Page 6 of The Boss Upstairs
“C’mon, Honey. Strip for me,” she jokes. Thank goodness she’s a woman, because this would be bordering on sexual harassment if she weren’t.
I dip my head and reach for my portfolio case which is very big, and sometimes hard to carry around. I carefully unzip it with nervous hands, and awkwardly edge it toward her desk, waiting for her approval.
“Uh… you might have to clear your desk a bit.”
She swipes her hand across the desk and sends the papers and pencil and pens flying on the floor. HerBest Mommug and framed photos are still standing.
I stand, frozen with shock.
Her grin is impish. “Let’s do this, Honey. Right on my desk.”
Damn, sheisweird.Very strange.But then again, I usually like strange.
I slowly settle my portfolio across her desk, and I’m extremely careful not to knock her mug and frames off.
“Yeah, just like that,” she says. “I like it.”
I laugh again, and flip the cover open.
That’s when I see him standing in the corner, watching us intensely, a delicious smile tracing his lips. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there.
When our gazes meet, he walks over and closes the distance between us. “Please, don’t mind our lovely Mrs. Diaz. She’s a joker. I always tell her she should be doing gigs at Second City, not working for an old bore like me.”
Old bore? Definitely not.
My poor heart is now officially working overtime. God, I’m not even sure I can breathe. I hadn’t expected him to just pop in like this.
He leans over the desk, looking as delicious as the last time I saw him, but a lot more casual; dark jeans and a soft grey sweater. I want to reach out and touch the light stubble on his jaw, barely there.
“Show us your work,” he says. “I’d love to see.”
Damn.
I can barely breathe, let alone speak and move my hands.
I suddenly feel hot and clammy. I reach for my hair, but it’s up in a professional bun, the blue strands hidden. I hesitate for a few seconds, frozen. So many thoughts whirl around in my brain, at rocket speed.I need to do this. This job depends on this. They might not like my stuff, and that’s okay. I don’t need this job financially. I can do this. I’m a professional.
I inhale a deep breath and start.Here goes nothing.
“This campaign was for the opening of a brand new restaurant right here, in Wicker Park. The owners wanted a hip, contemporary vibe. They wanted to communicate that this is the kind of place you go to take the edge off after a long day or week at work,” I explain as I flip through the pages, showing them the various components of the branding; logo, business cards, menu, signs, advertisements, and promotional products from napkins to coasters and the like.
“Very nice,” Weston says.
“Is this place still running, or did it go belly up?” Rosetta asks, acting out what appears to be a garish hanging scene.
I smile. “No, they’re still going and doing well,” I say proudly as if I had a stake in the place.
“Show us more,” Weston urges, all smiles. God, he has the best smile…
Focus.
I walk them through my entire portfolio, explaining every job in detail. Weston shows quiet interest, while Rosetta cracks jokes at every turn. Who knew a campaign educating the public about STDs could be so funny? Chicago Health Services had been a big client.
Finally, after I turn the back cover and close my portfolio, Weston politely offers his hand. I shake it enthusiastically. “Well, it was nice to see your work, Gretchen,” he says. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” I say, wondering if he has any pull with this job. Of course he would. He’s the boss. But has he decided to take himself out of the equation, and leave it all to Rosetta?
Miraculously, I can breathe again once he’s out the door.
