Page 48 of Sexy Bad Boss

He begins gathering coffee cups and placing them on the tray he’d brought out earlier. “Okay, let me just clean this up and—”

“Go.”

He jumps like I’ve electrocuted him. Yes, I’m being unfair to the poor guy, but I’m too frustrated at the moment to check myself. I’ll make up for it by giving him a frigging Starbuck’s gift card when I’m back in the office. But right now, I just need him out of my hair.

“Good-bye, Alex.”

“Right.” His head bobs as he backs toward the door. “Sure. Okay. Yes. I’ll just…” He bumps into the wall and does that whole electrocution jerking movement again. He should probably cut back on the caffeine. He might not be quite so irritating if he did.

“All right, let Myra know I’ve left. But I won’t start anything until she gets there. Not even the coffee. I won’t sort the mail, if it’s there yet. I won’t—”

“Get. Out.”

He grabs the door, tugs it open, and rushes through like his pants are on fire. Myra comes downstairs just as the door slams shut again.

“Were you growling, James?” she asks without looking up from her phone. I imagine she’s scanning her daily schedule. Or, more likely, mine. And she is, indeed, dressed for the office in a short, pleated skirt and a white, button-down shirt with purple pinstripes to match the skirt. She’s wearing my favorite purple, peep-toe heels with the ankle strap, not that I’ve ever told her as much.

Well, if I have my way, soon I’ll bestow compliment after compliment on her wardrobe choices. Ironic that she won’t be working with me anymore at that point, but I’ll still need a date to the many dinner and other after-work functions I attend. I like the idea of Myra on my arm as my date rather than colleague. I really like the idea of watching her dress for those occasions, and then undressing her later in the evening.

“Where’s Alex?” Myra asks, breaking through my thoughts. She resumes picking up the mess I wouldn’t let Alex finish. When she bends to lift the tray, her skirt rides high on the back of her thighs for a moment, and suddenly I can’t recall what I wanted to talk to her about. Other than talking her out of those clothes. What time is that staff meeting?

Oh, right. Work. The office.

“Alex.”

“What about him?” she asks as she breezes past, heading toward the kitchen. “If you’re about to say he’s too young again, save it. I was with him all day yesterday, James. He’s really quite brilliant. He’ll settle down once he’s less intimated by you. You’ll see.”

I chase after her, as much as I can in a wheelchair at any rate. “I want you to leave.”

She freezes in the process of piling cups and saucers into the dishwasher. “Excuse me?”

She’s staring at me like she’s waiting for me to say more. But what do I say? Do I tell her I want to keep sleeping with her? Hell, I want her to move in with me, permanently. Maybe we’ll buy a house in Paynter’s neighborhood too. The look on her face when Abby was talking about babies…I never thought I’d say this, but I’d love to give her a few of her own.

Do I tell her that’s the reason I’m glad she’s decided to leave my employment? That I want to pursue the type of relationship with her that’s inappropriate if she were to remain on as my assistant? Sweat breaks out on my forehead. This is so much harder than standing before the board of directors and reviewing the annual budget. I feel like I’m back in high school, holding that letter from Northwestern, and I’m afraid to open it because all of a sudden, I’m not confident I got in.

“You…you’re my Supergirl.”

“If I’m so super, why do you want me to leave? That is what you just said, isn’t it?”

Furrowing my brow, I say, “Yes. It is. It’s true.”

“Why?”

I flap my hand. “Because. I mean, you said…I…” I’ve never been so speechless, but I don’t know how to articulate what I want to say. Because I’m not really sure what I’m asking for. Her? Forever? Is that really what I want? Do I just say that?

“I’ll keep sleeping with you,” I blurt. There, I said it. Sort of.

She stares at me, seemingly frozen, for long seconds, until she huffs out a breath and shoves a ceramic cup into the dishwasher with such force I’m surprised it doesn’t break. And then she slams the door shut and stalks from the room. I wheel my chair after her.

“Myra, where are you going?”

But she’s already stomping up the stairs, her heels clicking on the wooden steps. A few moments later, she’s coming back down, dragging her suitcase behind her.

“What are you doing?” I ask in alarm.

“Doing what you asked me to do. Leaving.”

“But…you’ll be back, won’t you?” It doesn’t look like she will. She’s flitting about the room, scooping up her robe and a pair of earrings she placed on the side table.