Boss Man Bridegroom Page 8

  She went to a lot of trouble to make this happen and I feel bad she doesn’t get to enjoy it. The words are on the tip of my tongue, asking her if she wants to stay, but before I can offer, Julia says, “Why don’t you stay and have some tea with us?”

  Charlee glances at me and then smiles kindly to my sister. “That’s awfully kind of you, but I have some things to attend to. Family time is precious, and I’m sure you don’t get much time with your brother, so I’ll leave you to enjoy your high tea. Let me know if you need anything.” She gives me one last look and then walks away.

  I find my eyes trailing after her as Julia digs in. With one unexpected tea party and kind—no, altruistic—words to my sister, she found my weak spot. I’m not sure if I’m entirely comfortable with it. She’s gone above and beyond all week to not only get the assigned tasks done, but to predict what I need next. I’ve never had such an efficient executive assistant before. But what I worry about is what she’s doing to my very protected, very hidden heart. Because I know that her actions aren’t just those of an efficient assistant. They’re just Charlee. I like her. Somehow, someway, she’s chipping away at my protective walls, and I can’t allow that. But how do you stop a girl who organizes a Happy Friday dance and a high tea for my sister?

  “Living in luxury,” Julia says, biting into a scone. “Does this happen every afternoon? Because if it does, I know where I’ll be daily at three o’clock.”

  “No.” I shake my head, still staring off at the door. “This was special for you.”

  Chapter Eight

  CHARLEE

  I zip up my suitcase and then flip it on its wheels. Ready to go.

  I take one last look in the mirror at my traveling outfit and feel pleased. I went with leggings for comfort, but paired it with a denim button-up, brown ankle open-toed boots, and a straw fedora with a black ribbon around the base. We’re headed to Miami, after all.

  I slip my brown satchel bag over my shoulder, check for my contact solution and backup glasses one more time, before grabbing my suitcase and taking off.

  Joel is downstairs, and I don’t want to keep him waiting.

  I turn the lights off, give my giant apartment one last glance—still not moved in, still not used to the fanciness of everything—and lock up.

  The elevator ride is uneventful as I check my pale pink lipstick in the mirror and then head out the door to the black Lincoln SUV waiting by the curb.

  Joel greets me with a kind hello and a cup of coffee. “Good morning, Miss Charlee.”

  “Oh Joel, you’re too kind to me.” He takes my luggage and opens the door. I duck in only to be startled backward from Rath sitting on the other side, engrossed in whatever work he’s doing on his phone. “Sheesh.” I laugh. “A heads-up that you were going to be in here would have been nice.”

  He looks up from his phone and gives me a slow once-over. He doesn’t say anything, but I know that look in his eyes—appreciation.

  God, he must think I’m a total freak when it comes to clothing. To be honest, I went extreme this past week because why the hell not? If I was already fired, what would be the worst thing he could do? Fire me again?

  My goal was to see how far I could go with this man, how far I could push him until I hit his breaking point. He might think he’s testing me, challenging me, but I’m actually doing the same to him.

  I need to know his limits, what he can handle, what will make him far too angry to stay focused on work, and I think I found out yesterday. The surprise confetti tube was his limit.

  He also doesn’t like to be startled. Not even in the slightest. He scares easily, which makes me giggle because he presents himself as this alpha male, head honcho with sculpted muscles under his suit jacket when in reality, he scares like a cat whose tail just got mysteriously bumped.

  Just because I’m a good EA, I took note of his startling, and then I laugh to myself, replaying his scared face over and over again in my head.

  Classic ugly-scare face.

  “Why are you chuckling?” he asks as I strap my seat belt on.

  “Good morning to you too. Yes, I slept well, thank you. The mattress on that bed you insisted I have is like a cloud. Do you always treat your executive assistants this well?”

  He shifts in his seat and turns back to his phone. “It’s standard.”

  “Well, if that bed is standard, please don’t ever give me a raise in a mattress because I don’t think I would ever get to work in the morning.” Which I’m sure he wouldn’t mind after yesterday’s morning greeting.

  I chuckle some more as I recall him saying Motherfucker under his breath after the confetti tube.

  I sip my coffee and lean my head back against the seat, the leather sucking me in more deeply. We had an early wake-up call this morning and I’m feeling it along with all the hard work I put in getting the office set up and making sure I beat him to work every morning.

  “Are you falling asleep?” he asks, his voice sharp.

  Nothing gets past him. “Uh, define falling asleep?”

  “Closing your eyes.”

  “Then yes, I am.” I tilt my hat over my face and start sliding down the seat only for my hat to be flicked off my head.

  “We need to go over the schedule.”

  “Thought it would be nice to have a mile-high meeting. You know, up in the sky.” I float my hand around like a plane.

  “I have business to work on when we’re in the air. Schedule now.”

