She's the Boss (11 page)

“It’s nice.” Maddy nodded absently, twirling her wine glass. “Is he nice?”

“Is who nice?”

“Your new boss.”

I grimaced. Nice was not a word you’d apply to Carter Lockwood.

Maddy was looking at me expectantly. “So what is he like?”

I thought of him with a sudden burst of resentment. “Carter Lockwood is an island unto himself. He’s rude, cold, hot tempered, conceited, controlling, overbearing. Everything’s got to be his way or the highway. And you know what else? I think he’s crazy. Yep.” My voice pitched higher. “CRAZY. The mayor of CRAZYTOWN!”

Maddy smiled blithely. “You sound like the crazy one right now.”

“Whatever.”

“C’mon, Kars. I’m sure he’s not that bad.”

“No, really. He is.”

For a while, Maddy sat idly gazing, tapping one fingernail against her tooth. I could almost see the cogs turning in her brain. “Let me guess. Is Carter perpetually grumpy? Always scowling?”

“Yes! How did you know? All the time. Seriously, if Carter Lockwood scowled any harder, his whole face might just splinter.”

Maddy snorted inelegantly.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded.

“Truong was right!” She keeled over laughing. “You
do
have a thing for him. I think you’re secretly smitten with him. Besotted. I even detect some unresolved sexual tension.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I nearly choked on my wine. In fact, I should have tried harder. “What would make you even think of such a thing?”

“Because,” she sputtered, “Carter is a chief. He’s the archetype hero you picked! He’s
your
Darcy.”

Dun. Dun. DUN.

No. This cannot be.

I tried to speak, failed, so I drank some more wine.

“C’mon.” Maddy pushed her chair back and padded into the living room. “You’ll have to see this with your very own eyes.” She plucked a DVD from the shelf and popped it into the player.

“What are we watching?”

“
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“The BBC miniseries with Colin Firth and Jennifer Elhe or the movie with Keira Knightley?”

“The BBC adaption of course! That version is a masterpiece!”

“Untouchable!” I agreed, settling myself on a battered sofa that had seen better days. “Although, no actress could ever portray Elizabeth Bennet to my satisfaction.”

“And why is that?” Maddy asked wryly.

“Because,” I said it like it was a given, “I visualize myself as Elizabeth Bennet. I almost died when Darcy says:
In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
I went boneless, spineless. Clutching my heart, I gushed, “Oh Darcy.”

“No one ever talks like that anymore,” said Mika, walking in through the front door. “And if any guy ever said that to you, I suggest you run for the hills.”

“Hi, honey,” said Maddy. The look on her face when she first spotted Mika entering the room . . . how I wished I had that kind of love in my own life.

Although I’d gladly eat crow before admitting that to Maddy.

Mika lobbed his jacket in the approximate direction of a kitchen chair and without bothering to wait and see if it hit anything, walked over and swept Maddy up in a bear hug.

I watched the two of them with fascinated eyes, feeling more and more like the proverbial fly on the wall. Unexpectedly, I experienced a sudden constriction in my stomach, a painful longing. Sure, I had dated. But they were flings. Somehow, I could never begin to feel the trust required for a deeper attachment.

Eventually, Mika released Maddy from his playful grip and flashed me a boyish grin. “Hi, Kars!”

“Hey.”

“How’s the party planning going?”

“No worries,” I said reassuringly. “Truong and I are
on
it!”

“Just promise me, OK, no strippers at the Bachelorette party.”

“You know I can’t promise you that,” I informed him with a wide-eyed innocent expression. “It’s entirely up to the bachelorette.” My eyes cut back to Maddy. “So? Stripper or no stripper?”

“Stripper!”

“All right,” Mika conceded. “Then just make sure he looks like Chuy Bravo.”

“No way!” Maddy balked. “Get me a hot policeman! Or fireman. Or sailor. Or construction worker.”

Mika crossed his arms and sighed with heavy resignation. “Just get her the Village People.”

“Shhhhh.” I made shushing noises and turned my attention to the TV. “The show’s about to start.”

Mika perched on the edge of the sofa. “What are you girls watching?”

“
Pride and Prejudice.
”

A big grin spread over his face and he gave a guffaw. “Later.” He got up and started for the front door.

“Hey!” Maddy called after him, “Aren’t you gonna watch this with us?”

He held up a hand in mock horror. “I’d rather dispose of biohazard waste.”

Hours later, Maddy and I were still watching our little drawing room drama,
sans
Mika. On the flat screen, Elizabeth Bennet was having it out with Mr. Darcy.

“
And your defect, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth, “is to hate everybody.”

“
And yours,” replied Darcy, “is willfully to misunderstand them.”

“See!” Maddy cried, “Darcy was just misunderstood.”

“Mmmmm.”

“And look,” said Maddy, pointing one perfectly manicured finger at the TV, “there’s Darcy . . . scowling again.”

“But Darcy’s scowl, his wooden stiffness is simply a facade for the strong emotions that rage underneath . . . he’s masking his underlying passion. He scowls to cover his discomfort.”

“Yes,” agreed Maddy in heartfelt tones. “Now do you see it?”

