That Boss Of Mine

Literally. She fell off the boat, right into the water. It had been the beginning of a looong line of Finnegan bad luck. Klutzy, ditzy, jinxed, hexed—those were all words that Audrey had heard used to describe her family over the years. And, carrying on the family tradition, she, too, was little more than a bad-luck charm. Wherever she wenteth, mishap followedeth. To put it in the vernacular, she, like the rest of her family, was not exactly a child of fortune. Nothing ever went right for the Finnegans.

Still, she reconsidered as she eyed her new employer, maybe she was due for a spurt of good luck for a change. If nothing else, Mr. Wheeler would be infinitely more appealing to look at than Manny the bag boy had been.

“Um,” he said, by way of response to her earlier question about where to begin. “I suppose I could show you around the office.”

Audrey arced her gaze around the room, taking in one elevated design table with halogen lamp, one high stool of unmistakable saloon origin and numerous boxes holding numerous files. It wasn’t much different from what she’d encountered in the outer office—one generic desk with off-off- off-brand computer, and more boxes full of files. “Okay,” she said, wondering what more there might be to Rush Commercial Designs, Inc.

“This,” Mr. Wheeler said, throwing his arms open wide, “is my office. That—” he waved a hand toward the design table “—is my work area and is not to be touched under any circumstances. Those—” he gestured toward the boxes “—are my files, likewise to be left alone. Out there—” he pointed toward the door through which she’d entered “—is the reception area, where you’ll be working. Beyond that and down the hall—” this time he waved his hand, as if striving to indicate great distance “—there’s a small washroom. It’s near the door to the street, where you first came in.”

That evidently concluded the tour, Audrey thought, because Mr. Wheeler didn’t say anything more.

“Mind if I take a closer look at my desk?” she asked. “My telephone? My computer terminal?”

He must have misunderstood the question, because his expression became absolutely crestfallen, and he dropped his hands to his sides in a posture she could only describe as thoroughly defeated. “Didn’t you see them when you first came in? Don’t tell me Bruno took those, too. Hell, those were paid for.”

“Who’s Bruno?” she asked as she scrambled to follow Mr. Wheeler out of the office, thinking it was the only remark he’d made that she didn’t quite understand.

Too late she realized he had halted only a few steps beyond the door, and, having hastened her step to catch up with him, she barreled into him at a pretty fast clip. Upon impact Mr. Wheeler went bolting forward, stumbling, landing on all fours on the floor. Audrey moved immediately to help him up, but she twisted her ankle just as she was reaching out to him and went hurtling forward herself. Before she knew what has happening, she had landed on his back, straddling him, perched the way a child might be when sitting astride a favorite uncle for a pony ride.

For one split second neither of them moved. Then Mr. Wheeler abruptly spun his body around, landed deftly on his fanny and caught Audrey capably in his lap. He narrowed his eyes at her, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of a woman who would ride her boss like a horse. And as she met his gaze, Audrey’s heart went pitty-pat, pitty-pat, pitty-pat. And then he smiled, a halfhearted little smile that indicated he wasn’t all that put off by their situation. After that, her heart went zing-zing-zing-zing-zing.

Oh, my.

He had caught her by the waist, and now his hands were planted firmly atop each of her hips. Only then did Audrey notice that his thumbs were idly grazing the bare skin revealed between her skirt and her top. Braving a glance down, she realized that her clothing was too revealing for mixed company given her new posture. Her skirt was hiked up far enough on one side to reveal the lace of her red panties through the hose beneath. Her sweater, too, was riding high, though thankfully not high enough to underscore the scant red brassiere beneath it.

Thinking back, she supposed she could have chosen something a little less revealing for her first day on the job. But the late-March morning had been surprisingly balmy, and after months of cold, damp winter, she’d longed to feel the warm breeze on as much of her body as she could. Plus, she’d wanted to make a good impression on her new boss. Plus, she’d really been in a red mood today.

