Page 1 of Playing with the Boss
ONE
Lisa
All eyes are on me as I make my way to the head of the meeting table. I clutch the notes in my hand, ruing the fact I didn’t have more time to prepare for this. Our team leader, Rosie, begged me to stand in at the last minute and I couldn’t turn her down after all the times she’s bailed me out of awkward situations.
It’s only a report. All I have to do is present the figures and then sit down again. Easy right? Except it’s a financial report, and my specialty is sales. Not to mention the three sets of eyes that currently watch as I set the papers down on the table and smooth my tight pencil skirt, all belong to management—one of whom is from our head office.
The one I met already, outside of office hours.
I catch the eye of the youngest of the three and my skin flames from the caress of those gray irises. Does he know it was me? After all, it was dark where we were. He may not have seen my face all that well.
No pressure, Lisa. Recite the figures, bullshit your way through it, and live to see another day. It’s not as though he’ll call you out on your extracurricular activities right here, right now, in front of his colleagues and peers.
Your colleagues and peers.
“First quarter projections were met, the return on the Forrester project twelve percent higher than estimated …” I spiel off what’s on the paper before me, aware that one set of eyes, in particular, burn a hole through me as I stand before the wolves like a sacrificial lamb.
I recognized him the second I walked into the boardroom. His height, even when seated, is evident; long legs struggle to fold beneath the solid timber table. He’s corporate decadence wrapped in an expensive dark gray suit, the tailoring perfect for his athletic physique. What heats my blood though, is remembering how he looked in jeans and a well-fitted shirt.
I can’t decide which version of him is hotter. Both leave me wishing for a tea break so I can rush to the Ladies and relieve myself of this ache.
“Thank you, Lisa.” Our general manager, Alf, gestures for me to take my seat once I’ve successfully summed up a bunch of figures I only half understand.
I tug my skirt down before I slide onto the leather chair, ensuring it doesn’t bunch further, and resume my perusal of the guy. A neatly trimmed beard accents a strong jaw; full lips my focus as he taps his pen against them. The memory of how that mouth felt as his lips skimmed the side of my neck assaults me, how they felt when he sucked my earlobe between his teeth…
I freeze when I realize his eyes are fixated on mine, the pen pressed against plump flesh while the corners of his mouth quirk in a cheeky grin. Floor, swallow me now.
He remembers.
I feign interest in Alf as he prattles on about one of our more significant accounts and the debt the client has accrued. The information is news to me—finance not usually something that’s shared amongst staff, although it should be. After all, if the clients I sell to can’t pay their bill, I should know that, right?
“We’ve got one more presentation from Mason, and then we’ll wrap this up for the afternoon.”
Thank God for that, because even ten more minutes in the room with this luscious man will bring me to the brink of a shame-fueled meltdown.
The hottie stands, and to my horror, it dawns on me that he’s Mason. Of course, you idiot. Thick fingers make quick work of his cuffs, and despite my best attempt not to look, I’m glued to his muscular forearms that are adorned with ink as he rolls his sleeves up to just below the elbow. My chest tingles with the muscle memory of how he held me against him with that arm, how his embrace pinned my back against his rock hard front.
“Thanks, Alf.”
Ugh. That voice. It’s the kind of deep timbre that you fantasize about murmuring your name while you lie naked before an open fire.
Settle down, Lisa. If my panties grow any wetter, then I’ll be backing out of the room when this is all said and done to hide the telltale damp patch on my skirt.
“Some of you are aware,” Mason starts, “yet some of you aren’t, of the purpose of our visit here this month.”
This month? He’s here all month? Lord, help me now.
“Last year’s financial statement was a blow to Leyton Press, as much as the wider umbrella of companies in the Leyton Media portfolio.” He stands before everyone in the room, confident with his chin held high, as his hands alternate between clasped and wide before him. “The losses have grown the past three years, and we’d be a fool not to attribute that solely to printed papers being an archaic means of communicating news and advertising business in today’s digital world.” His speech seems ominous, and I’m pretty sure I should listen, as whatever he says next will affect my job, but that body … “Over the next month, we will analyze the business in infinite detail. Every dollar spent, every resource bought, will be scrutinized and assessed. The bottom line is if we can’t turn things around and make a profit this year, the print section of Leyton Media will be dissolved, and the remaining capital reinvested into the other subsidiaries.”
The guy has more or less told me that I'd lose my job before the year is out, yet all I can do is wonder what exactly he does in the gym to get such broad shoulders.
Wonder if he’ll let me run my palms over them again.
“I thank you all in advance for your co-operation, and throughout the next week I will be in touch to set up times to meet your teams and hear their concerns.”
A wave of thanks and carefully veiled concern circles the room as Mason moves back to his seat. It’s only when his taut ass hits the chair that the reality hits home. Print media is outdated. Our significant accounts have all dropped their ad spend, and in some cases, moved from bi-monthly to quarterly spots to save a dollar.
The ship has already struck rocks, and no amount of plugging in the hole will save it now.