Page 12 of The Boss

Fuck.

"Chinese restaurant from across the building," she says, setting the bags on the conference table by the windows. "I didn't know what you wanted, so I got a bit of everything. Kung pao chicken, dumplings, chow mein, fried rice, and spring rolls."

"That works."

We settle into what should be normal work. She spreads documents across the table while I open the containers, and for about ten minutes, it almost feels professional. She walks me through Levi's notes, pointing out potential issues with exporting raw materials. Her analysis is sharp and thorough, and I find myself genuinely impressed despite being distracted by the way she tucks her pen behind her ear or how she keeps gnawing on her bottom lip.

The office feels different at night. The windows that showed the city's energy during the day now reflect our own images back at us, and every small sound seems amplified. The soft click of her pen. The rustle of papers. The way her skirt pulls slightly when she shifts in her chair.

I'm trying to focus when she reaches across the table for a file, and her perfume—the same scent that's been tormenting me for days—drifts over. I read the same paragraph three times before giving up.

"Question about Levi's management style," I say, pushing the document aside.

She looks up, eyebrows raised. "Okay."

"How does he handle difficult employees?"

"He doesn't really have any. People want to work for him. People bend over backwards to please him."

"What about demanding bosses? How do you handle those?"

Her fingers pause on the chopsticks. "Are you asking about anyone specific?"

"Just curious about your strategies. You've been Levi's EA for two years. You must have developed techniques."

"Techniques for what?"

"Staying professional when your boss is being unreasonable."

Vivian sets down her chopsticks and leans back in her chair. The careful distance she's been maintaining all day is still there, but something in her posture shifts. "Mr. Astor, are you trying to get me to critique your management style?"

"I'm trying to figure out why you're sitting there like you're afraid I'm going to bite."

"I'm not afraid you're going to bite."

"Then where are your claws, Vivian? I want to see them. You were feisty enough when we first met and had opinions about everything."

"I'm not sure if you've noticed, Mr. Astor, but we are at work. Who I am at a bar will obviously be vastly different from who I am in the office. I know when to sheathe my claws."

"I just can't seem to reconcile the person. You had plenty to say at the bar. And this morning, for about thirty seconds, you remembered how to fight back. Now you're all yes sir, no sir, would you like me to sharpen your pencils."

"Maybe I'm being professional because this is a professional environment."

"Or maybe you're being boring because you think it's safer."

"Excuse me?" Her eyes narrow. "Boring?"

"Disappointing, actually. You told me that anyone who drinks hotel bourbon clearly has more money than sense."

"You do have more money than sense."

There it is. The first crack in her armor. I know this is unprofessional, but fuck, I want to see her—the woman underneath.

"Better. What else?"

"This is ridiculous."

"Is it? You've been tiptoeing around me like I'm going to fire you for breathing wrong. It's exhausting to watch."