Then again, there wasn’t much in her wardrobe that wasn’t revealing. Having started off as a chunky kid, then having bloomed into a chubby adolescent, Audrey had worked and sweated for most of her adult years to drop her weight. Now at twenty-eight years, five feet nine inches, and 127 pounds, she liked to show herself off.

Hey, if you’ve got it, flaunt it, right? she’d thought. Especially if you didn’t have much else going for you. Now, however, she was beginning to think that maybe she shouldn’t have flaunted it quite so majorly in Mr. Wheeler’s direction.

As if he’d read her mind, he cleared his throat indelicately, scattering her thoughts. But with her mind emptied, her insides went all muddled and warm, because she realized he still had both hands around her naked waist. Even more troubling, she had tangled her fingers in the crisp white fabric of his shirt, and beneath her fingertips his heart fairly hummed with anticipation. As discreetly as she could, Audrey unwound the fingers of one hand and moved them to his shoulder. But that only brought into stark, raving focus the chiseled, well-defined musculature lurking beneath.

Simply put, her boss was built. And somehow she found herself wondering if maybe they couldn’t just spend the rest of the day sitting in the middle of the floor this way, just exploring each other’s bodies. Hey, it gave a whole new meaning to employee orientation.

“We, uh, we don’t seem to be having a good day, do we?” he said softly, breaking the odd spell that had begun to descend around them.

Speak for yourself, Audrey thought. This had been the best day she’d had in a long, long time. However, she did concede, “I guess we’re not really starting off as well as we could be.”

He nodded at that but did nothing to alter their position on the floor. Instead, he only continued to gaze into her eyes as if he were looking for something very important there. A warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the warble of the spring breeze rippling through the open door and everything to do with the gentle back-and-forth motion of her employer’s thumbs across her bare skin.

Her employer. Oh, gosh. Oh, no. Oh, jeez.

Finally it registered on Audrey just how badly she had started off her first day on the job. With as much grace as she could manage, which, granted, under the circumstances wasn’t much, she pushed herself up from her boss’s lap. That, unfortunately, left her kneeling before him—pretty much the second worst position to be in with one’s employer, right after riding him like a pony. Hurriedly she tugged her skirt back down around her thighs as best she could.

Mental note, Audrey, she told herself. Shop for trousers. Big, loose trousers

Unfortunately such a purchase would have to wait until she had more money in her bank account. Or some money, for that matter, since $36.47 wasn’t even enough to earn interest.

She shoved that thought away, too, and with only a marginally more graceful effort, managed to push herself up to standing. Mr. Wheeler, she noted, however, remained on the floor, and she hoped he wasn’t trying to cop a peek up her skirt. Then again, she wondered, why would he bother after the free show she’d just given him?

Finally he rose, too, smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt once he was standing again. Somehow, though, Audrey got the feeling he performed the gesture not because his shirt was wrinkled, but because his palms were sweaty. Then, noting that she was suffering from that exact same malady herself, she gave her skirt one final tug, wiping her own hands dry in the bargain.

Only when they stood facing each other like two—relatively—normal human beings did her new employer speak again.

“Your desk,” he said, throwing a hand to the left in a motion she supposed was meant to look nonchalant

Audrey trained her gaze in the direction he indicated, noting again the cheap-looking piece of furniture accessorized by a chair that appeared to be far from comfortable. The computer terminal atop it was making some very dubious noises, as if it were on its last legs and just waiting for someone to push the right button that would put it out of its misery. She swung her attention back to her boss, not quite able to hide her astonishment at the appalling lack of amenities claimed by Rush Commercial Designs, Inc.

“That’s it?” she asked. “You’ll pardon me for asking, Mr. Wheeler, but—”

“Rush,” he interrupted her.

“What?” she asked, confused.

“It’s Mr. Rush, not Mr. Wheeler. Wheeler is my first name. Rush is my last name. Hence the name of the company being Rush Commercial Designs, Inc.”

She thought about that for a moment. “Oh. Okay. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

“You’ll pardon me for asking,” she said again, “but shouldn’t there be a little more to the office than, well...this?”

He nodded, the gesture clearly one of resignation. “Yes, there should be. But there’s not. You’ve come to work for a failing business that I’m doing my damnedest to save, Miss Finnegan. My luck of late has been quite bad. I apologize for that, but I hope you’re up to the task of working for someone who appears to be jinxed.”

She straightened proudly, throwing her shoulders back, smiling as she smoothed a hand over the tuft of curls atop her head. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Wheeler,” she said, feeling confident for the first time in her entire life. “You and I should get along just fine. Because when it comes to bad luck, Audrey Finnegan wrote the book.”

Two

Wheeler assured himself during the week that followed that his initial introduction to Miss Audrey Finnegan must, without question, have been a fluke. No one, absolutely no one, could possibly be that inept, graceless and unfortunate. Her clumsiness had doubtless resulted from her being nervous about her first day on the job and nothing more. Once she caught on to the routine of his office, then everything would be okay.

Surely, on that first occasion, he told himself, Miss Finnegan had just been having One of Those Days. And surely, afterward, once she got the hang of things, a working relationship with her would ensue that, if not absolutely ideal, was certainly tolerable. That was what Wheeler told himself for the entirety of that first week.

Wheeler, however, was wrong.

Evidently, every day was One of Those Days when it came to Audrey Finnegan. And really, when he reflected back over those first five working days on this, the sixth working day, that first day with her had actually been her best to date. Because after one week of working with Miss Finnegan, Wheeler was fit to be tied. In a straitjacket. To a cement pylon. Near a very short pier.

As he strolled down Main Street toward his office the Monday after hiring his new—and thankfully temporary—secretary, he gradually slowed his pace and eyed his front door with much trepidation. In only five working days, the illustrious Miss Finnegan had managed to upstage every catastrophe that had befallen Wheeler in nine long months.

On Monday she crashed the office computer. Tuesday she trashed the office copier. Wednesday she bashed the office microwave. And Thursday she thrashed the office phone. On Friday, to top the week off, she wrecked her car. Or, rather, her friend’s car, which she had borrowed for the day. Worse, she had wrecked it by slamming it into the back of Wheeler’s car as they were leaving a nearby parking garage for the day. So now he was going to have to ride the bus to work for a while, until he could cough up the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar deductible to have his car fixed.

And when Miss Finnegan hadn’t been crashing, trashing, bashing and thrashing, she had been working at her desk, which really caused trouble. Simply put, Wheeler’s new secretary had her own way of doing everything, and that way scarcely made sense to anyone other than Miss Finnegan.

At one point, when Wheeler asked her where she had filed the particulars for a design project he was bidding on for a local minimart—whose name began with the letter W—his new secretary retrieved it from where she had filed it under L. And when he had asked her what the letter L had to do with design or minimart or W for that matter, she had looked at him as if he were a complete moron, and then had explained to him, in a tone of voice that indicated she thought he was a complete moron, that L stood for lottery. Miss Finnegan, it would appear, always bought her lottery tickets at a minimart. Thus, it made sense—to her, at least—to file the plans in such a way.

And as for his new secretary’s coffee... Well, suffice it to say that Wheeler never asked for a second cup. In fact, after that first day he’d pretty much foregone the first cup, too. He saw no reason to sample Miss Finnegan’s coffee, unless, perhaps, he would have some reason to be awake for seven hundred hours straight.

Now as he pushed his troubling thoughts aside, he forced his feet to move forward again, carrying him through the brisk morning, past the other pedestrians hurrying to their respective places of business. No one else seemed to be too worried about what the day ahead held for them. No one else seemed to be frightened of what might greet them at their jobs. On the contrary, everyone else seemed to be remarkably bored by whatever might be going through their brains.