Boss of Me

Chapter Two

        Out of my periphery, I see him plant a tanned fist on my desk. His sleeve is rolled up, showcasing the expensive Rolex on his right wrist. Don't ask me why I'm so distracted by the fine dusting of hair on his forearm and not his looming, suit-clad presence.

        "A word, Summer," he all but growls. Quiet irritation enters his voice, making it razor-sharp.

        I nod, incapable of formulating a response. For someone who had no trouble articulating themselves five minutes ago, it's embarrassing how quickly I've reneged on having it out with him. I'd be more than happy to pack up the things on my desk and be on my way quietly, minus the uncomfortable conversation I expect we're about to have.

        The office is uncharacteristically silent, so I'm confident everyone's watching us, wide-eyed and enthralled. I bet Debbie, who works in the finance department, is about to microwave popcorn on everyone's behalf. This will satiate her need for gossip for the next fiscal year, I'm sure.

        Mr. Griffin extracts himself from my desk, and I swallow hard, realising what's just happened. He's summoned me into his office.

        Why? What can't he say out here in front of my co-workers?

        Maybe he's kinder than I gave him credit for. Maybe he wants to save me the eternal humiliation.

        I tell myself that he's just being nice for the first time in . . . well, ever, as I climb to my feet and follow him. My legs feel like jelly, and I'm sweating everywhere, but I make it into his office and close the door behind me without keeling over. A miracle.

        I think back to the documentary Zac and I binge-watched last week, which was all about testing the capabilities and limits of the human body. When put under immense physical and psychological pressure, we truly are incredible. Something I'm learning first hand as I walk further into his office.

        His back is to me, hands shoved deep in his slack pockets, and he stares out of the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows. He doesn't say anything for the longest time.

        I wiggle my toes nervously, needing to feel somewhat tethered to my body.

        The view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge is world class from his office, and I take a second to admire it, to will the churning, dark waters of the bay to calm me.

        Soon, I'll be on the ferry, returning to my apartment, nursing a glass of Lauren's homemade kombucha on the couch and trying to convince myself this day never happened. I picture myself being hugged by my roommates later, hearing them whisper that they're proud of me, and emotion builds in my throat.

        "I thought we understood each other," Max Griffin says eventually.

        I blink once and then twice. My brain is misfiring. "Sorry?"

        "I'm confused, Summer," he answers without delay, like he's practised this speech. The anger radiating from him before, at my desk, has left him, and it's replaced by an emotion I don't recognise. "Because I thought you enjoyed working here. Not once did you express that you were unhappy . . . at least not to me. We have the feedback box in the staffroom. You know we do because it was your idea to set it up. Every Monday morning, I read them, and I never received a note from you."

        I shift my weight, not knowing how to respond to that.

        I had no idea he even went through the suggestion box, but I stay silent. He's right. More regret, and something that feels close to guilt, surges through me. My arms instinctively fold across my chest.

        "I'm sorry. I realise how unprofessional and inappropriate my email was," I tell him, needing to ease the pressure that's currently clamping down on all my vital organs—even just a little. While I was both gutted and furious that he'd expected me to work for him this weekend, knowing full well I had a holiday booked, I should've just told him no. That was the simple solution. But I'm a yes-person, and it's always been my Achilles heel. Maybe it's my fault for allowing him to think that I'd sacrifice and do things for him with no expiration date. "I feel terrible, and I wish I could take it back. If it's any consolation, I only meant to send it to you, not everyone else in the office. I clicked the—"

        "Please, stop talking." His voice is imploring, soft. I'm used to exasperated, stern, abrupt—everything but this. He sounds . . . defeated and sad, and there's nothing about it that makes me feel victorious. Nothing at all.

        "I've thought about how to handle this, Summer. Maybe I should just let HR deal with it." The threat sounds hollow, empty. The next part, not so much: "Maybe I should tell you to go fuck yourself."

        His tone, paired with the words that have just come out of his mouth—fuck and you—send blood thundering through my veins.

        He turns to face me, and our gazes find each other instantly, then hold. For a nanosecond, I forget that he's my boss, that I can hardly stand being in the same room as this man—why I went far out of my way to avoid him most days.

        More silence presses down on us. Everything in the world slows.

        Christ, he's attractive.

        It's an alien, intrusive thought—one I haven't had in months. As much as I might loathe him today, when I'd first introduced myself as his new PA, the dirty thoughts had been frequent and difficult to tune out. I mean, I've devoured my fair share of office romances in my twenty-six years. I can admit I harboured some naïve and stupid fantasies about Mr. Griffin, but they didn't last long. They couldn't. His cold, callous nature had quickly overshadowed his beauty—his tall, muscular frame and dark, angular features. No level of good-looking could outperform a shit personality. Everyone knew that. Eventually, it became all I saw. The attraction was snuffed out, leaning into repulsion, if I was being honest, and I was cured. No longer plagued with inappropriate (and insane) feelings or thoughts about him. And that had been working out well for me.

        Until now.

        Whatever crawls between us is alive and beating, a tangible thing.

        What is going on here?

        Surely, I'm not the only one who feels this.

        "Both options are not why you're in my office, though," he continues, and I exhale in a rush. I hate that he's affecting me. I know better. Besides, nothing he says is going to change my mind. I'm still quitting; never stepping foot in this office again.

        "Okay," I say, completely lost.

        He looks away, blowing out a breath, before returning his attention to me. His expression—so open and vulnerable—makes my stomach flip upside down. "I, uh, wanted to say thank you."

        And, just like that, Mr. Griffin sounds boyish, almost unsure of himself, and it catches me off guard because he's ten years older than me. He's always wielding his power in the office, making everyone around him feel inferior. Pointing out his employee's failures, rather than celebrating their successes. He's a pro at keeping everyone at arm's length, ensuring his relationships stay as impersonal as possible. He plays the part of horrible, stuck-up boss and office tyrant perfectly . . . unless that's precisely what it is. An act.

        I know everything about this man—professionally. How he takes his coffee. What size his suit jackets are. How he likes me to organise and declutter his digital calendar every Sunday night. It's been my job, for the last eight months, to live and breathe Max Griffin. And yet, the person standing in front of me now is a complete stranger.