left on offer. I load a napkin with a chocolate-glazed for me, a raspberry-filled for Lizzy, and another cruller for Mandy.

Then, I usher the still-tearful assistant toward my desk. But, when we reach it, she doesn’t sit down for the woman-to-woman, comforting, Monday-morning gabfest I expect.

Instead of greeting Lizzy, she lifts her chin. “I think Gwen is right,” she announces. She swipes a few tears from her eyes with the edge of her finger and sniffs.

“Morning, Mandy,” Lizzy replies. “Gwen is right about many things, usually in an unconventional way. What’s she onto this time?”

I hand Mandy a tissue.

She blots her eyes with it, then tosses the damp Kleenex into the little wastebasket by my desk. “It’s time for me to move on.”

Wait… Did I say that?

I didn’t.

I said she should talk to Brock, not move on.

I open my mouth, a gentle redirect in mind, but Mandy speaks before I can. “I quit.” Then, she lobs the cell phone into the trash can by my desk. She piles the tablet on top of it, and it lands with a clatter.

When I peer down at the devices in the wastebasket, a feeling of dread stirs in my belly. These shiny new electronics look very out of place here by my desk.

That darn phone will ring again.

I’ve always had a strong sense of intuition, and right now, an inner part of me is piping up with words of warning: This means trouble.

This cell phone in my trash is not good.

Not good at all. Same goes for the tablet.

What will happen when Brock learns about this? He’ll be upset, for sure. How upset, I don’t know.

I only know, deep in my bones, that this Monday morning is trending toward disastrous.