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He squints his eyes, giving me a once over as if he's wondering if arguing with me will be worth his time. "Let's go over my schedule."
Mid-eye-roll, I stop. I can't be obvious. I hate the man, sure, but I also need this job. I was lucky to get it—his longtime assistant retired and moved out of the country, and he had a revolving door of temps until I showed up. Of course, he never told me any of this—I heard courtesy of Emma.
"You have that dinner at Malcolm's in a couple of days," I say, remembering how excited he got when he told me to pencil that in digitally.
He rocks back in his chair, rubbing his eyes in annoyance. "Shit, that's right."
This type of event I won't fuck up. I know better than to mess with his professional stuff. Regardless of his shitty people management skills, he’s excellent at his job.
"This isn't an overt business meeting; it's a networking situation. I asked Malcolm Hayes to invite me to this party because I heard that Brooks Harrington, the founder of Sugar & Silk, would be there. I need to pitch my collab idea to Brooks. The man is hard to get a hold of."
I nod. He's been making calls, but this Brooks guy is busy. The thought of someone snubbing Archer gives me a twisted sense of joy. I hear my thoughts and bite the inside of my cheek. Shit, I may need therapy. Maybe the journaling isn't enough to heal these uncontrollable emotions I nurture toward my boss.
"I can't show up alone. Everyone else has dates. It'll be too obvious if I'm there by myself."
"Well, you have two days." That's longer than most of your relationships, I add inwardly, biting my tongue.
He sighs. "I don't have time for this bullshit. That's why I’ve been dating Allegra for the past three weeks. So we'd have some rapport, and she could attend it with me."
Aren't you the last romantic? I bite my tongue again.
"And you ruined it," he says, his eyes as cold as a frozen lake.
"But Mr. Cromwell… I accidentally wrote the name of the woman you dated four weeks ago. A week before Allegra came into place."
"Exactly. You made a mistake. You're lucky to still have a job."
I shift in the chair. Now, desire is gone, and I wish I could throw this man in a snake-infested lake. Damn it, though, he's right—I'm lucky to have this job. But he can't keep weaponizing my needing a job to make me feel like shit.
"Which is why you'll go with me," he says, bringing me back to reality.
I tilt my head to the side, ensuring I heard him correctly. "With you?"
"As my date. Think of it as a regular business meeting. Only at night."
As his date? I swallow the sharp knives in my throat. "What do you mean?"
Since I started working for him, I’ve attended countless events and trips with him. After all, he's the CEO of Cromwell Travel, a well-known travel website, and he goes places—figuratively and literally. I'm constantly introduced as his assistant, and my position is obvious to anyone in the room. But to go somewhere with him as his date? That sounds… personal.
He shrugs. "You'll go as Hazel Dillon. My date."
"What if Brooks finds out later that I'm your assistant?" After all, I'll contact his assistant and so forth if he lands the collaboration. Though I doubt a guy like Brooks would care about the fine print of our relationship. Something tells me the man who founded Sugar & Silk has different morals than the rest of us.
"Oh, that's easy. We didn't work out as a couple, but a position was available at my company, and you took it."
I set the iPad aside. His lack of regard for anyone but himself never ceases to surprise me. "What if I have plans on Saturday night?"
"Cancel them. I'm your priority."
He's my priority. A wave of frustration rolls over me. I knew having a life outside work would be challenging, but for him not to show zero appreciation like that… I shake my head. "What if my boyfriend doesn't like the idea of me going out with my boss and pretending to be his date?"
He chuckles. "What boyfriend?"
The nerve! I upgrade my mental punishment from a snake-infested lake to a rough sea filled with white sharks—though I bet the bastard would feel right at home. He'd simply be visiting his family.
"If I had one, I'm sure he'd be appalled," I say, anger welling inside me. I want to grab my journal and throw it at his head. Asshole.
"If you had one, I'm sure he'd understand that you fucked up at work, and you're making up for it. Simple," he says, unfazed.
