Like a Boss - Chapter One
*For readers 18+*
*Contains sexual languages and scenes that may make you squirm*
Chapter One
My ass is numb. I wish there was a more fun, mildly kinkier excuse as to why. Unfortunately, it’s only a sure sign that I haven’t moved much in God knows how long. I should stretch, but that would require standing. No way in hell would I let Lyra, my cunt of a boss, catch me doing that. She’s been on high alert since finding out that the new CEO of ARC Industries LTD is on his way to our office. We have to be on our best behavior, and that includes no taking breaks, no leaving our tiny, impersonal cubicles, and no breathing whatsoever. She expects us to be chained to our desks till death claims us…and our numb asses.
Palms flat on the edge of my desk, I lift one bum cheek at a time to get some kind of feeling back into them. Nothing. “Screw this shit,” I mumble, a little too loudly, and Sheila, my cubicle-partner, sends me a terrified look through her glasses.
Struggling to pull down the hem of my skirt, which had ridden up my thighs nearly high enough to show off my purple thong, I stand up. I hate this skirt. “It’ll make your ass look great, Talia,” my roommate had said when we’d spotted this fuchsia pencil skirt at Carson’s. The hell it does. It’s so tight I had to waddle to work this morning. Why I listened to her is beyond me. Good thing I have enough smarts to keep the tag on. Now, I only have to make sure that I don’t rip the damn thing so I can return it. What it does, though—paired with a round-necked white top, blazer, and the sexiest shoes I own—is make me look like I belong in this office. For good measure, I’d added my nerd chic glasses. The glasses are strictly for fashion.
Don’t be fooled by the company name. ARC Industries is full of creative types. My department has over twenty interior designers and architects. I’m one of the lucky ladies who takes care of the designers’ needs and wants, although I’m still a temp. I aim to remedy that. This week, I’m assigned to Ingrid. She happens to be the best in the industry, a young ingenue who appreciates her subordinates shedding blood and tears to make her life a little bit easier—unlike my supervisor, Lyra.
“Is there a problem here?”
Speak of the she-devil.
Accidental flashing averted, and blood rushing back to my legs and feet, I turn to her, letting a slow smile spread across my face. “Nope. No problem, Lyra. Just stretching.” For added effect, I raise my arms over my head, pushing the tips of my fingers to the ceiling. My crop top rides higher. My tits part my jacket lapels.
Her gaze travels down my smart and sexy outfit. She raises her over-plucked brows, and chuckles once. Yeah, I bet I can figure out what she’s thinking. I drop my hands to my sides and regard her the same way. Today she’s wearing a body con dress and almost the same cut jacket (I suspect hers is real leather and not bought during a super sale). She wears nothing but black—like her soul. And she’s never been quiet about why a size sixteen like me should not wear anything remotely close to what I’m wearing today. Boss or no boss, if she says anything about me wearing a cropped top, I’ll smack her so hard the cleaners will have to peel her ass off the ceiling.
Chin up, I channel my inner Eastwood and silently urge, “Go ahead, bitch, make my day.”
Her assistant comes scurrying toward us as Lyra opens her mouth. Penny shoves a file at her and asks her to sign, saying, “They want you upstairs.”
“Now?” Lyra has one volume: super loud.
Penny literally cowers. Poor girl, I think she’s about to piss her pants. Clutching the file to her chest, Penny nods.
“What would this place do without me?” Lyra flicks her envy-inducing blonde hair over one shoulder.
Before she leaves, she drags her snake eyes back on me. “Don’t waste the company’s time. Need I remind you that you’re still on probation, Tanya?”
Oh yeah, that’s another reason why I hate this bitch. She never remembers my name. I’d stopped correcting Lyra after day five and resorted to calling her colourful names in my head.
“Wouldn’t think of it.” I add an extra oomph to my smile but remain standing.
“Why do you have to push her?” Sheila asks when Lyra is out of hearing distance. Her fingers continue to tap on the keys even though she’s nervously staring at me.
Hand to hip, I shrug. “Bitch is as bitch does.” Sheila presses her lips together and shakes her head.
“Relax. She has to be on her best behaviour today too. We’re not the only ones under observation.”
Eyes back on her screen, Sheila counters, “Speak for yourself, you don’t have three kids to feed.” Her shoulders slump forward, and she juts her head, adjusting her glasses, to focus on the document she’s working on.
