Frankly, anyone who knows me as the billionaire boy genius would be horrified that I’m presently an administrative assistant and low-level code monkey, fetching coffee and contributing the odd line of entirely redundant code. Lola mumbled something about bikes and training wheels before darting off when I demanded better job opportunities, but she just doesn’t want anyone else touching her code.
I get it.
I suck at sharing, too, but after five years running King Me, I’ve learned some important lessons. As much as I hate giving up control, I also can’t do everything myself—and there are some tasks (accounting, payroll and cleaning the restrooms come to mind) that I refuse outright to do. I pay people well to do what I won’t. Lola, however, is everywhere at Calla, doing everything. She’s here constantly.
I sort of envy her her passion. I’ve considered selling King Me at the end of the year because I’m bored. Which probably explains why I’m here undercover at Calla rather than working in my posh office in downtown San Francisco. Yes, I named my company after the first game I ever won. I demolished my brothers at checkers and this way they can’t ever forget. It was too easy after a while, rather like King Me. I’m still not sure what I’ll do next. Sitting around on the beach and surfing all day isn’t enough.
Today, I stick to what I’ve dubbed The Routine. I chat briefly with the receptionist because establishing goodwill with Cerberus is smart. You never know when you might need to escape hell quickly. After a minute of witty repartee, I hole up with my laptop and check email. Next, I fetch coffee. I’ve coded a coffee app that lets my temporary office mates weigh in and change their minds a half dozen times without my having to kill them.
Lola has yet to use the app since her phone is always buried at the bottom of the ginormous tote bag she hauls around. I’ve already suggested using a tile, a pocket, or her bra strap to keep track of her phone, but she shot me down on all three counts.
I step into Lola’s office without knocking. Since her office has no doors and the wall between her and the main floor is glass, knocking is superfluous. Plus, her fat white dog makes a teakettle noise whenever I approach. She’s sitting on top of her yoga ball, half staring off into space, half frowning at her screen. She puffs her cheeks out and exhales. In an instant, I’m imagining what that small breath would feel like skating over my skin. It’s a stupid thought. It’s not like she’s even noticed that I’m here. Based on previous encounters, she’ll ignore me unless she’s decided to give me shit.
I saunter toward her, coffee tray expertly balanced in one hand. Time to effect some changes. This time when I slide her drink in front of her, I slide her laptop away at the same time. It’s a well-timed move, rather like turning the TV off on one of Max’s nephews. Her eyes widen in outrage, and like the nephews, she’s seconds away from vocal protests unless I provide her with a better option or break out the voice of God.
I squat down beside her yoga ball, pop the top off the cup and make a show of wafting cardamom and cinnamon-scented fumes toward her. The dog materializes seemingly out of nowhere, waddling toward me. As the bearer of treats, I’m allowed temporary access to her domain.
“You know you want it.”
Work inappropriate? Sure, but watch this. Lola just nods her head and grabs the cup. She’s challenged in the dirty innuendo department. Pretty much everyone here at Calla has a Lola story about some spectacularly funny moment where our boss failed to grasp the subtext. But those same people really like her. Lola might be annoyingly vague and slow to get a joke, but she’s painstakingly fair. She goes out of her way to be helpful, and where other people grant second chances, she’s willing to go up to imaginary numbers. Last week Lola hired a random old lady from the Chinese market down the street to translate when the twenty-two-year-old director of shipping lost Calla’s entire product inventory somewhere on the Chinese mainland.
Which makes it harder and harder to believe that Lola knowingly pirated my software.
After two weeks in her office, I’ve also learned that Lola needs more people time. While she might be introverted, she chats the ear off everyone she encounters, oversharing an unintentionally blunt stream of consciousness series of observations. Rideshare drivers are scared to come near our building. I appear to be the one exception to her nonstop talk fest because she promptly clams up whenever she sees me.
I wink at her. “Reporting for duty, sir.”
After my “interview” at Calla, I haven’t worn a suit again. I switched to jeans, a leather jacket, boots and a crisp button-up shirt. And a tie. I never forget the tie. A tie guarantees you attention.
Watch.
I adjust the knot, stroking my hand down the silky length, straightening it out. It’s a 1920s-style brown-and-blue-checked tie.
My boss’s hazel eyes zero in on my hands. It’s like waving a string in front of a kitten.
“Nice tie.” She drags her eyes back up to my face with remarkable willpower and I bite back a smile. Still got it.
A small frown crinkles her forehead. “Exactly how many ties do you own? You’ve been here two weeks and I’ve never seen the same one twice.”
See? She notices me.
“Last Monday—plum with pink dots. Tuesday—yellow polka dots. Wednesday—gray silk. Thursday and Friday—skinny black tie, navy blue black tie. That’s five ties in one week.”
She ticks my tie wardrobe off on her fingers. Lola likes to count.
“Maybe I’m a tie model in my spare time and get paid in ties.” I lean in. Her hair smells amazing.
Oblivious as always to my proximity, Lola sets her cup down and starts fixing her hair. The twisty-thing she does with it rarely lasts more than a few hours, necessitating repairs right about when I deliver her coffee. She wriggles and stretches, forcing her hair into an updo that looks like a double-scoop ice cream cone. Her arm brushes my shoulder. “You’re what, twenty? What normal college guy owns an entire business wardrobe?”
Danger.
“Wait.” She holds up a hand. She has a thinking pose like Rodin. “Don’t answer that. I’m pretty sure it’s an HR violation.”
Saved by the rule book. “Are you sexually harassing me?”
“What?” Her face turns a fabulous shade of bright pink.
Has she thought about me in HR-inappropriate ways?
“Feel free to lie to me if it’ll make me feel better.” When the pink deepens, I help her out and change the topic. “I do have an awesome tie collection.”
She frowns. “I’m not good with jokes. Is there an allusion hidden in there?”
“Do you want there to be?” I’m not ashamed to admit (to myself only and never to Jack or Max) that I’ve replayed our conversations in my head more than once over the last few weeks. I’ve also had more than one porn-worthy fantasy starring my boss, so I can’t help noticing that she’s staring at my mouth.
Does she...have a crush on me?
She sounds distracted, her eyes a little dreamy as she looks through me—again. I’m finding it hard to focus, too. I’ve never really noticed how pretty she is. We don’t spend much time together like this—usually she drops by my desk, we fight over my interpretation of my most recent assignment and then she flits off to do whatever it is she does. I’ve looked at her ass, her tits