Autumn - In Love With My Boss (An Office Romance)| Completed

Chapter 4 - James

The display of my phone lights up, notifying me of a new message. At home, I always turn my phone on silent because I can't stand that aggravating sound. No matter what ringtone or alert tone I choose, after a while I don't want to hear it anymore. I have enough of those noises at work, I don't want to take them home with me. Here, I just want quiet. I set aside the scotch I was sipping while working on that goddamn Hunter event, and pick it up.

Weirdly enough, the message is from Ms. Lewis. She has never contacted me outside of work, let alone in the middle of the night. I gave her my private cell phone number after we spent two hours looking for each other during a festival we had organized last fall. Since then, she has never used it, though. Well, until now, obviously. It must be something very important.

Intrigued, I open the text message and read.

I won't wait up. We're done. Have fun fucking that blonde chick from finances. XOXO

"Excuse me?!"

I stare at the screen in disbelief. Is that really from Ms. Lewis? I check the sender again. Yep, it sure is. The blonde chick from finances? Miss Michaels? She's blonde, alright, and not ugly, but I wouldn't dream of... Wait a sec. Wait up? Done? What the hell is she talking about? Is she quitting?

Right then, it dawns on me. I know, sometimes I can be quite slow, but it's late and I've had a long day, so bear with me. Of course, now I realize it's not for me. The message is definitely not intended for me. It can't be. First of all, I never slept with any blonde accountant in my life, and although there are lots of rumors about my sex life circulating among the company, they never involved anyone from finances. Usually, it's female clients, like Diane Baker, whom I supposedly seduced during a business meeting in London. I get annoyed just thinking about that stupid nonsense. Secondly, Miss Lewis wouldn't tell me she won't wait up for me. That would not make any fucking sense since we are not a couple. And if she wanted to quit, she wouldn't just send a text saying we're done. Moreover, she wouldn't leave the company because of some girl I allegedly screwed. That would be no relevant reason and would certainly be none of her business, unless she ...

Suddenly, my blood freezes and I can feel the metaphorical light dawn on me. Images flash through my mind; images of her sometimes more than weird behavior, her clumsiness around me, her blushing whenever I look at her, her inability to form coherent sentences when we're alone in the office. Just like this morning, when she blamed the poor cats for her soaked wardrobe. Quickly, I shake my head to rid myself of that thought that disguised itself as some sort of epiphany and hit me like a baseball in the head.

I rub my forehead, as if that pretend insight had really physically struck me. I know it didn't, but it sure as hell feels like it.

I look at the bright screen that displays her message in a lone blue bubble once more. What on earth am I thinking? That girl obviously has a spouse or boyfriend and quite certainly doesn't have me on her mind. Especially now, since he evidently cheats on her.

"What a jerk."

These words leave my mouth before I am even aware of thinking them. But it is true. Men who cheat on their women are scum. If you're not happy in your relationship then have the balls to tell her and end it like a man, and don't be such a fucking coward about it.

For some reason, my mind decides it would be a good idea to now produce this morning's image of Miss Lewis with her long, wet hair; a few drops of water running down her little-girl-face and across her naturally rose-colored, slightly parted lips; her big amber eyes resembling those of a scared deer in the headlights; that blouse that left very little to the imagination. It clung to her slender waist, to her flat stomach and revealed what she religiously tries to hide with those dull, sack-like mock-blouses - beautiful full, firm breasts, alluringly cupped by luxurious white lace.

My throat gets incredibly dry, so I hastily down the rest of my scotch. As I feel the fuzzy and warm sensation of alcohol spread through my entire body, I lean back and carelessly throw my phone on the desk.

"That guy is a fucking dumbass."