Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
“I’m not going to fire you.” Philippe stands. God, he’s huge. I’m five-eight, and he towers over me, even at a distance.
“You’re not?” I squeak. It would be nice to be more dignified than a mouse at the moment, but hey. You know how the saying goes about rarely getting what we want? Yeah.
“No. I found your writing quite amusing.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did.” His smile turns absolutely predatory.
My belly does something strange. It’s half fear, half something else going on in there. Something female. Something dark. Something wild. The same kind of something that did a little happy dance when I thought about Philippe tying me up with his tie. And no, I’ve never done that before, and no, I don’t think I’d be into it. Although…you never know. No. God no. What is wrong with my body? Why are my hormones so out of whack all of a sudden?
“I truly did. If I fired you, you should consider a career as a writer. I think you have real talent.”
It’s biting and sarcastic. I barely stifle a groan. “I really am sorry. It was unkind at best. I didn’t really mean it.”
“Yes, you did.”
I scrunch up the paper I’m holding. “No, I didn’t. I mean, I did. Kind of. But not like that. Not to hurt you.”
“We’ve known each other for a while. No?”
“Yes.”
“You have every reason to hate me.”
“I don’t hate anyone.”
“I make you order me socks. And underwear.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you don’t hate me for it?”
“I disliked it, but hate, no. I only wrote all that stuff in the heat of anger.” For some stupid reason, I want to say in the heat of passion, but I’m glad the right word came out instead. “We’ve worked together for a long time. Please believe I never meant to hurt you. My grandma suggested I start journaling to work through stress and stuff. It seemed like a dumb idea. It was more of a satire than anything.”
Philippe stares me down. “I especially found the Dutch oven part to be entertaining.”
“Oh, god.”
“And the part about bending the laws of physics. I have to say…you have quite a creative imagination. The creativity it took to think of shoving cake ingredients up my ass—”
“Please,” I beg. “Please. Don’t—just—don’t.”
“I could go on. You did.”
“I know.” I seriously wish I could bend the laws of physics myself and stuff my own self up my own ass. Or just disappear. That would work for me too.
“I actually have a proposition for you.”
My head snaps up again. My vertebrae hurt from that one. I think I might have given myself whiplash. “Is it something along the lines of how I stay working for you while you hate me for life and give me the most terrible, horrible, menial work as punishment for the rest of my days?”
“Nope. You can do better than that.”
“No. I can’t.”
“You think that’s what you deserve?”
“Yes. Undoubtedly, yes. If I could take back you seeing and reading it, I would.”
“It wasn’t all bad. You did express some sort of sympathy for me, which makes me believe you truly are a good person who was venting like a comedian on stage because it was amusing, and was what it took to get through the day.”
I give him an are you for real? look. This is not my boss. Philippe Wilson is not nice. He does not give second chances. He breathes fire and shoots lightning bolts out of his ass (thank god I didn’t write that in my journal of sin). He does not give out propositions.
“I have a wedding coming up.” He actually winces. “My mom, who you already know, is eager for me to find someone. She’s afraid I’m going to live the rest of my life alone, which to her, is the greatest crime on earth. She wants me to be happy, and she thinks the only way it’s ever going to happen is if I try and fulfill myself with someone else. Marriage. Kids. My sister, fortunately, is going that route. It diverted attention from me for quite a while.”
“Shit,” I breathe because I can see where this is going. Straight. Down. The. Pooper.
“My thoughts exactly. My mom is a very bubbly, outgoing person. She likes to pry into my personal life more than I think is necessary. It makes me a little bit…well, aggravated. She caught me at the wrong time just over a week ago and cried. Mom-tears are enough to bring any man to his knees. I might have mentioned something about bringing a date to the wedding in front of my sister because she needed to know, but it was mostly to satisfy my mom. I was going to beg off of it at the last minute and tell them it fell through…that my imaginary girlfriend got busy. I was just trying to use a distraction because I didn’t want to hear another lecture from my mother. Well, it backfired. It was the absolute worst thing. I should have just snapped that I’d be happy to die alone. Instead, I tried to pacify her. She actually cried because she hadn’t had a chance to meet my girlfriend yet. I told her it was because I didn’t want her to scare her off, and at the wedding, she’d be preoccupied with my sister, so it would be the safest time for an introduction then.”