The Boss Crush

  The Boss Crush

  Penny Wylder

  Copyright © 2020 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  Contents

  1. Dalia

  2. Dalia

  3. Lyle

  4. Dalia

  5. Dalia

  6. Lyle

  7. Lyle

  8. Dalia

  9. Dalia

  10. Lyle

  11. Dalia

  12. Lyle

  Epilogue

  Books By Penny Wylder

  1

  Dalia

  You can't bang your boss.

  Dalia, you can. Not. Sleep with him.

  That's what I tell myself as his breath skirts along my throat, his teeth brushing my skin until I'm on fire from above and below. Until I can think of nothing but Lyle's lips on mine, especially after he stops teasing me through my panties then eats me out—like I'm positive he will--letting me taste my own sweetness on his tongue.

  He's your boss!

  Off limits!

  The thing is... that would be so much easier to believe if I didn't already have years of fantasies built up around this man. Because he's not just my boss, not just some sexy guy in a suit that hugs his muscles. Oh no. This man who is making my nipples strain against my bra is so much more than a powerful stranger.

  He's the boy I went weak-kneed for in high school.

  My boss is my childhood crush.

  I'm so fucked.

  Present

  Looking up across the street at the crosswalk sign, I wait for the walk signal. A hoard of people surrounds me like a cloud of bugs, all of us heading in the same direction. I'm squished between some guy who looks like he's talking to himself and a woman wearing a neon yellow jumpsuit.

  Her arms are still moving, knees bending one at a time as she stays moving at the corner. I watch her for a second, wondering why she doesn't just keep going straight, or even down to the park, so she doesn't have to stop at all.

  I'm bumped from behind as the waiting crowd grows with people eager to get on with their day. No one in this city likes to wait.

  Taking a small step forward, my feet hang half off the sidewalk, anxious for the light to change so I can get out of this cluster. It's my first day at my new job, and I'm ready and excited to finally start the life I've always pictured for myself.

  The screech of tires hits my ears, causing me to cringe, and tuck my ear against my shoulder. A horn blares behind the bus, and some guy yells out his window, shaking his fist as if the bus has done something wrong.

  New York City is worlds away from the small town in New Hampshire where I grew up. I traded the tall trees for mile high buildings, and quiet streets for a symphony of noise. But I'm finally here and loving every second of this crazy new world.

  A cool breeze blows between my legs, sweeping up my chest, and sending a ripple of goosebumps down my body. The light turns, and I move with the hoard of people like we're a single unit.

  My new building comes into view, spearing the sky proudly. It's almost the tallest building on Thirty-Eighth Street, dwarfed only by one other skyscraper.

  An overwhelming sense of accomplishment heats me on the inside, filling me from head to toe. I've never truly been proud of myself—until now. This is the culmination of everything; the long nights in college, the crap jobs, all of it to get right here, right now.

  Every step brings me closer to living my dream. A big time job, in a high profile advertising firm, with famous clients, it's what every graphic designer wishes for.

  I'm here. I'm finally here. I made it.

  Stepping up onto the curb, I stop and take a deep breath. I can feel my nerves start to buzz. The knots in my stomach twist harder, the sweat on my palms gets thicker, and the pounding in my chest becomes an atomic bomb.

  You got this.

  I'm bumped lightly, it's fleeting, and I almost don't give it any thought. But I glance down briefly anyway, and find a small boy crying beside me. He's rubbing his eyes, looking up at everyone as they go by with terror on his face. Heavy tears stream down his cheeks, and his skin is flushed from crying.

  Looking around him, I expect to see an adult. But there's no one around him. No one even close enough for me to question.

  He's all alone.

  Leaning over, I smile big and friendly. I don't want to frighten him. “Hi there. I'm Dalia.” He's sucking in huge pulls of air, weeping loudly. I'm quiet for a moment, letting him steady his eyes on my face. Once he seems to focus, I soften my smile. “What's wrong?” I ask, dropping down to his level to look him eye-to-eye.

  The boy doesn't answer, he just stares at me with huge brown eyes.

  “Are you lost?” I ask, looking around behind him, hoping to see some sign he's with someone, and not out here alone.

  He nods, rubbing his eyes in long sweeping circles. “I can't find my mommy.” Each word is pushed out on hiccups of air as he's inhaling.

  You have to be at work soon, Dalia, a voice inside reminds me. It's the first day, you can't be late.

  Only, my heart breaks for this little boy, and the thought of just leaving him here alone turns my stomach. I can't do it; I can't abandon this child. It's wrong. This little boy needs help, and I'm the only who seems to give a shit. No one else has even slowed down to check to see if he’s all right.

  It's an easy decision, and I don't need one more second to think about what I'm going to do. I'm helping this child.

  “How about I help you find your mommy? Does that sound good?” He nods, his sobs slowing down a little. “What's your name?” My voice is calm and soothing. He's freaked out enough, he doesn't need me panicking too.

