Page 37 of My Favorite Boss

“What sort of personal situation?”

I was at a loss. Most people would take the hint and leave, but not this woman. Two ideas quickly developed. Both unacceptable. But I panicked and said the first one that came to mind.

“He sent me out for lunch today. I got him street tacos.” I met her eyes, widening mine for drama. “Bad idea.”

“I don’t understand.”

I leaned closer as if sharing a secret. “He has explosive diarrhea. He can’t stop shitting himself.”

She reared back, the horrified look on her face priceless. “I beg your pardon.”

I shrugged. “It’s horrendous. The last blowout was excessive. I’ve called maintenance, but we’re still waiting for cleanup and to unclog the pipes. It’s a good thing he keeps extra suits here, if you get my drift. But surely you understand he needs his privacy right now.”

My phone buzzed, and I glanced at the text.

MYERS

I sighed, hearing his anger in the use of my name. Maybe because it was in bold. Capitals. But he wasn’t happy. I shrugged in resignation, committed to getting rid of this woman who upset him so much. “I wouldn’t wait. I suggest you try again some other time. When the air is clearer.” I waved my hand. “The smell,” I whispered. “Like something died.”

She turned and walked away. Almost ran.

I sat at my desk and replied.

She’s gone.

A moment later, he replied.

My office. NOW, MYERS.

I looked around in sorrow. Shame. I was starting to enjoy this job.

I knocked and waited. I heard the lock unclick, and I heaved a sigh. I brought my notebook with me, unsure why, except I felt better holding it. As if I was going into his office to get instructions, not meet my demise.

I walked in, turning to shut the door after glimpsing his face. Tornado Bane came to mind for this expression. Purveyor of Death was another.

Either way, it wasn’t good.

I drew in a much-needed calming breath and crossed the office, not meeting his eyes. I sat down, opening up my notebook, prolonging the inevitable. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing. Mine rapid, his deep, no doubt readying to torch me with his words.

I dared to look up. His gaze was enough to incinerate me. He began to tap his finger on his desk, another sign of agitation.

“I need you to assure me that I was having an out-of-body incident, perhaps a stroke, leading me to imagine you told my mother I was ‘shitting my pants with explosive diarrhea.’ I couldn’t possibly have heard that.” The tapping increased. “You did not use the words blowout and clogged pipes.”

“Um,” I said hesitantly. “Would you believe me if I said that, yes, you had a stroke? I’ll call your physician.”

“Myers.”

I threw up my hands. “You said by any means possible! It was the best of the two ideas I had!”

“Telling my mother I shat my pants was the best idea?” he roared.

“She left, didn’t she?”

That made him pause. He rubbed his eyes, muttering. I frowned. He was anxious, tapping the desk and shaking his head. All signs of high stress for him. Plus, the muttering. He might have a stroke yet. I wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing right now or not.

He dropped his head to the back of the chair with a low groan, covering his eyes. “God give me strength. I meant for you to tell her I was in an afternoon meeting or on a client call that would take hours. Something business-related. Not—” he waved his fingers “—that.”

“Oh. I did tell her you were busy, but that didn’t work. She is difficult to deal with.”