I feel bad. Despite what other people might think, I do have a heart, and no, it's not black or made of ice. I care. I don’t want anyone to get into trouble, much less a sweet single mom like Sheila. Without saying another word, I sit back down and focus on work.
My tiny desk clock ticks another second. Two more hours and it’s lunch time. I hope the new owner doesn’t show up before then. Like any other human, I think and behave better when my stomach is full. I would head to the kitchen for a cup of joe, but again, Lyra could be slithering back any minute now.
Only the department heads, architects, and designers have met ARC’s new CEO, having been invited to his penthouse for a meet-and-greet two weeks ago. Lyra hadn’t stopped talking about it, and she hadn’t shut up about how gorgeous our new boss is. Considering her last boyfriend was a fifty-two year old accountant with a bad case of shit-breath and a prominent potbelly, meant nothing to me.
People like Penny, Sheila and I only know our new CEO by name: Mr. Solomon. But word’s out that his takeover was textbook hostile. There are even rumours that he’s famous for cutting jobs. Words like ‘restructuring’, ‘reduction in workforce’, and ‘strategic planning’ pop up in daily conversations, which doesn’t bode well for a temp like me. On a positive note, Ingrid loves me and thinks I’m hilarious. My job is safe as long as I keep her coffee warm and lactose-free, and supply her with the dirty jokes she just can’t get enough of. Thank you, Reddit!
At a quarter to taco time, Ingrid pops into my twobicle with a huge smile on her pretty face. We’re the same age, but where she managed to get a Fine Arts degree from Columbia, I quit Interior Design at The Art Institute when my ex, Derek, and I decided to focus on getting his career off the ground first. I also didn’t have her cushiony trust fund, but I couldn’t fault her for that. People don't choose which lifestyle they’re born to.
“Hey, ladies,” Ingrid says. Sheila and I perk up. “How are my two favourite people?”
“Not bad,” Sheila replies, straightening in her chair.
“Starving.” I pat my half-exposed belly.
Ingrid throws her head back and laughs like a frickin’ angel. I kid you not. Do they teach rich kids how to laugh like bells in charm school? “You’re so funny, Talia.”
I am telling the truth, but whatever. Like I said, she thinks I’m full of hilariousness. “What can we do for you?” Elbow on desk, I prop my chin on one upturned hand, and move my glasses onto my head.
“I need the contract for the complex on Superior. Check to see if we received the permits for the new restaurant on Randolph. Make sure they delivered the blueprints for the Muir’s condo, and please—” Ingrid presses her palms together in front of her chest “—please do not forget the all-hands meeting after lunch. I think Teddy is on his way.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I lean back in my chair, readjusting my glasses. “Who’s Teddy?”
Ingrid steps into our cramped cubicle and leans her tiny tush against my desk. She eyes me up and down. “Cute outfit. I love.”
“Thanks. I love your shoes.” This is part of our daily interaction, pointing out what we like that the other is wearing, which forces me to constantly up my clothing game. Ingrid has effortless style.
Consistently elegant, boho chic.
She crosses her skinny ankles. “Teddy. He’ll get mad if he hears me call him that. I guess you guys know him as Theodore Solomon.”
Theodore? Seriously? I hold off a snort. The image of a sixty-year-old, fat guy in a suit with three struggling hairs on his head, dances in my head. “Oh, you guys are on a pet-name basis?” Waggling my brows, I smile wickedly at her. As sweet and beautiful as Ingrid is, she hasn’t had any luck with men. I also suspect she has daddy issues and could very well be involved with an older man, like Teddy. “Is there something we should know?”
Ingrid laughs again and slaps me on the arm. “You’re so funny. Pet name basis.” She straightens to her full height and brushes her dress with her hands. “Well, I’ll let you girls get back to work before Lyra comes back.”
“I’ll have the contract on your desk and all your biddings done before I head out for lunch,” I tell her, noting that she didn’t answer my question about her and Teddy.
When I drop the file on Ingrid’s desk a while later, she’s on the phone with one of her clients. I stick a post-it note where she needs to sign and head to my office BFF, Bryde, who works for a hunky architect we call Mr. Yum behind his sexy back. Like Sheila, who I left still glued on her screen, Bryde is hunched over her desk, adjusting and readjusting her glasses on her nose.
