2. Rosay #2
I'm frozen as I stare at the offending device, unsure if there's a possibility that I'm actually in a coma.
Did I somehow get run over on my way leaving work today?
Was my speed dating fiasco and the ensuing conversation with my family about my fake fiancé just a fever dream while I'm hooked up to a bunch of machines in the hospital?
"Rosay," Graham grates through my speaker. My traitorous nipples perk at the strained timbre of his voice.
“Let me call you right back,” I yell, scrambling for a sports bra as I hang up on him.
Spots dance in my vision from how hard blood pumps through my veins. What did I do to deserve this? What ancient deity did I piss off that wants to exact its revenge via naked embarrassment?
Embarrassment must be my middle name today.
I pace the room, gnawing on my bottom lip as if it’ll help me calm down.
Graham is an outside hire, not someone I’ve worked with for years.
Sure, I give him shit and don’t let him run over me, but that’s only because the board loves me.
Well, they love my diverse range of investments and the fact that I can manage a large team while still bringing in new clients.
But none of that would matter if Graham decided to use this against me, to say that I was inappropriate with him in some way.
My feet wear down the carpet, and I could swear there’s an elephant sitting on my chest. Get it together, girl.
I force a few deep inhalations then snatch a shirt from my closet and slide it over my head.
A quick unwrap of the towel releases my lustrous pink hair, and I smile at the renewed vibrancy. At least one thing went right tonight.
Once I’m calmed down and sorted, I FaceTime him.
"Rosay," he repeats, sighing loudly through the speaker as if the fact that he had to wait for me to call him back has made him even more annoyed by the situation.
Pissed off he's not only interrupting my evening but also that he's frustrated at me for taking a moment to gather myself, I bark, "What? Why did you video call me?"
Chill out, I remind myself as I grab the phone and sit back on my pillows, mortified as I wait for him to speak. His dark brown hair fills the screen, and when he looks up, he's pinching the bridge of his nose as if it's taking everything in him not to sling a snarky reply back.
"Do you always answer the phone half-naked? "
I don’t even have to see him to know his face is pulled into a judgmental scowl.
Annoyed, I slide my tongue along my teeth, brewing up a scathing remark about him assuming I was only half-naked.
The retort dies on my tongue when I see the muscle in his jaw flex.
He may be an uptight dickhead, but he's still my boss.
The one I just flashed and could probably have me fired for sexual harassment.
"Was there something I can help you with, sir?” I ask, infusing my voice with fake sugar.
"Why haven't you responded to my emails?" His forehead bunches, creating a little divot between his eyebrows.
"Uh...because it's nine-thirty on a Friday night?"
His disappointed sigh makes my stomach knot. I've worked for Thompson for more than six years, climbing my way up from the entry-level position my dad’s friend got me into, and with a promotion on the horizon, I probably shouldn't piss off my grumpy boss.
Even if I’d rather be drawing up lesson plans for tutoring students than advising magnates on how to manage their immense wealth.
He ignores my snarky reply, head down as he scribbles on a notepad, not deeming me important enough for eye contact—which begs the question of why he chose to video call me.
"I need you to compile a list of potential clients in the areas of agriculture, tech, and media that we haven't reached out to in the last five years. "
"You have entry-level employees for that." I prop the phone between my knees, braiding my hair as he continues ignoring me. “Still doesn’t explain why you needed to video call me instead of a regular call.”
It's no wonder he's still single. Women might worship the ground Graham walks on, but everyone knows he's only good for a fun time in the sack. At least, that's what all the tabloids said about him years ago when he hit the Forbes list and broke off his engagement to his heiress girlfriend.
"Yeah, well it wasn't the entry-level employees who broke my five-thousand-dollar Xerox machine, now was it?
" His gaze lifts to mine and his nostrils flare, highlighting the slope of his nose.
I could swear he's assessing me in a way that is not as business-like as it should be.
His tongue darts out, sliding along a full bottom lip.
“Seriously?” I say with a caustic tone. “It was an A.C.C.I.D.E.N.T.”
He ignores me, then a screen share request comes through on the call. Graham walks me through the spreadsheet he’s looking at and the market research he’s already finished before saying, "Have it ready by Monday morning."
The screen goes dark, and I'm left wondering what the hell just happened.