Boss Man Bridegroom Read online

  Yeah, I’m really fucked in the head.

  And then the historical romance thing. I know what’s in those books. Sex and lots of it. Carnal sex. Does she get turned on when reading them? Does she like how the men in those books take charge?

  I know one thing for sure. She likes how the women bring the men down to their knees, because that’s exactly what she’s doing to me, with one insensitive conversation at a time.

  The elevator dings and Charlee walks out, wearing a slim-fitting black dress that barely kisses the floor as she heads toward me. Exposed shapely shoulders, long, slender neck, and a small peek of cleavage.

  Mother.

  Fucker.

  Her hair is pulled to one side and in an old-Hollywood style. She’s wearing neutral makeup that makes her crystal-blue eyes stand out, especially since she’s giving her glasses a break this weekend, and the only pop of color is the light shade of red on her lips.

  She’s positively stunning.

  This afternoon at our lunch meeting, she wore a simple suit, which was very appropriate, and she impressed me with her ability to hold conversation but also back off when we needed to talk business. She was the perfect lunch companion, and I couldn’t have looked better with her by my side.

  Tonight though, tonight she’s going to turn heads.

  I know I said she needs to be my shadow, but that’s going to be next to impossible with her dressed like that.

  She walks up to me quickly and apologizes.

  “I’m so sorry. I had a really hard time slipping my Spanx on.” She grips some fabric at her waist and snaps it. “New pair, got them a little tight. But I’m here and ready to go.”

  And it’s shit like that, which is irritating because she’s so goddamn real. It’s playing with my sanity. What woman snaps her Spanx in front of her boss? Let alone admits to them making her late?

  Only Charlee Bag of Dicks.

  “Are you going to be able to breathe?”

  “If I pass out, just reach up my dress and roll them off.”

  Not going to fucking happen. She better hold it together.

  Thankfully, the event is held in the ballroom of the hotel we’re staying at, so we walk side by side toward the escalators that lead to the event.

  “You wear a tux well, Mr. Westin. Your pants are quite tight; you get them tailored like that?”

  I glance at my pants and scowl. “They’re not tight. They’re perfect.”

  “Oh, is that how the cool kids are wearing them and with no socks?” She leans forward, her floral perfume hitting me dead in the cock. Christ. “I can see your ankles. If you were a woman in a historical romance you might be considered a whore.”

  We step off the escalator. “Good thing we’re in modern-day life and I have a penis.”

  The sentence slips past my lips before I can stop it, and I inwardly cringe while Charlee tilts her head back and laughs.

  “Oh my God,” she whispers, drawing closer and keeping her voice down. “You totally said penis at a work event. If you had a boss, I’d report you. I guess I’ll just have to tell Julia.”

  Please, Jesus. Don’t do that.

  Ignoring her, I adjust my tie and head toward the entrance.

  “Hold on,” she says, standing in front of me and pressing her hand to my chest. It’s the smallest of touches, but it’s like she pressed a button to release a wave of heat to flow through my veins, only to bubble in the pit of my stomach.

  Jesus Christ, man.

  Standing about a foot shorter than me, she reaches up and adjusts my tie only to pat it. “There. You can’t go in there with a crooked tie, as that would be ridiculous.”

  Yeah, totally ridiculous, unlike the energy that seems to pump through my veins when Charlee gets this close to me.

  What the hell is happening to me? It’s been a week. A fucking week of her dancing around the office, turning my bleak and dark space into the end of the rainbow. I should be annoyed, turned off, ready to send her packing, but instead, it’s like this light is starting to turn on in the dark of my chest whenever she’s around.

  And that’s fucking terrifying because . . . she’s my EA.

  Get it together, Westin.

  On a deep breath, I turn back to business mode and say, “Stay at my side, and if you see me adjust my cufflink, know that’s my cue for help.”

  “Oh wow, I like that. Covert communication. What should be my signal?” She taps her chin. “How about if I itch the side of my boob?”

