That Boss Of Mine

Then again, nobody else had to face the day ahead with Audrey Finnegan.

Oh, come on, Rush, he chastised himself as he quickened his step a bit It can’t be as bad as you think Miss Finnegan couldn’t possibly be as horrific as you’re recalling. You just had a rough week yourself, and you’re looking to pin it on her. Be fair.

That’s what Wheeler told himself as he gripped the handle on the office door and inhaled a deep, fortifying breath before entering. Because he’d spent his weekend brooding over his ill fortune, he was naturally starting off his week now feeling more morose and defeated than the average person, and he wanted to blame someone other than himself. It was as simple as that.

So Miss Finnegan had taken out a couple of office machines, he recalled. So what? Wheeler had managed to undo whatever damage she had done, hadn’t he? And sure, it had taken a big bite out of his day to act as computer repairman... and phone repairman... and copier repairman...and microwave repairman. But, seeing as how he hadn’t had any real work to occupy his time anyway, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

And, okay, so now his insurance company was canceling his policy because he was rear-ended by his secretary. He was probably going to have to sell his car soon, anyway, for the few thousand bucks it would bring in.

And, yeah, his files were in such a complete mess that he would probably never be able to figure them out for himself, should Miss Finnegan step in front of a bus and go to her final reward, which, considering the woman’s luck, was not outside the realm of possibility.

There were worse things in life, right?

Right.

So chin up, he told himself further. Hey, after all, when things were this bad, they could only get better, couldn’t they?

In spite of his little pep talk to himself, though, Wheeler felt anything but reassured when, very, very cautiously, he pushed the front door open. He hesitated a moment before entering, just to get a feel for things. No smell of smoke, he noted, heartening some. No strange sounds of mechanical upheaval. No power outages that he could readily discern...

Okay, so everything was fine, he realized with a long sigh of relief. See? He really had been overreacting when it came to memories of the previous week. Heartened some more, Wheeler strode into his outer office with all the confidence of a brass band, and found...

...chaos.

Truly. Chaos. What else could it be called when one’s secretary had one’s number-one client—the very, absolute last of one’s reliable accounts—in a choke hold, clearly striving to throttle the life right out of the man? Because that was exactly what was happening. Audrey Finnegan stood behind and had both arms wrapped resolutely around the neck of Otis Denby, CEO of Denby Associates, and Mr. Denby was turning blue as he fought for his very life. He had gripped both hands around Miss Finnegan’s forearms, but she clearly had the upper hand, pumping his body back and forth as she was with much abandon.

And all Wheeler could think was that he couldn’t possibly allow her to murder Mr. Denby. Denby was, after all, the only client Wheeler had left who paid his bills on time.

“Miss Finnegan!” he shouted at the top of his lungs as he rushed forward. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Without awaiting a response, he gripped her wrists fiercely and yanked her hands free of his client’s throat, pushing her backward as he pulled the other man forward. Immediately Mr. Denby curled one hand around his nape, stretching his neck tight as he rolled his shoulders forward, then back. His face and bald pate were red and mottled, but he didn’t seem to be struggling. Well, not too much, anyway. His barrel chest rose and fell as he inhaled great gulps of breath, and his pale blue eyes widened in what could only be a combination of relief and terror.

And then, much to Wheeler’s surprise, the other man expelled a bark of delighted laughter. “Well I’ll be damned, Miss Finnegan,” he said with a chuckle. “That really did the trick. You’re absolutely amazing. I never would have suspected that a woman of your, uh...your attributes... could have such a gentle touch. Thank you.”

Thank you? Wheeler echoed to himself. Gentle touch? What the hell was going on here?

“What the hell is going on here?” he cried. He glanced first at his client, then at Miss Finnegan, further demanding an explanation.

She shrugged. “I worked for a chiropractor for a while,” she said. She waved a hand negligently through the air. “You pick up little things on your jobs. For example, everything I know about fashion accessories, I learned from just two weeks at The Limited.”

And speaking of fashion accessories, Wheeler noted through narrowed eyes that Miss Finnegan was in a blue mood today. Sapphire blue, to be specific. Her sapphire miniskirt was topped by a sapphire sweater that actually covered her hips. Sapphire hose ended in sapphire boots, and sapphire earrings swung from her ears. Her black hair, as always, was caught atop her head in a riot of curls, but even they seemed to be touched with blue.

Whatever she had learned about fashion during her time at The Limited, it must have been, well...limited. Because one thing he could definitely say about his temp—she was a color palate just waiting to happen. If she ever learned how to mix colors.

Wheeler pushed the thought away. “Just what the devil is going on?” he demanded again.

Before Miss Finnegan could add anything to her earlier explanation, Mr. Denby turned to him instead. “Your new secretary just fixed a back problem I’ve had for decades, Rush. Decades. I can’t tell you how much money I’ve spent on specialists over the years, only to have Miss Finnegan fix me up—” he snapped his fingers merrily “—like that.”