I knock once on her desk, causing her to jump. “It’s taco time. Let’s go.”
“Christ, Talia!” Bryde slaps her palm over her chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” She returns her attention to the screen, clicking open a browser for an airline. Looks like Mr. Yum is going on another trip.
“Sorry, but it’s taco time.” The carpeted floor silences the tapping of my foot.
“Can’t.” She doesn’t take her focus away from the computer. “Henrik just asked me to rearrange his trips so I’m having lunch al desko.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s Taco Tuesday! And don’t you want to see if that cute guy from last week returns?”
Bryde continues to keep her eyes on the monitor, clicking on her mouse. “Can’t. Busy.”
“Fine. I’m starving. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“’kay. Hey…”
I raise a brow at her.
“Don’t be late. I heard this Solomon guy is big on punctuality.”
I huff and roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll be back.”
“I’m serious. Have a taco for me. Bye.”
***
The universe has colluded to get me fired and angry today. Not only am I late returning from lunch, there’s taco sauce on my new, still-has-the-tag-on skirt. As I try to rush back to the office in my too-tight skirt, a car nearly runs me down, screeching to a stop inches away from my legs. I slam my palm on the hood and scream profanities at the careless driver hiding behind the heavily-tinted windows. And because I’m having such a wonderful moment, I flip him the bird before stepping onto the sidewalk and racing into the building.
The elevator banks are lined with people in no rush. To make matters worse, I have to fight my way inside one of them since one car is out of order.
Huffing and puffing and sweaty as hell, I finally sneak into the conference room stuffed with every single ARC employee. I slide next to Bryde. Her eyes widen and she mouths, “What the hell happened?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Some fucker almost ran me over, and look what happened to my skirt! Great. Now it looks like a Rorschach test.” I point at the spot on my lap. I lick my thumb and rub at the stain. Absently, I continue yapping, “Did the boss man show up yet? Is he bald, fat and ugly like we thought?”
It takes a few synapses firing in my brain for me to realize that the entire room has gone silent, now being filled by murmurs, throat-clearings, and snickers. I let go of the bright fabric and glance around. Bet your ass all eyes were on me, including the unimpressed gaze of one hot-as-hell man in an impeccable navy blue suit that shouts ‘I own this shit.’ The intensity in those eyes causes me to step back, hitting the floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind me.
For once in my adult life, I am speechless. Theodore Solomon, although bald, is neither fat nor ugly. He is a piece of six-foot-five goodness that I’m willing to climb any time. For a minute or so he holds my gaze. I keep my back flat against the wall, which effectively pushes out my tatas. Any warm-blooded man would be mesmerized by my tits, but not this one. His jaw tenses, and I swear he’s about to ask me to walk to the front of the room, pull my skirt up, and spank me in front of the entire staff. If I’m being honest, I wouldn’t object. The thought wets the tiny piece of fabric covering my pussy. Then he pulls his gaze away and continues to address the room.
I relax, sagging against the wall, and look sideways at Bryde, who appears even more scared than me, and then across the large table to Lyra, who looks like she’s about to lose her shit. Mr. Theodore Solomon talks about what the restructuring plan means for all of us, but he doesn’t mention cutting jobs. We are safe, for now. Well, not me. I’m pretty sure I’ll get a pink slip before this day ends. I better figure out how to get the stain out of my skirt so I can wear it for job interviews before I get a refund for it.
As mesmerizing as Mr. Solomon’s subtlely accented voice was, I couldn’t concentrate any longer. I calculate the amount left in my depleting savings account and how I can make it last until I land another temp position. I highly doubt Lyra will give me a glowing reference, but Ingrid might. If push comes to shove, the taco place is hiring. My stomach gurgles at the thought of getting paid in tacos and wearing that god-awful forest green apron their underpaid staff wears. Oh God, and they all wear hairnets! I absently fiddle with my dark brown curls while I swallow this information.
A nudge to my ribs brings my attention back to the room. Bryde subtly nods her chin and pushes me toward the door. I guess the meeting is over. I’ll have to text her later for any important info I’ve missed—not that it’s going to matter after I get my ass booted. My aforementioned ass is almost out the door when someone calls my name. Bryde and I turn and see Lyra’s devilish smirk.