  “Jeez Louise, let a girl have a few sips of her coffee before you start barking at her.” I sit up and then give him a once-over. “Wait . . . did you eat breakfast?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Mother of God,” I whisper. “It sure as hell does. You are more pleasant with food in your stomach.” Muttering and digging through my bag, I say, “I swear to God, it’s like working with a child.” I dig some more. “Where is that . . . aha!” I pull out a Bobo’s bar and hand it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “A Bobo’s bar. Absolutely delicious, full of the nutrients you need and with a delightful lemon poppyseed flavor. You’ll thank me after your first bite.”

  He looks at it warily but then opens it up and takes a bite. From the way his eyelids sink over his eyes briefly, I’m assuming he’s a lemon poppyseed fan.

  “Good, right?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.” He clears his throat. “Get your pen and paper out so we can go over things.”

  “Ah, you said pen and paper, not iPad.”

  “No need to hear you rattle on about pens and paper again and the feel of the pen along the paper while you’re taking notes.”

  Smart, smart man.

  “We’re meeting with the Hoosiers this weekend. We have a lunch meeting,” he says, jumping right into things. I guess here we go.

  “Yes, at Ricky’s Grill, which I looked up already and saw that they serve a very wonderful salmon dish I’m sure you will like.”

  He lifts his eyes from his phone and gives me a quizzical look. “How do you know—?”

  “Dietary questionnaire. Come on, keep up, boss man salmon pants. You’ll want to order it without the capers.”

  He clears his throat and says, “Uh, thanks.”

  Well, well, well . . . would you look at that. I’m cracking him a lot faster than I thought I would.

  “After that, we have time to rest and then we’re off to the black-tie event; that’s where I need you on point. I know most of the attendees who will be there, but I need to make sure I don’t miss anyone.”

  “Do you know what this reminds me of?”

  He sighs. “What?”

  “The Devil Wears Prada. Would you say I’m more of an Andy or an Emily?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but remember, you aren’t here to talk, you’re here as a shadow to me.”

  “Ooo, The Devil Wears Prada with a female suppression twist, got it.” I zip up my lips. “They will be sealed unless called upon.
”

  His jaw works back and forth, and I can sense he’s incredibly tense, maybe a little nervous about bringing me along because let’s face it, in his eyes I most likely seem like a loose cannon. He never knows what to expect, and I’m sure he’s nervous I’m going to embarrass him. But little does he know, I might be a bit of a question mark, but when it comes to work events, I thrive. I shift into a completely different person and do the job the way the public eye would like to see me do it, with zero disturbances and very minimal interaction with others.

  I know my role, and I’m okay with that. As long as Rath knows his role in the office.

  To ease his mind, I say, “Don’t worry, Mr. Westin, I won’t embarrass you.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “Yes, you were, and it’s okay. I might be eccentric in the office, but when it comes to business associates and work events, I know where I stand and how to act. You have nothing to worry about. I brought a simple black dress for the event and a very eye-pleasing black, tailored suit for lunch, and my makeup will be very natural.”

  “Charlee,” he says on a sigh, “you don’t have to change who you are. I just ask that you refrain from doing an Irish jig out of excitement. Keep the jigs for our office.”

  Our office.

  God.

  That pinches a happy nerve of mine hearing him say that and then the way he looks at me.

  The sincerity in his eyes.

  It does something deep within my bones . . . almost like he’s reaching marrow . . . so unexpected. Strange.

  You don’t have to change who you are . . .

  People have often asked me to change, especially Chris. I should have known back then when he told me to stop being so weird, to not go over the top—to just “for the love of God” be normal—that he didn’t really have deep feelings for me. You don’t try to change someone you love, Chuckie. You open your heart to new possibilities.

  I know I’m too much at times, especially for the straight-laced Rath, but even with my eccentricities, he hasn’t yet asked me to stop. He’s always absorbed them and moved past them.

  There’s a difference. A big difference.

  He’s letting me be who I am. And that right there tells me something . . . Rath accepts me.

  Which in return, I will accept him.

  He’s a tight-ass, has some dark, hidden secrets hiding behind those compelling blue eyes of his, and is very much high-strung all the time. Any interaction with staff has been brusque and . . . stern. Uncompromising. He’s never harsh, but he’s never warm either. Open. I’ve been with him for a week and the only moment I actually saw him take a breath was when Julia was visiting. There was this light air about him, something that triggered a deep-rooted happiness. Why does he conceal that? It’s why I didn’t join them for tea, though, because I didn’t want him to have to hide that side of himself with his sister. I caught a brief glimpse, but I knew I wanted him to stay in that mood, to have a second to breathe, so I took off. That afternoon, when we were leaving, he gave me a small wave.

  It was the first time he did that.

  I thrived off that wave.

  I lived for that wave.

  And this morning, I sprang out of bed, wanting to see what else I could earn from the man whose respect I’m trying to earn in spades.

  And today I get . . . you don’t have to change who you are.

  I’m pretty sure this might be one of the best weeks I’ve had in a very long time.

  * * *

  “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Westin?” the gorgeous flight attendant with luxurious, long brown hair asks.

  Rath holds up his hand, not sparing the girl one look. “I’m good.” And then he looks up from his phone to me and asks, “Do you want anything?”

  Holding back my smile, I shake my head. “I don’t want to have to pee on the flight.”

  His brow creases. “The plane has a nice bathroom.”