  “Tim. Timothy Frederick Swanson.”

  “And how old are you, Timothy?”

  “Seven.”

  “Do you like muffins?” He shakes his head yes. “Me too. How about we go get breakfast, and then we go to the police station so they can help get you home. What do you think of that?”

  Tim smiles bashfully, shaking his head yes again. “Can I get a chocolate chip muffin?”

  “You can get any kind you want. Hey, did you know that some of the police around here ride horses?”

  “They do?” His eyes light up, big as saucers.

  “Yup, they do.” I smile and nod my head, holding out my hand. “Come on, let's go.”

  Tim takes my hand, and we walk side by side. He's a lot calmer by the time we get to the police station, and he’s able to give the police his mother's name and the street he lives on.

  I give them my information if they need anything else, and when I leave, Tim is brushing one of the horses in front of the station.

  Smiling to myself, I check my watch.

  Shit! I'm really fucking late!

  Darting out into the street, I stop the next taxi that comes by. “Vox Design, please, on Thirty-Eighth.”

  The taxi rolls up to the building, and I jump out before it stops completely, throwing money at the driver as I slam the door shut.

  Shoving my way through a few people on the sidewalk, I run into the building. There are a few angry looks thrown my way, but I don't care. I'm late and it's my first day.

  This is not how I want to start.

  Come on. Come on. Open up already.

  Slamming the e
levator button with my palm, I hit it until the doors finally open. People spill out as I force my way on. The panel of numbers blinds me for a second as I stare at them.

  My mind is blank. I can't remember which floor Vox Design is on. What the hell is it? Racking my brain, my heart starts to race. This is terrible, this is absolutely terrible.

  'Forty-five,' the voice inside my head says. “Yes,” I say out loud to myself as I tap the button.

  The elevator jerks into motion, but I wish it would go faster. After what seems like an eternity, the doors open, spitting me out into a fancy foyer. There's a receptionist sitting behind a giant desk, the word Vox etched into its hard wood in a design that makes it seem like the name is being carried on a wave.

  It's gorgeous, and I'm tempted to reach out my hand and trace the design.

  My interview was in the HR department, one floor down, so I didn't get to see this part of the office when I was here for orientation and paperwork.

  Marble tile shines under my feet, and a wall of windows looking out onto the city frames the receptionist.

  “Can I help you?” The receptionist is looking up at me with a perfect smile on her face.

  Swallowing hard, I smile back. “Yes, hi, good morning. I'm Dalia—”

  “Dalia Greene, yes, of course. Welcome to Vox Design, I'm Giada.” She stands up from her seat, picking up a thin stack of folders, and holding them to her chest. “Did you get lost coming in this morning?”

  “Oh, no, not exactly.” I want to tell her what happened, but I don't. I don't want to be that girl, the one with excuses, the one who can't take responsibility for her actions.

  It doesn't look good being late, but it looks even worse coming in with a mouthful of an explanation that even I probably wouldn't believe.

  Who finds a lost child on their first day of work?

  No one except me.

  She nods, still holding that perfect smile. “Follow me. I'll show you to your office.”

  “Wait,” I say, holding my hand out. “I have an office?” My voice lingers in the air, stuck between a dream and reality.

  I didn't expect to have an office. I thought I'd be working in a cubical or something. Trapped between twenty other employees, all vying for a chance to be noticed and rise to the top.

  “Of course you have an office.” She chuckles softly, giving a little tick of her head to follow her. “Come on, this way.” Turning on her heels, she starts down a hall to her left.

  Pulling my purse higher on my shoulder, I follow behind her. There are people milling about, walking in and out of doorways, heads down in folders, eyes smiling as they talk to some invisible person in their ear.

  “You're right over here.” Giada stops just before the door and holds out the folders. “This is yours for today.” Pointing further down the hall, she says, “There's a break room with a coffee pot and fridge, a microwave, and other stuff you might need in the last door on the end to your right. And don't hesitate if you need anything, I'm extension four.”

  “Thanks,” I say, thumbing the folders, and glancing inside.

  When I look up, she's gone before I can say another word, already halfway back to her desk. I stand idle for a moment, just trying to grasp this new life I have. My own office, at my dream job, for a very reputable company.

  I've made it. I've finally made it.

  Opening the door, I step inside, and stop in my tracks.

  You've got to be fucking with me?

  Is this some type of sick joke?

  Leaning against my desk is a woman I know all too well, Sandy Vox. She has the same dirty blonde hair, the same thin face with sharp cheekbones, and the same shitty frown I remember from high school.

  Moving my eyes to the other figure by the window, my heart stops inside my chest.

  It's Lyle, her twin brother. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

  Vox Design. . . How did I not put two and two together?

  It didn't click in my brain when I applied online or came for my interview. Not once did either of them cross my mind when I saw the company name.