“Mr. Solomon would like a word with you,” Lyra says. Her pointy chin lifts. Smug bitch.
Widening my eyes, I send an SOS signal to Bryde, even though she can’t do a thing. “Pray for me,” I ask her as I pivot back and stop at the end of the conference table. Luckily, Lyra isn’t the only one who stays behind. Mr. Yum and Ingrid talk amicably with the dapper CEO. There’s a weird pinch in my belly as I watch Ingrid touch Mr. Solomon’s upper arm, and I recall our earlier conversation. Her hand stays on his biceps, and she leans in and whispers something in his ear. His impressive broad shoulders relax, and one corner of his mouth twitches into a small smile, a secret smile only meant for Ingrid. Yeah, if they’re not banging yet, they will be soon. That pinch intensifies in my gut.
Henrik extends his hand to Mr. Solomon. “Anything else you need, just ask.”
“Have the blueprints ready for the new shopping centre. I intend to check in with each designer and architect before the week ends,” Mr. Solomon tells him, and the men shake hands. He reaches for Ingrid, placing a large hand on her tiny waist, and quickly kisses her cheek. “See you in a bit.”
“Be nice.” She pats his shoulder, and then smiles over at me. Henrik and Ingrid walk past me, and she touches my arm. I don’t care for it. It’s meant to soothe me because she knows I’m getting fired. “Good luck, Talia,” Ingrid mumbles.
I nod and glance down on my pretty shoes. Hell, there’s taco sauce on them too.
“You may leave now too, Lyra.” Mr. Solomon’s booming voice takes my attention away from my shoes. Lyra pops open her mouth to protest, but she shuts it just as quickly, and the smirk returns on her sour face. “Have all current bids and proposals at my desk before the day’s done.”
“Yes, Theo.” Head held high, she click-clacks her way out of the conference room.
Struggling not to fiddle with my skirt or my hair, I wait for the shitstorm that's about to rain down on me. Mr. Solomon closes the door behind Lyra, then takes a seat at the head of the rectangular table. The chair groans underneath his weight. Its wide back barely matches the broadness of his shoulders. He unbuttons his suit jacket, and the panels slide back, exposing a crisp white shirt and a plain, dark blue, skinny tie. His impeccable manner, the way he carries himself—relaxed, yet powerful and authoritative—and the fact that he wears what could be a real diamond tiepin should impress me, but something else catches my attention.
Underneath those sleek navy trousers is one hell of an impressive boner.
What’s more shocking though is that he doesn’t seem to be hiding it. Mr. Solomon is proud of not-so-little Solomon straining at his zipper. I catch a moan between my teeth, and tamp down any notion that his hard-on is for me. After all, he and Ingrid were all over each other just moments ago.
“Sit.” Even though his voice is low, barely audible, it has a commanding tone.
On your lap? I want to ask, but I shake my head instead, saying, “I’d rather stand.” If he’s going to fire me, I’d prefer staying on my feet, and escape quickly after he’s done with whatever he wants to say.
I hold my chin high, defiant, proud, and our gazes lock once more. There’s a twitch in his jaw, and somehow that calms my nerves. Maybe he’s as uncomfortable as I am.
“I don’t tolerate tardiness, Miss—”
“Talia. Talia Newman,” I supply.
“Well, Miss Talia Newman, I’m a busy man, and I still manage to make it to all my meetings on time.”
I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to be late. I had an incident at the tac—at lunch and well, this—” I wave my hand at the dildo-shaped taco stain. “And some guy tried to run over me.”
“He didn’t try to run you over. You were jay-walking.”
What the friggin’ hell? “How did you—” My hands fly to my hips, but I check my attitude and drop them down again.
Theodore Solomon glances over his shoulder at the windows. “I saw the whole thing.”
“You could see me from all the way up here?” It’s possible. We’re only twenty floors up. Also, it’s not hard to spot my fuchsia skirt from afar. People on Mars could see it.
He returns his gaze to me and rubs his angular jaw. “I see all.”
Whatever the fuck that means. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the effect of his stare. He looks like he could swallow me whole. His tongue, darting out between his lips, catches my attention. That simple action’s effect on me is instantaneous. I might as well take off my panties, as they’ve become soaked and uncomfortable. His words take on a whole different meaning. Can he see me tremble under his gaze? Can he see me squirm? Can he see my heart beating hard enough to rip through my ribcage?
