Page 2 of Sexting the Boss
Just that.
I straighten. “This is Lila Bennett.”
Silence for half a second, then, “Where are the revised numbers for the Larkstone acquisition.”
My spine tightens. “In your folder, sir. The updated projections were printed and delivered to your office at 8:41, and I emailed the spreadsheet at the same time.”
Another pause, then a faint shift in his breathing, like he’s recalculating.
“Bring them to the boardroom,” he commands. “Now.”
My eyes flick to the clock.
8:58 a.m.
The board meeting starts at nine.
“I’m on it,” I say, and I don’t let my voice shake.
I stand fast, and my skirt rides up a little as I move, because my hips don’t do “sleek and invisible.” I chose this pencil skirt because it makes me look capable, and it does, but it also makes every step feel like a statement.
People act like curves are an invitation, and I’ve spent years learning how to make them mind their business.
I grab the folder, check that it’s the right one, and start moving toward Ethan’s office.
Two steps in, my elbow bumps the corner of my desk and a pen rolls off, clattering to the floor.
A man near the printer glances over. His eyes track down and back up with the kind of lazy interest that makes my skin itch.
I don’t slow down.
Ethan’s office door is open, and his executive assistant chair is empty, because he never sits when he can pace.
He’s at the window, phone to his ear, suit jacket buttoned, tie perfect, and he’s saying, “No, you’ll handle it,” like the concept of refusal doesn’t exist.
He turns as I enter, and his eyes land on the folder in my hands first, then my face, then lower for a beat that’s too long to be accidental, then back up again.
Maybe I’m just reading too much into things.
He ends the call with one tap and holds his hand out without a word.
I give him the folder, and my fingers brush his for a second.
His skin is warm, but mine is not.
His gaze doesn’t shift. “Larkstone,” he says, flipping it open as he walks. “The revised EBITDA assumes a staffing reduction.”
“Yes,” I say, matching his stride, because if I fall behind he’ll pretend he doesn’t know me. “But it’s presented as restructuring, not layoffs, and the PR language is already drafted.”
He stops in the hall, and I stop with him. We’re close enough that I can smell his cologne. It’s delicious, just like everything else about him, damn him.
He looks down at the page then up at me. “Why is the tax line different?”
“Because their previous filings were sloppy.” I can’t help the edge in my voice. “I pulled the last three years myself, and I rebuilt the model. If your finance team had done it, you’d be walking into that meeting with wrong numbers.”
A few heads turn our way, and I feel it, but I don’t care.
If I’m going to be broke, I’m at least going to be right. Ethan’s mouth tightens. “My team is competent.”
