Catherine Mann - Desired By The Boss

The Molyneux money to which she had contributed in absolutely no way at all.

And the brittleness of all that—the fact that without the Molyneux money she had literally nothing...no means to support herself...not one thing she’d bought with money she’d actually earned herself—was quite frightening.

Ivy: How’s the new job going?

April: Good. Mostly. Lots of boxes.

She’d love to post a photo to show the magnitude of the hoard to her sisters, but photography was one of the many things expressly forbidden by the confidentiality agreement she’d signed. Along with any discussion of the contents of the boxes.

April: My boss is interesting.

She’d typed that before she’d really thought about what she was doing.

Ivy: Oooh! Interesting-interesting? Or INTERESTING-interesting? ;-) ;-) ;-)

April: Both.

She’d never been good at keeping secrets from her sisters.

Mila: Photo?

April: No. I can’t even tell you his name. But he’s tall. Dark hair, dark eyes. Stubble. What do you call it...? Swarthy?

Mila: I’ve always liked that word

April: But he’s my boss.

Ivy: From an HR point of view, that’s not really a problem unless there is any question of a power imbalance. And I doubt nepotism is an issue in your current role.

Mila: It’s handy having a CEO in the family.

April: I’m not going to do anything about it, anyway.

Mila: WHY NOT?

Ivy: WHY?

April: It’s not the right time. I need to be single for a while. Right? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when your husband walks out on you?

Mila: I don’t have a husband ;-)

Mila did have a very handsome, very successful boyfriend who adored her, however. Everyone knew they’d get married eventually.

April: Not helpful.

Mila: Sorry. Too soon?

Too soon to be teased about her situation?

April: No. I’m not curled up in the corner sobbing or anything.

She welcomed a bit of levity—she had right from the day that Evan had left her.

Plus, she was well past that now. Now she slept easily—no thoughts of Evan whatsoever. Working fourteen-hour days possibly also helped.

Ivy: I think being single for a while is a good idea.

Ivy was always good for keeping things on topic.

Mila: But you can still be single and do interesting things with an interesting man ;-) ;-)

Ivy: Exactly.

There was a long pause as her sisters clearly awaited her response.

This was not what she’d expected. She’d expected words of caution. Now the possibilities had short-circuited her brain.

Mila: April?

April: I don’t know what to do.

Ivy: But you know WHO to do!

Mila: Ha-ha-ha!

April: Can you post some more photos of Nate?

Mila: Boo. You’re no fun.

Ivy had taken the bait, though, and bombarded them with three adorable photos in quick succession. The conversation swiftly moved on, for which April was extremely grateful.

But that night it was Hugh Bennell who crowded her dreams.

April was almost finished for the day when Hugh opened the front door. The charity truck had just left, taking away the latest boxes full of donated things.

It had left the foyer almost empty, with only a neat stack of flattened boxes near the door and the ‘Hugh’ box sitting on the bottom step of the grand stairway.

‘Hello!’ April said, smiling as he stepped inside. She hadn’t seen him since the stripy blouse debacle, but had already determined her approach: regardless of her sisters’ opinion, she was going to remain strictly professional.

Even considering another approach made her...

Well. It didn’t matter. It was too soon after Evan, and Hugh was her boss. These were compelling supporting arguments for professionalism.

No matter how compelling Hugh himself might be, simply by walking through the glossy black door.

April had just sent him her summary email, but was doing a quick sweep-up of the dirt that the charity man had tracked inside before going home.

‘Hi,’ he said, shooting only the briefest glance in her direction before striding for his box. It was the first day since that afternoon in his basement that she’d had anything to add to it, and of course she’d let him know.

Hugh picked up the box in the swiftest of motions and then immediately headed down the hallway—which led through the kitchen, the utility room and then outside to the skip.

April had assumed he’d come and check the box after she’d gone for the day, so she wasn’t really prepared for this.

‘Wait!’ she said, before she could stop herself.

He stopped, but didn’t turn. ‘Yes?’ he asked. His tone was impatient.

She knew she shouldn’t have said anything.

‘Nothing—sorry,’ she said.

There. Professional.

Then, somehow, she was jogging up the hallway. ‘Wait...please.’

Again he stopped immediately at the sound of her voice.

This time he turned to face her.

She’d run up right behind him, so he was really close, with only the open box between them.

She reached inside. She’d found a lot of sentimental things across two boxes today: a large pile of ancient finger paintings and children’s drawings—all labelled ‘Hugh’ with a date in the mid-nineteen-eighties—and all of his school reports, from preschool through to Year Thirteen.

But it was some photos that she picked up now, in a messy pile she’d attempted to make neat. But that had been impossible with the collection of different-sized photos: some round-edged, others standard photo-sized, some cut out small and weathered, as if they’d been kept in someone’s purse.

‘These are from your first days of school,’ she said.

Hugh didn’t even look at them. He shrugged. ‘I don’t care.’

But he wasn’t meeting her gaze, he was just looking—April thought—determinedly uninterested.

‘I don’t believe you.’

That got his attention.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, sounding as British as April had ever heard him.

‘I don’t believe you don’t care,’ she said, slowly and clearly. As if there was any chance he’d misunderstand.

His gaze was locked on hers now. ‘I don’t see how that matters.’

April fanned the photos out as if they were a deck of cards. ‘Look,’ she said, giving them a shake. ‘These are photos of you in your school uniform. For each year there’s a photo by yourself, with your school bag. And another with your mum. These are special.’

‘They’re not,’ he said. He nodded at the box. ‘Please put them back.’

April shook her head. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ she said firmly, her gaze remaining steady.

It would seem she’d thrown her professionalism out of the window.

She’d get extra shifts at the supermarket if he fired her and the temp agency blacklisted her. Or clean toilets. Whatever. She just couldn’t pretend that she agreed with this.

‘You’re making a mistake.’

His eyes narrowed. His voice was rough. ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’ He turned away from her and continued down the hallway. ‘I’ll just throw them out tomorrow.’

‘Do you hate her?’ April blurted out the words to his rapidly retreating back.

Faster than she’d thought possible he was back in front of her. Right in front of her. He’d dropped the box at some point and there was now no barrier between them.

His presence crowded her, but she didn’t take a step back.

‘No!’ he said. Not loudly, but with bite. Then he blinked, and belatedly added, ‘That is none of your business.’

His words were calm now, but—again—deliberately so.