Count to three. Do not kill your boss.
And do not fall in love with him.
That's a good start, especially when you work for New York's most eligible bachelor with millions in one pocket and half of Manhattan's panties in the other. Not to mention tho...
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"Table for two, yes," I confirm into the speaker. "Brandon Knox." I trace a little square I drew on a pink post-it. "Uh-hum, yes. Eight thirty, tomorrow." I draw a circle into the square. "Great, thank you. Bye." I smile even though the guy on the line can't see me and hang up.
Greg shakes his head and spins in Amy's chair. "You could add a professional matchmaker to your resume, with the number of dates you've already arranged for him."
"With the number of women he's been with, more like a pimp."
Greg chuckles. He stops spinning, a sudden spark in his eyes. "Have you ever had to arrange, like, you know... some other things for him?"
"Like what?"
He rolls his eyes. "I don't know. Like some Fifty Shades kind of things."
"What? Of course not! Jesus."
"What? I wouldn't be surprised. He looks like he could be into some kinky shit, with his strictness and all."
I scrunch my face and shake my head at his suggestion. I'm so not going down that path. Instead, I return to my notes for tomorrow morning meeting. The office room is dark, lit only by a lamp on my table. Every normal person is already at home, after dinner, sitting in front of the TV, mentally preparing for the last workday of the week. What a life that must be.
"He's handsome," Greg states matter-of-factly, watching the ceiling. "Women are totally into him. I bet that if he asked them to do something nasty, they would be thrilled to oblige."
"Uh-huh." I go through another folder on my laptop. Where the hell is the address?
"They probably wouldn't even hesitate."
"Sure." Damn it. Parker said it was in the file.
"They'd just go for it. You know, like right to lick his ass."
"Oh my god!" I smash my pen on the table and give Greg a disgusted glare. "Ass licking?! Seriously? What's wrong with you?"
Someone clears their throat, snapping our gazes to the doorway. Mr. Knox is standing there, glancing between Greg and me with a deep, deep frown.
I'm sure my face is as white as the office walls. It must be distinct even in the near darkness. Definitely distinct when Mr. Knox reaches for the light switch and the light in the room is quickly recovered.
Greg shoots to his feet so fast he nearly trips over one of the wheeled legs of the office chair, his eyes the size of a watermelon. He swallows audibly. "Mr. Knox."
The man in the question stabs him with a look. Then takes his time to shift his gaze to me. Gone is his usual stoic expression, in its place is a clearly displeased one.