“What?” I drew a blank. “See what?”

“Fitzwilliam Darcy!” she rushed excitedly. “Doesn’t he remind you of Carter Lockwood?”

I blinked.

She coughed loudly. “He does, doesn’t he?” she finished with a satisfied air.

I fought to keep my face expressionless.

“C’mon,” she went on teasing with an unrepentant grin, “admit it.”

I simply ignored Maddy’s proselytizing. I would admit to nothing. I prided myself on being the only woman in the entire office impervious to Carter’s good looks.

Meanwhile, on the flat screen, Elizabeth Bennet was saying crossly,
“I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.”

Chapter Eight

“Half of these applicants are dumber than algae! Most of them are padding their resumes,” Carter fumed. “They can fib all they want! I make most of my hiring decisions by intuition.”

With a palpable lack of interest, I murmured, “Mmmm.”

Carter went on ranting, “I know if they’re a good fit within the first five minutes of the interview.”

“That may be how you do it.” I regarded him glacially. “But I like to give these candidates a chance before I actually jump to any conclusions.”

“Suit yourself,” he harrumphed.

“Fine,” I said.

“Fine.” Carter’s scowl deepened.

Hillary’s gaze went from Carter to me. “I’m with Carter on this one,” she said in her usual no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners tone. “CHOP! CHOP!” She karate chopped the air. “Let’s make this quick! We’ve got about twenty more people to interview.”

“Who’s next?” Carter asked.

Hillary glanced at a resume. “Maxwell Simpson.”

“He’s late.”

“Actually,” Hillary amended, “he’s a she.”

“Girls these days,” Carter grumbled, “walking around with men’s names.”

“And what sort of a name is Carter?” I threw him a sweet smile, intending to infuriate. “Do you know that you’re named after a line of baby clothing?”

I did have the satisfaction of seeing his eyes narrow slightly before Maxwell stepped into the conference room. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized profusely. “I was stuck in traffic.”

She sat down and I smiled at her politely, indicating that the interview was about to commence.

Hillary wasted no time with small talk. “Let’s begin, Miss Simpson. So tell us, why do you want to work here?”

“Um,” she hesitated, “because you were advertising a position and I’m currently unemployed.”

What a stupid question, I thought. Why does anyone want a job? Because they need the money, that’s why! Only the filthy rich would ever work at a job just to pass time.

Carter asked the next question. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Truthfully,” she said, echoing my thoughts, “five years closer to retirement.”

Kudos to her. In five years, I pictured myself on a beach in Bali, sipping a Mai-Tai, looking out at the endless ocean, trying to catch my next wave. Not that I know how to surf. I know jack squat about surfing but if I was in Bali I’d imagine a ’roided out surfer from Australia with a name like Lachlan would be teaching me how to surf.

My daydreams have a very large canvas.

Carter’s voice jolted me out of my reverie. “Tell us about your weaknesses.”

“All right.” There was a brief pause until Maxwell added, “My weakness is I never reveal my weaknesses to anyone.”

I found myself smiling in spite of myself. I actually
liked
this chick.

Carter gave Hillary an imperceptible nod and I knew she’d clinched the job.

“Thank you,” said Hillary. “We’ll be in touch.”

As soon as Maxwell was out the door and out of earshot, Hillary punched the air. “Record time! That interview only took us two minutes. If we keep this up, we can be done by lunch time.”

“Let’s switch things up.” Carter crushed a piece of paper and tossed it into the trashcan. “I’m tired of asking them these scripted questions. We’re going to start asking them some meaningful questions. Questions that actually give us a glimpse of their true characters.”

The next candidate breezed into the conference room. Names were exchanged, hands shaken. Then Carter got down to business. “If you were an animal, which one would you be?”

WHAT?
I quelled a giggle with difficulty.
This
was his meaningful question?

The candidate replied, “A cow in India.”

The second candidate said, “I’d be a lion because I like to nap about eighteen to twenty hours a day.”

Seriously. Why not just say he’s a lazy pig?

The third candidate said, “I’d be a Yeti and force someone to take a non-blurry picture of me.”

I’d almost chewed my Bic pen down to the tip when Jake, the fourth candidate with the Puka shell necklace, actually gave the question some thought. “I’d be a squirrel,” he said at last.

I found myself grinning from ear to ear.

Carter’s mouth curled slightly at the corners.

Hillary was beaming.

Smiles all around. Everyone was just peachy and hunky dory.

A squirrel!

What a brilliant and gutsy answer. For it is an irrefutable fact that squirrels are one of the most resourceful animals in the world.

But then his brilliant and gutsy answer was irrevocably tempered by his addition of, “I’d be a squirrel because I like to play with my nuts.”

I made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort.

Later, after Jake and his Puka shell necklace had left the building, Hillary breathed out a weary sigh. “His brain must have atrophied around the age of fourteen.”

“Fourteen?” Carter snorted. “He had the mental acuity of a six-year-old.”

“That guy was high on life.” I smirked. “And glue! Among other things.”

I suppose I should have known what to expect. Christ. The guy actually wore a Puka shell necklace!

There are only two occasions in which Puka shell necklaces are tolerated: