Romancing my Boss

Chapter 8

After that mortifying meeting with my new personal torturer, I spent the rest of the weekend holed up in my apartment, alternating between phases of disbelieving horror and reluctant acceptance of the fresh hell Max had prescribed.

How had I gotten myself into this mess? I mean, I knew how, but damn it, one minute I was a reasonably respected executive assistant at Manhattan's most prestigious financial firm. The next, I was essentially being blackmailed into publicly fawning over my employer like a deranged fangirl.

Several pints of ice cream and a couple bottles of white wine deep into my self-pity spiral, I finally seized on a single coherent thought amidst the turmoil - I refused to be cowed by Max's sadistic payback scheme. I was no shrinking violet, for God's sake. If the arrogant prick wanted my undying devotion broadcasted to the masses, then that's precisely what he would get.

Monday would mark the first day of my very public Pemberton pursuit, and I would meet the twisted challenge with all the unsubtle grace of a sledgehammer. Let him try to keep that smug mask in place - by the time I was done, even that impassive facade would crumble.

With a renewed sense of emboldened defiance, I spent Sunday plotting out increasingly elaborate ways to simultaneously appease Max's demented requirement while also massively annoying the shit out of him in the process. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

I queued up a rom-com movie marathon, shamelessly jotting down notes on every cheesy romantic grand gesture that played out on screen. Skywriting messages of undying love? Check. Hiring a mariachi band to serenade the object of my obsession? Double check. No cringe-worthy, public display of affection would be off limits for this campaign.

By the time I'd worked my way through When Harry Met Sally, Serendipity, and a dozen other schmaltzy classics, my notebook runneth over with terrible-yet-inspired ideas. I'd single-handedly make Max regret the day he tried to deploy such a twisted punishment.

Equipped with a trusty thermos of wine tucked under my arm and my trusty laptop in hand, I next turned to the romance novel section on Amazon for further inspo. As if the rom-com clichés weren't enough ammunition, those mind-numbingly saccharine pages really kicked things into maximum corny territory.

My cheeks flushed crimson as if steam were rising from them as I virtually dog-eared pages containing the most laughably over-the-top confessions of eternal devotion and pledges of everlasting ardor. Max wanted me to grovel at his feet with adoring proclamations? Oh, he was going to get an earful of the sappiest, most inexcusably purple romantic prose known to man.

By the time I marched through the lobby doors Monday morning, game face firmly in place, my arsenal for Operation: Max-imal Charm Offensive was locked and loaded. I felt fortified and ready to wage my own unique brand of romantic warfare on Maximilian Pemberton's arrogant, infuriating person.

Kneeling on the marble, I clutched grocery store roses, heart pounding in my chest. Max's towering figure, all six-foot-three of him, with hazel eyes drilling into me. Wide-eyed onlookers, like assistants and interns, gawked. The most mortifying moment in my life ever. Taking a breath, I silently begged for mercy. "Maximilian Pemberton," I said, voice steady. "Will you go on a date with me?"

Max's gaze flickered with an unfamiliar hint of amusement before his smug contempt took over. A low chuckle escaped him, his eyes relishing at my discomfort. "I suppose I could indulge this request. If only for my own amusement, Charlotte."

My stomach churned with regret. Max, my personal tormentor straight from the depths of hell, had me cornered. But I refused to let him dismiss me so easily. As he made to brush past toward the elevators, I quickly scrambled to my feet and called out.

"Sir, you forgot your roses!" waving the bouquet in the most unceremonius pose I could muster.

He came to an abrupt halt, mid-stride, turning back to face me with one of those infuriatingly arched brows. A muscle ticked along his clenched jaw as he seemed to consider something. He grabbed the bouquet and I took advantage of the momentum.

"So, when should I expect you to take me out on this date you've so generously agreed to, Mr. Pemberton?" I asked, my hand gesturing gracefully through the air to emphasize each word.

Finally, he let out an exaggerated sigh of put-upon resignation. "How about Friday night? We'll make an...event of it."

Though his tone dripped with sarcasm, I couldn't resist a small thrill at having successfully called his bluff on agreeing to an actual date.

"It's a date then," I replied, lifting my chin boldly.

With a last inscrutable look, Max turned and continued on his way, ringed by snickering bystanders who caught the whole exchange.

"Oh, it's on," I whispered to myself, a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips as I watched him walk away. This parade of humiliation was about to become a two-way street, and I had a front-row seat to the show.