  Of course, that would be her choice.

  “Not necessary.”

  We walk into the event and something incredible happens. I watch as Charlee’s smile turns from bubbly to businesslike. It tilts at the corners rather than stretches across her face, and her demeanor switches from lighthearted to serious but approachable. It’s hard to describe, but it’s as if she slipped past the door and put on a different shield of armor, morphing into professional Charlee.

  I’m not sure what to make of it, whether I’m impressed or sad.

  “Let’s grab a drink. Always good to have something to hold on to when talking.”

  “Total power move,” she whispers. “An executive without a drink doesn’t exude confidence. It means they’re unable to control themselves. Even if they pretend their vodka is water. Mr. Danvers always got a club soda but pretended it was a vodka and club. He liked to be on top of his game, but also look like he’s part of the crowd.”

  “He’s a smart man,” I say, stepping up to the bar. “Two club sodas with lime, hold the straws.”

  Charlee smiles. “Are you saving the turtles with the no straws?”

  I look to the side and say, “Yes, and one should never suck on something while talking to their colleagues; it shows weakness.”

  “Aah.” She nods and then whispers, “Represents that you’re willing to suck ass, totally get it. Well guess what, people? Rath Trevor Westin doesn’t suck ass.” She stabs the bar top but then leans back and puts that fake smile back on her face.

  What the hell am I going to do with this girl?

  Also . . . she’s right. I don’t suck ass, for anyone.

  Also . . . my middle name is not Trevor.

  * * *

  “You know, watching you schmooze people, it’s a beautiful sight to behold.”

  We’re sitting at a table to the side, taking down a few appetizers that Charlee collected for us while I was finishing up a conversation with a Chinese dignitary. And when I say a few appetizers, I mean a lot.

  It’s like she ran down every server and created a mini tray for us. I’m grateful, because I’m starving after the many conversations I’ve held so far. The philanthropic side of my business is my bread and butter, my baby, what I care about the most: helping children. The sick, the poor, the misjudged. If a child needs help, I want to be the one to lend a helping hand. They’re why I go to these events, so I can score more money, more donations, more people to buy into my foundation. If it weren’t for the kids, I would be at home, one hand down my pants with a beer in the other—yup, frat boy.

  “Are you lying?” I ask, shoving a tuna tartare in my mouth in one bite.

  “No, I wouldn’t lie about that. You’re really good at it. Super smooth. You haven’t needed to use me once. I’m kind of sad I haven’t been able to scratch my boob.”

  “Yeah, that’s devastating.”

  She playfully nudges me with her foot under the table. “Look at you loosening up. Take your girdle off for the event?”

  “Just wore it looser.”

  Her eyes light up and for fuck’s sake, I feel myself wanting to light up right back at her. Seeing her happy, joyful from a reaction from me, pulls at my groin, makes me yearn to do more to see it again.

  “I knew there was a lighter side to you under this impenetrable business appearance.”

  “Don’t go looking for it. It’s few and far between.”

  “Why?” she asks, a tilt to her head, her hair skimming over her bare sho
ulder. “Everyone in the office always says how nice you are, what a great man you are, but I feel like you’re hiding that part from me. Why?”

  “Not hiding, just getting the job done. The people who work for me, but under other supervision, need to know there’s a heart upstairs, watching over them. Our relationship is different. You work directly for me, therefore, we work and don’t play.”

  “Well . . . that makes sense. Depressingly. We can have fun every once in a while.”

  “You can,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “You are allotted your dance time and meditation time, but I will work. I will always work.”

  “That makes me sad. You need to have fun too, Mr. Westin.”

  “I have fun on my time off, but in my building, while working above my employees, I stick to the job because they’re depending on me. I can’t lose focus.” I did once. Won’t happen again.

