I have a confession to make: I am in
love with my boss.
If you knew him, you’d understand. Andrew’s quite a charmer. I’ve been his personal assistant for six
years and every morning he’s in with a smile, blue eyes sparkling, greeting
everyone by name… on Fridays he treats the whole office to coffee and
pastries. I suppose it only makes sense,
though: he’s a senator, after all. It’s
practically his job to be charismatic and approachable. Even so, I can’t help it… I’ve definitely
fallen under his spell.
It doesn’t help that he’s terrifically
handsome, to boot. He’s in his
mid-forties—which, I admit, is young for a senator—but you’d never imagine just
from looking at him. The man is tan and
athletic, really keeps himself in shape.
His sandy brown-blonde hair is short and generally tousled, and even
though I know he does it purposely to seem more accessible to his constituents,
I find it genuinely adorable. He hasn’t
even started getting crinkles around his eyes yet, but he laughs a lot. Personally, I think that’s the secret to his
youth: he lives life with a winning grin on his face and a healthy dose of good
humor.
I’m not the only woman to notice, of
course, not by a long shot. There’s virtually a line of eligible
socialites waiting for a spot on his dance card. He’s like Bruce Wayne, for goodness sakes—only
hopefully without the dark past and secret habit of dressing up in black,
form-fitting rubber.
Of course, form-fitting black rubber
wouldn’t look to shabby on him, either…
The thing is, those eligible socialites
have several terrific qualities that I somehow missed out on. Mostly oodles of money, fancy town cars,
custom-tailored designer clothes… you get my drift. Andrew pays me very well, certainly, but I
drive a Camry. It’s a nice Camry… but a Camry,
nonetheless. I’m not the sort to dress
up in Dolce and Gabbana or Dior on a daily basis. .And while I’ll dress in my classiest
business formal for big events or public appearances… mostly I’m a jeans and
t-shirt kind of girl, and you can always tell those girls in a line-up against
the debutantes who were born in Vera Wang diapers.
Those aren’t the only reasons Andrew
hasn’t picked up on my feelings, though.
I know I could probably get his attention even in a jeans and t-shirt
and even waving at him from the driver’s side of my tidy little Toyota. The rich ladies intimidate me, sure… but the
real problem is, I’m terminally, incurably shy.
Six years I’ve worked for him, and not
once have I given him even an inkling that I find him so genuinely amazing.
Today, I resolved to change that.
A week ago, Andrew received his
invitation to the local women’s society annual charity gala: a masquerade
ball. As I came across the gold and
glittery envelope while opening his mail, the flashy harlequin mask emblazoned
on the front almost seemed to wink at me, and—though I wouldn’t think of it
until later—the first seed of my plan took root.
A masquerade party. Could there be anything more perfect?
I scanned the invitation thoughtfully,
tapping the envelope against my lips as I read.
A small, hand-scripted fold of stationary read that Andrew was being
asked to participate in one of those Bachelor Auctions for the
fund-raiser. I knew of course that he
would accept, and for a split-second the tiny seed of hope almost died before
it could bloom. The women who attended
these events—and participated in these auctions—were the same women who could
spin out and pick themselves up a brand new Tiffany diamond tiara at the drop
of hat. A bachelor like Andrew would be
auctioned off at a handsome price that was far above my pay-grade. A tiny, giddy
little part of me almost thought I should ask for a raise as I set the
invitation down on his desk, but of course that thought was immediately
quashed. What better way to make my
schoolgirl crush painfully obvious
and momentously awkward.
I put the invitation down and gathered
together the rest of the mail, sorting it and dividing it appropriately,
tossing the adverts and junk magazines and organizing the official
correspondences as usual. As I gathered
the final collection up to deliver to Andrew’s desk, I slipped the masquerade
invite right on top. I imagined myself
striding confidently into his office, dropping off the stack of letters and
agendas, and whipping the invitation up with a grin. Need a
date? I would ask with a grin. The
thought actually brought a tiny smile to my face, but there was no way that was
how it would play out.
I slipped into his office without
knocking—I never needed to knock. Andrew
was on his phone but he flashed me a grin as I entered, giving me the mostly
unnecessary come right on in wave of the hand. I gave him a polite nod as I dropped off his
mail, and then, for just a second, I hesitated.
The mask on the flashy invite stared
back at me from the top of the pile of mail winking and glittering, laughing
merrily. I smirked at it, then back and
Andrew—I would ask him. This would be the day I went for it.
He had turned his back to me, engrossed
in his phone conversation. I felt a very
tiny, awkward heat rise to my cheeks.
Without saying anything, I backed away from the desk and then snuck out
of the room.
He probably already had a date, anyway.
Over the next few days, I mulled over
that flashing, smiling mask on the charity invite, and the flirty, tenacious
way its glittery promise kept nagging at me.
Andrew dropped it back on my desk the day after I delivered it to him,
catching me entirely by surprise—as I was, of course, lost in thoughts of it
already—as he instructed me to send an RSVP right away, with a hearty
appreciation for being invited and a very enthusiastic YES to the auction
request. He actually had to ask me
twice, since the sudden re-appearance of that mask shook me so unexpectedly out
of my thoughts that for a moment I didn’t hear him.
“Sorry, of course, Senator,” I murmured
after the second request.
“Liz,”
he chided. “I’ve told you before, it’s
Andrew.”
“Sure, Andrew.”
“Atta
girl.”
He gave me a wink. “And as long as you don’t call me Andy I’ll
never call you Billy.”
“Nobody calls an Elizabeth ‘Billy’,” I muttered, which only made him laugh.
“Finish up your paperwork, we’ll be late
for our luncheon at the university.”
I tucked the masquerade invite in my
to-do tray, scribbled RSVP Charity Gala on my calendar, and
straightened up the last of the files on my desk. Just before leaving, though, I gave one last
glace at that mask.
And that’s when I got my idea.
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