I swallow to push down the lump in my throat and find my voice again. “Is there anything else, Mr. Solomon?” A lap dance? Some head? I mentally roll my eyes at myself. He’s with Ingrid. Daddy issues or not, they make a better couple than he and I ever would.
“That’s all, Miss Newman. And please, call me Theo. If you'd been on time, you would know that I prefer an informal greeting.” We stare each other down for a few seconds more until I falter under the heat of his fiery gaze. Powerful. I'm drawn to it. Then my eyes drop to his hand, which blatantly adjusts his erection. Fuck. Turning away, I quietly release a ragged breath, and show him my second-best assets before walking toward the door.
I add an extra sway in my hips. He may be unavailable, but my second name is Flirt, and I’m not always afforded a chance to do this to a hunky boss. He’ll have to get used to me ogling him every now and then too. The chair creaks behind me, and in no time at all, he’s standing beside me, hand on the door’s handle, on top of mine. This close, I see the gold flecks in his light brown eyes and get a whiff of the mint on his breath. This close, the warmth of his body sharpens his manly scent.
A surge of current sizzles up my arms, and spreads throughout my nerve endings. My nipples tighten. My pussy lips tingle. I watch his Adam’s apple rise and fall. His lush lips call to me. I inch forward, holding my breath.
Mr. Solomon—Theo—the hot bastard that he is, slides his hand away from mine and pushes open the door, causing me to lose my balance. Instead of my lips falling on his, I fall. My non-prescription glasses skitter across the hallway. When I hear an audible rip of fabric, I automatically slap my hands on my hips and ass.
I might be imagining things, but I’m pretty sure I hear a groan behind me, followed by, “Shit, are you all right?” Large hands reach down to help me up.
I rarely blush, but this moment is too embarrassing not to make me redden. Pushing his hands away, I gather my bearings and make it upright. My hand returns to my behind, where there is now a lovely tear on my skirt, and I raise the other one to stop him. “Please, you’ve done enough.”
He picks up my glasses, and I snatch them away as he explains, “My hand slipped.”
Is he fucking kidding me?
Eyebrows up to my hairline, I shoot him an unimpressed look, and my hackles rise when the corners of his lips quirk. He’s fucking laughing at me. Bastard. I narrow my eyes, itching to choke him with his skinny tie. He tugs at his jacket lapels and buttons up. If he says anything else, I’ll stab him with his tiepin.
Theo clears his throat. “Send me the bill for when you get your skirt repaired.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. And embarrass myself more? Silver lining: at least now he can’t fire me.
Somehow I make my way back to my workstation without further embarrassing myself, but only then do I feel the pain in my jaw from grinding my teeth.
“Are you okay?” Momentarily, I don’t realize Sheila is asking me the question.
“Yeah, all good. Not fired.” I give her a thumbs up and thank the heavens that my chair has full back coverage, and I won’t have to explain what happened to my skirt to Sheila or anyone else who passes by. All that's left is to figure out how to get out of here at quitting time with what’s left of my dignity still intact.
I must say, after three months of working for this company, this has to be one of the most exciting afternoons yet. Reaching for my phone, I make a note to Google Theodore Solomon. I’m not entirely sure, but I suspect Lyra has access to all our computers and any searches we make. I can’t risk letting her know I'm curious about the new boss. Dropping my phone back into my purse, I ponder at my own thoughts. Am I interested in the new CEO? If so, why? Aside from the obvious—hot, rich and hung like a horse—he’s not my type. According to my dating history, I prefer cheaters who are constantly broke, which is why I’ve had a dry spell for months.
No, I must get him out of my head. Nothing good will come of it. I look over to my right where Ingrid sits at her desk, poised like a princess on her throne. Even the way she thinks, tapping her pen on her chin, is elegant. Can’t compete with that. There’s no sense mulling about Theo anymore.
With a deep inhale, I am convinced I’m cleansed of all carnal thoughts pertaining to Theodore Solomon, CEO of ARC Industries LTD, sharp dresser, and one sexy ass bastard with a big cock.
~~~END OF CHAPTER ONE~~~
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