  “And I have terrible aim.”

  His brow furrows even more. “Are you standing and peeing?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  He sits back in his chair, the most perplexed look on his face that has me laughing out loud. I wave my hand about and say, “I’m kidding. I would adore a Sprite with a splash of cranberry.” I glance at her nametag. “Thank you so much, Laurie.”

  She smiles kindly—probably perturbed by my standing and peeing comment—and takes off toward the back, while Rath just shakes his head in disbelief, turning back to his computer.

  “I’ve tried it a few times, you know.”

  He lifts just his eyes, keeping his head tilted toward the computer. “Tried what?”

  “Peeing standing. And I have to tell you, there’s something about standing while peeing that makes you feel powerful. No wonder men walk around with a sense of accomplishment all the time. But trust me when I say, it takes a lot of factors to make it work for a girl.”

  He chews on the side of his cheek and I can see the indecision—he’s curious to know what the factors are that make a good standing pee for a woman, but he also wants to stay as professional as possible.

  So I make the decision for him.

  “You have to really have to go, like pee up to your teeth is what my grandma would say. So much pee that when you let it go you have a stream that’s going to blast the porcelain off the toilet, or else it drips down the side of your leg. And the proper clothing is needed as well. Dresses with no panties are ideal. Rompers are a big no-no, unless you’re willing to stand in the stall completely naked with it wadded up in your hands and then at that point, what are you really doing with your life? Just sit on the darn toilet.”

  I watch him swallow hard as he says, “Dresses with no panties is risky in NYC.”

  “Right, the whole Marilyn Monroe factor and guess what, it’s happened and you just . . . own it.” I pretend to talk to pedestrians around me. “Yes, those were my ass cheeks, yes, they are as white as the day I was born, those globes don’t get one ounce of sun.” I wave. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  He stares at me. Blankly. Almost as if he can’t believe what I’m saying.

  Laurie comes back with my drink. I thank her and take a sip as he still stares at me. I shrug and smile and then open my Kindle to pick up where I left off in my historical romance.

  In a few seconds, I hear the click-clack of his fingers running across his keyboard, and that’s when I peek and catch the frown in his forehead. I smile to myself and turn back to my book. I’m going to break him one of these days, just watch.

  * * *

  “Oh, Tessa.” I laugh. “You clever minx you.” I set my Kindle down and laugh some more, swiping tears under my eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Rath asks, tearing his eyes away from his computer.

  I chuckle a little bit more, catching my breath. “Yes. Have you ever read a Tessa Dare novel?”

  “No idea who she is. Non-fiction?”

  “Blasphemy,” I spout. “In my eyes, she’s the goddess of historical romances.”

  “You’re reading a historical romance right now?”

  “Let me tell you something.” I touch my Kindle and say, “If you see me with my head buried in this magnificent device, it’s because I’m reading a historical romance. They are a deep-rooted pleasure for me, and Tessa Dare is my master. I fall at her feet.”

  He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”

  “Why? WHY?” I shake my head. “Because Tessa Dare is the reason I breathe. You see, she takes these men of high society, real staunch gentlemen with sticks up their asses—ring a bell?” I smile and then say, “They’re ill-tempered, mild-mannered men and she brings them to their knees with a fun-loving heroine. She puts them in odd predicaments, changes up their lives all for a marriage of convenience, or because, heaven forbid, they touch the heroine’s wrist and now they have to commit to marriage for indecency. It’s great. I gobble them up.”

  He frowns—is that his signa
ture frown or his confused frown?—and then goes back to his computer. “Sounds boring.”

  Ehh . . .

  My jaw hits the table between us as I blink severely, like I can’t lubricate my eyes quickly enough.

  Boring?

  He thinks my books sound boring?

  Oh, hell no.

  Pulse picking up, I start to breathe heavier and heavier until I say, “How . . . dare—”

  “Mr. Westin, we’re ten minutes from landing, please prepare yourself,” the pilot says cutting me off.

  “Youuuuu,” I say, but apparently have no effect on the man sitting across from me.

  Rath robotically closes his computer and starts packing up his things, not paying me the least attention, so I point at him even though he’s not looking and say, “This isn’t over. You hear me, Mr. Westin? This is not over.”

  No acknowledgement.

  No fear.

  No nothing.

  Well, he has no clue the box he just opened. Mark my words, Rath Westin will be reading a Tessa Dare novel if it’s the last thing I do.

  Chapter Nine

  RATH

  I glance at my watch and then back at the bank of elevators. She has two minutes.

  I tap my foot, hating to wait for other people. She should have been here before me.

  What the hell is she doing up there? Perfecting her peeing while standing?

  Don’t even get me started on that conversation.

  Not because it’s probably one of the weirdest ones I’ve had, and that’s saying something when it comes to Charlee, but I can’t get the motherfucking image of Charlee in a dress with no panties out of my head. That should not be happening. Those images should not be forming in my brain, but they’re there, strong and vibrant. The wind catching the edge of her dress so I get the smallest peek of her round ass, the rose on her cheeks from realizing someone caught her . . .