  The brother and sister duo are the epitome of my fucking nightmares. Sandy the bully, and Lyle, my high school crush, who left me behind all those years ago.

  What the fuck is happening right now?

  Sandy glares at me with hard eyes, the same angry eyes she's always had. “You're late,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest as she tips her chin up.

  My eyes move from her to Lyle, then back to her. I don't know if I should smile and introduce myself, or if she's having flashbacks of her own right now.

  Lyle shifts away from the window, his movements easy and relaxed. Then he notices me, like really notices me. Stopping in his tracks, he sucks in a quick breath of air. I watch him as he freezes, his chest, arms and legs, all staying nervously still.

  Does he recognize me?

  Does she recognize me?

  I don't know what to do right now. I don't know if either of them remembers me at all. The look on her face says no. The way she's holding herself, the way her eyes have no depth or recognition.

  I'm sure if she did, she would have busted out laughing, maybe thrown some of her horrible nicknames for me out, then fired my ass.

  But Lyle, Lyle's eyes are different. He's not just looking at me, he sees me. His cobalt blue eyes are bright as the sky and deep as the ocean. I'm trapped in them, falling hard and fast.

  My heart flutters with the same energy it used to when I was a teenager, when my feelings for him controlled the pace of my heart and woke up the butterflies in my stomach.

  “This is not the way you want to start with our company—to be honest, it's fucking terrible—” Sandy leans her face closer, her brows crinkling into her nose. “Do you even know who I am?” Her jaw hangs to the side as she glares at me. “I own this fucking place.” Her head jerks on her shoulders as she points a finger at the floor. “Every wall, every room, every piece of furniture here belongs to me. And now you, you belong to me, too, for as long as you work here. But how long? Well…” she throws her arms out to the side, knocking a cup loaded with pens to the floor. “That's all up to.”

  Sandy glances down at the pens, then back up to me. I tilt my head, unsure what she expects me to do. I'm certainly not going to clean up her mess, that's not what I'm here for. I wasn't hired as her maid.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I kick my leg out, and clear my throat, angling my chin higher. I'm not that shy little girl anymore who's just going to bow down because she gives me the stink eye.

  I have a backbone.

  Taking a step closer to me, she kicks a few of the pens with the tip of her shoe, sending them rolling across the floor.

  “Do you want this job? Like, really want this job. . .” she's fumbling with her words, searching for something, and suddenly it hits me. I know what she's looking for—my name.

  She really doesn't remember me. . .

  “Dalia,” I say. “My name's Dalia, and yes, I wouldn't be here if I didn't want this job.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I don't have to worry about her bringing up all the shit from our past, and everything that has no place in my life now. We can just leave high school where it belongs, in the past.

  Although as I'm standing here, staring into her stale pupils, listening to her snarl at me like I'm a maid and not the new employee of a high-end graphic design company, I'm not sure what's scarier: being in her shadow now or being in her shadow back then.

  Lyle's watching, not saying a word, just lingering in the background, listening to his sister's tirade. But that look, that look on his face is more than enough for me to know he doesn't recognize me either.

  He can't, it's not possible. The Lyle I remember would never look at me the way he is, not with this much lust, this much heat, this much desire.

  Because this Lyle, the Lyle that I'm meeting here, is looking at me like hungry jaguar ready to pounce. His eyes rake my body, devouring every inch with gre
edy blinks.

  Leaning against the wall, he tucks his arms under each other, and I'm floored by how strong he looks. The muscles under his sleeves threaten to bust free as they roll into solid mountains. The seams strain to stay connected, and the buttons bite into the fabric.

  His eyes pierce me where I'm standing, squeezing around my lungs and making it hard to breathe. I'm trying, I'm trying so hard to not let my skin turn crimson. But Lyle Vox is a man who's never made that easy.

  And right now, there is no doubt in my mind that he has more than just thoughts about work going through his head.

  Sandy takes a step toward the window, crossing her arms over her chest again. She lets her eyes drift to look out through the window as she keeps talking.

  She hasn't changed at all, that's easy to see. Talking is something she's always been good at. She always had a comeback for anything. I swear, she just likes to hear herself most of the time.

  “If you want this job like you say you do, and you expect to go places here, I suggest you don't start off by being late.” Scoffing, she looks down at the street. “If there's one thing I find fucking rude and disrespectful, it's an employee who thinks they can make their own schedule.”

  I'm half listening to her, half watching Lyle from the corner of my eye. I feel like he's undressing me with his eyes. They keep moving around my body. Over my face, down my chest and belly, then traveling back up.

  Every sweep makes me excited, causing butterflies to explode and my nerves to jitter. I can't focus on what she's saying because I'm getting lost in the deep blue of his stare. The same blue that stopped my heart at seventeen years old is stopping it now.

  Sandy turns in my direction quickly, causing me to stiffen nervously. She walks across the room, one hand on her hip, the other perched like a raptor.