  Charlee quiets and picks up a coconut shrimp, dipping it in some Thai sweet chili sauce before plopping it in her mouth. She observes the room and sighs. Once she swallows, she says, “I wonder if all these people have the same mentality as you. Work. Work. Work. If so, it’s a rather depressing sight, taking in all these beautifully decked-out individuals with the knowledge that if you peel back their designer gowns and bespoke tuxes, they’re really black inside.”

  I look at the room too, seeing the people in a different light, and I can’t help thinking how right Charlee really is. There’s no doubt in my mind if these people were shed down to their skin, in place of a beating red organ would be a shriveled black heart.

  At least mine is only shielded, not soulless. But that’s something she doesn’t need to know.

  “If you’re all work, what do you do for fun?”

  I sip my drink and think about ignoring her, but she almost seems sad right now—like I’ve let her down—and I hate the slump in her shoulders, the sadness in her eyes. “My best friends. They’re my fun.”

  “Mr. Scott and Mr. McCool?”

  I nod. “Yeah, we went to Yale together. Roark was an exchange student and Bram, well, he was the popular guy on campus.”

  “And you were . . .”

  I wipe my face with a napkin and crumple it up on the empty tray. “The smart one.”

  “Ah, the brains. That makes sense. Let me guess, you guys got in a lot of trouble?”

  I shake my head. “No, we just had fun. Too much fun, but never got into trouble.” I lean back in my chair and stare at the crowd, unable to look Charlee in the eye when I talk about my personal life. Her reactions are so potent I get caught up in them. “We have a fantasy football league. Every year we make a bet, a big one, not monetary, but dares. Bram lost last year and that was the beginning of his pursuit of my sister. He says he lost on purpose, but we don’t entirely believe him.”

  Then again, no one benches Russell Wilson on purpose.

  “Really? That’s actually really sweet. So, what’s the bet this year?”

  I shrug. “Don’t know yet, probably something stupid that we’ll come up with and regret later. We always do, but we sign contracts so we have to adhere to the bet.”

  “That’s”—she laughs—“really intense, but I guess I wouldn’t expect anything else from you and Mr. Scott. I’m unfamiliar with Mr. McCool but I will say this, his Irish accent is quite lovely to listen to on the phone.”

  “It’s worse when he’s drunk. You can’t understand a thing he says.”

  “And he’s dating one of his client’s daughters, right?”

  I nod. “Yup.”

  “So, you’re the single one out of the threesome. Unless— Oh, that was a horrible assumption. I just figured you were single since I haven’t heard you making time for a girlfriend or anything. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Single,” I say, not wanting her to ramble on any longer. “Easier that way.”

  “Tell me about it. Single is so much easier than having your heart broken.” She nervously laughs and looks away as my gut churns.

  Heartbroken?

  Did someone break her heart? I couldn’t imagine someone coming into her life, receiving her heart, and intentionally tearing it in two. Then again, there are horrible people out there in the world.

  I glance at her, taking in the small slump in her demeanor, the way she’s looking at her hands rather than at me. There’s something she’s not telling me. Not that she has to since it’s her personal life, but oddly, I want to know about it. After a week of being bombarded with hellos, of being proven wrong every afternoon with a completed list, with being fed like a goddamn king, I want to know what makes this woman tick.

  “What—”

  “Oh look, there’s Mr. Flanderson. You wanted to speak with him and he seems to have lost his crowd. We should go.”

  She stands, and I watch as she straps on a figurative shield of armor, showing me right then and there that talking about her love life is not going to happen.

  That’s fine—I guess—because I’m sure if she shared about hers, she’d ask about mine and my personal life is the last thing I want to talk about.

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “Good eye.” I stand and button my suit jacket. “Let’s go.”

  And just like that, we’re back to boss man and assistant. And that’s how it will stay.

  * * *

  “Thank you so much,” Charlee says, biting into a veggie burger and then stuffing a fry in her mouth. “I needed food. Those appetizers barely did anything.”

