I’ve been sitting in my office since I realized I sent the wrong file, just waiting for the call to do the walk of shame. It finally came. The hour I had to wait for it felt like a true eternity. I should have used it to start packing up my desk, making sure Patti, my cactus, is safely secured and ready for transport. I should have wiped any other personal files off my computer and cleaned out the filing cabinet where I have a stash of candy hidden away. It’s my weakness, and at times, because of those candies, my office looks like it’s perpetually Halloween.
I slouched to Philippe’s office with my head hung low. This is the most humiliated I’ve ever been. Wait, correction. I’m pretty sure what I’m about to experience is going to be the most humiliating.
Right after I enter, I shut the door tightly behind me. No one needs to hear about this if they don’t already know about it. I wouldn’t put it past Philippe to get revenge by circulating my little bit of creative writing around the office. Defy me and die. It would be a good headline to his email. More like, write inappropriate things about me and get fired, but you know. The more drama, the better to make his point.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt without even looking up. I’ve developed a fixation with the industrial carpet at the moment. “Seriously. You have no idea. You were never supposed to read that. I only wrote it when I was extremely chezzed off. I really am a nice person. Truly. I’m ashamed of myself. I’ll resign. You don’t have to fire me. I’ve already brought my notice.” I hold up a hastily scribbled bit of paper I prepared right after Philippe called my office to demand my presence.
A slow clap is not what I expected. But it’s what I get. I snap my head up and find Philippe grinning at me. Holy poo pants. I’ve never seen him smile before that I can remember, especially not like this. This is a two-ton megawatt type of grin, and it feels kind of like a kick straight to my lady bits. In a good way. I think. I don’t know. Because I’m seriously confused at the moment.
“I’m not going to fire you.” Philippe stands. God, he’s huge. I’m five-eight, and he towers over me, even at a distance.
“You’re not?” I squeak. It would be nice to be more dignified than a mouse at the moment, but hey. You know how the saying goes about rarely getting what we want? Yeah.
“No. I found your writing quite amusing.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did.” His smile turns absolutely predatory.
My belly does something strange. It’s half fear, half something else going on in there. Something female. Something dark. Something wild. The same kind of something that did a little happy dance when I thought about Philippe tying me up with his tie. And no, I’ve never done that before, and no, I don’t think I’d be into it. Although…you never know. No. God no. What is wrong with my body? Why are my hormones so out of whack all of a sudden?
“I truly did. If I fired you, you should consider a career as a writer. I think you have real talent.”
It’s biting and sarcastic. I barely stifle a groan. “I really am sorry. It was unkind at best. I didn’t really mean it.”
“Yes, you did.”
I scrunch up the paper I’m holding. “No, I didn’t. I mean, I did. Kind of. But not like that. Not to hurt you.”
“We’ve known each other for a while. No?”
“Yes.”
“You have every reason to hate me.”
“I don’t hate anyone.”
“I make you order me socks. And underwear.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you don’t hate me for it?”
“I disliked it, but hate, no. I only wrote all that stuff in the heat of anger.” For some stupid reason, I want to say in the heat of passion, but I’m glad the right word came out instead. “We’ve worked together for a long time. Please believe I never meant to hurt you. My grandma suggested I start journaling to work through stress and stuff. It seemed like a dumb idea. It was more of a satire than anything.”
Philippe stares me down. “I especially found the Dutch oven part to be entertaining.”
“Oh, god.”
“And the part about bending the laws of physics. I have to say…you have quite a creative imagination. The creativity it took to think of shoving cake ingredients up my ass—”
“Please,” I beg. “Please. Don’t—just—don’t.”
“I could go on. You did.”
“I know.” I seriously wish I could bend the laws of physics myself and stuff my own self up my own ass. Or just disappear. That would work for me too.
“I actually have a proposition for you.”
My head snaps up again. My vertebrae hurt from that one. I think I might have given myself whiplash. “Is it something along the lines of how I stay working for you while you hate me for life and give me the most terrible, horrible, menial work as punishment for the rest of my days?”
“Nope. You can do better than that.”
“No. I can’t.”
“You think that’s what you deserve?”
“Yes. Undoubtedly, yes. If I could take back you seeing and reading it, I would.”
“It wasn’t all bad. You did express some sort of sympathy for me, which makes me believe you truly are a good person who was venting like a comedian on stage because it was amusing, and was what it took to get through the day.”
I give him an are you for real? look. This is not my boss. Philippe Wilson is not nice. He does not give second chances. He breathes fire and shoots lightning bolts out of his ass (thank god