She shrugged again. “My father suffered from the exact same thing,” she said, sidestepping the accomplishment. “You just have to know where to look, that’s all.”

Where Wheeler decided to look was at the ceiling, while he tried not to think about the potential bodily damage his new secretary could have done to Mr. Denby. What on earth was he going to do with her? he wondered. Do with her that wasn’t illegal, he meant.

“You should give her a raise, Rush,” Denby suggested, answering that question, if none of the other numerous ones parading through his brain. “Hell, I might just hire her away from you myself. She’s delightful.”

When Wheeler looked down again, it was to find Miss Finnegan blushing furiously and shaking a teasing finger—one encased in what appeared to be a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid—at Otis Denby. “Oh, now, Mr. Denby, that’s very sweet of you,” she said. “But I couldn’t possibly come to work for you. My first commitment right now is to Mr. Rush. It’s not the One-Day-at-a-Timers’ way to shirk our responsibilities to our employers.”

Shirk, Wheeler commanded her silently. Please. By all means. Shirk to your heart’s content.

But what he said was, “Mr. Denby, did we have an appointment this morning?”

The other man shook his head. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” He glanced anxiously at Miss Finnegan, then back at Wheeler. “Can we, uh...can we speak privately, Rush?”

Here it comes, Wheeler thought with another sigh. The big kiss-off. Otis Denby, his last, best client, was about to take a powder. “Is that really necessary, sir?” he asked halfheartedly.

Denby nodded fatalistically. “I’m afraid it is,” he said. “We’re long overdue for this... uh...discussion.”

Wheeler sighed heavily again before nodding, and was about to open his mouth to accept defeat, when Miss Finnegan stepped in to interrupt him.

“Mr. Denby,” she said, “do you by any chance know anything about monopodial orchids?”

As questions went, it wasn’t one Wheeler might have expected from his secretary. Or anyone else on the planet, for that matter. But Denby perked right up at the query.

“Why, yes, I do, Miss Finnegan. As a matter of fact, growing orchids is an absolute passion of mine. That’s amazing that you’d share an interest like that, too.”

She nodded. “Actually, it’s more my mother’s hobby than my own, but I think it’s more common than you realize,” she assured him. Then she hurried on, “Before you talk to Mr. Rush, do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Mom is having such a hard time trying to figure out what she’s doing wrong with her Phalaenopsis.”

Denby nodded sagely. “Oh, those are tricky little bastards, aren’t they?”

“Boy, you said it.”

He launched into what promised to be a very technical discussion about the plant in question, then, almost as an afterthought, turned to Wheeler. “You don’t mind, do you, Rush?” he asked in a voice that pretty much answered his own question in the negative. “This won’t take but a minute.”

Wheeler nodded wearily. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Denby. Just come into my office whenever you and Miss Finnegan are finished. My morning’s pretty much clear.”

Hoo-boy, was that an understatement.

But Denby wasn’t listening to Wheeler, because he had lost himself completely in his conversation with Miss Finnegan. She was pouring him a cup of her infamous coffee—as if Wheeler hadn’t already done enough to terminate his business relationship with Otis Denby—and nodding at something the other man was saying, when Wheeler closed the door behind himself and made his way to the bar stool and drafting table that constituted what was left of his work station.

For some reason, he had the “Death March” stuck in his head, and he just couldn’t shake it. Go figure. That didn’t, however, prevent him from sitting down, making himself comfortable and pretending he had a really good idea as he stared at a blank piece of paper.

Oddly, though, he suddenly did have a really good idea. A remarkably good idea. A startlingly good idea. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more the idea grew. It was revolutionary, truly. The kind of idea he hadn’t had for a very long time. And it would be just perfect for what Otis Denby was looking for in a commercial design. Quickly, before the idea could escape, Wheeler gathered his pens and began to sketch.

What Denby had promised wouldn’t take a minute, in fact, did not take a minute. It took about thirty minutes. But Wheeler scarcely noticed, because he spent the entire length of time sketching madly and enjoying a brainstorm that made Godzilla look like a cute little newt. And when that length of time finally had passed, it wasn’t Denby who entered Wheeler’s office—it was Miss Finnegan. She was humming under her breath an off-key rendition of what sounded like The Flintstones theme song, and carrying two cups of coffee, which, naturally, led Wheeler to believe that one of them was for him.

Damn.

Surprisingly, she only stumbled once as she entered, and even at that, she spilled just a few drops of coffee—merely enough to slightly enlarge two of the half-dozen or so coffee stains that had appeared on his rug over the past week. But he was still preoccupied by the last few drizzlings of his idea, so he barely registered the new stains. When she extended a cup toward him, he noticed that she had an ace bandage wound about her wrist. He was about to ask her what had happened when she spoke up, scattering his thoughts.

“Mr. Denby is a very nice man,” she said.