  I take a bite of my own burger and dab my face with my napkin, observing her. Her lipstick has faded, her hair has fallen slightly, and there’s a subtle glow on her face that women often cover with powder. It’s a two in the morning look that I’ve seen on many women, but Charlee wears it well. She still looks radiant. It must be her personality and the way she carries herself.

  “What a great event, right?” she asks. “I really think we made some groundwork, some beneficial networking. People want to know more about your foundation, which is amazing, and Mr. Flanderson seemed to be quite impressed with you.”

  “He did, didn’t he?” I ask, popping a fry in my mouth. “He is a good man, one of few.”

  “I really enjoyed speaking with his wife. She was wonderful and I know you wanted me to stay silent, but she was asking me questions, so I thought it would be rude not to answer.”

  “No, you handled the situation well. Thank you for talking to her.”

  Charlee’s face blushes. “Is that a compliment, Mr. Westin?”

  “Rath,” I say. “Just call me Rath.”

  Her eyes widen and then she starts to fan herself while looking around the empty dining area. Here we go . . .

  “Be still my heart, did I just earn first-name privileges? First-name privileges and a compliment . . . my diary won’t know what to do with herself tonight.”

  “Are you always this . . . flamboyant?”

  “Yes, get used to it.” She winks. “Gosh, what a great trip, and here I thought going to Miami was going to throw off my weekend. But it’s like we took a giant step forward and we’ll still be home by nine, right?”

  I nod. “Yes, we will. We have to wake up in a few hours to make it happen.”

  “We should have left straight after the event.”

  “Pilot wasn’t available, or else we would have.”

  “You’re rich. Throw money at people to make it happen.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t work that way. I respect people’s schedules. Technically we were supposed to go golfing with Mr. Flanderson and associates tomorrow, or I guess today since it’s two in the morning, but I respectfully declined because you need to get home.” I take a sip of my water.

  “Wait.” She sets her food down. “You changed your schedule for me?”

  “I’m not the bastard you think I am, Charlee.”

  “I never thought you were a bastard, Mr. Westin. Um . . . Rath. I just . . . I guess I don’t know what I thought.”

  I toss my na
pkin on my food and stand from my chair. It makes sense that she thinks I’m a bastard. I haven’t made her first week easy. And yet, she has been incredible today. Her ability to predict my every need has been uncanny, as if we’ve worked together for years. Even though I’ve been . . . I’ve been me. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not nice. That’s how it will stay. You were excellent today. I’ll see you in a few hours. Don’t be late.”

  I give her a parting nod and head to my room, pulling on the back of my neck the whole time.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. Why did I tell her that? Why couldn’t you stay aloof? Impenetrable?

  Maybe because I don’t want someone like Charlee to think I’m an asshole. I want her to think I’m a nice man.

  Maybe because I want her to not hate coming to work. Because then she’ll hate me.

  Maybe because deep down, I want her to see the real me.

  Except last time I did that—with Vanessa—I watched my heart be taken as she left.

  Chapter Ten

  CHARLEE

  The only thing that’s sustaining me right now is the gum cleansing toothpaste I brought with me that has awoken my mouth, and the gift I slipped into Rath’s briefcase this morning when he wasn’t looking.

  If it weren’t for those two things, the pilots and flight attendant would be scraping my dead-tired body off the tarmac with one of those giant pizza flippers right now.

  I did not get one ounce of sleep last night, and I blame Rath Westin.

  I’m going to get all girly for a second because, how could I not, but . . . OH MY GOD! He changed his schedule—for me—so I could go to my grandma’s birthday brunch. He declined a golf invite so I could personally hand deliver a card to my grandma that says, “Do your boobs hang low? They do.” in the prettiest handwriting I’ve ever created. And he didn’t give me grief about it. Even Mr. Danvers wasn’t that nice. He apologized profusely if schedules clashed, but business always came first, so he made sure I was at the event.