He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees; his hands were clasped, hovering above my thighs. “Janie,” his voice sounded tightly controlled, as though he were struggling to keep his temper in check, “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
I lifted my gaze to his, surprised by the use of my first name. I swallowed, “I- Mr. Sullivan-”
“Don’t do that.” He half groaned, half growled and covered my hands with his.
I studied him for a moment, a thick knot was in my throat and the wasp nest was swirling furiously in my stomach, incited by his touch, but I finally managed to choke out, “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, just a slight outward indication of frustration; but then they flickered to my lips, “Why did you turn off your cell phone?”
I ground my teeth; the buzzing wasps were turning into an angry Africanized bee colony. Their feelings of hostility began to spread through me, my body humming with aggravated resentment. I was surprised by how angry I was when I responded; “Why didn’t you tell me that you were the Boss?”
His gaze met mine again, pinned me in place, “I did.”
I stiffened, pulling my hands from his and gripping the seat on either side of my legs, “Oh, was I asleep for this conversation?”
He frowned, “Are you angry with me?”
I blinked at him, maybe three times, possibly four, in stunned confusion, “I- I’m not-” I stuttered then finally managed, “I’m not angry with you.”
“Well then you do a good impression of angry.”
“Mr. Sullivan-”
“Don’t call me that.” He interrupted me again but his voice was softer, “Don’t call me that unless you want to.”
“I do want to.”
My statement was met with silence; his expression was hard, frustrated, determined. He openly watched me for what seemed like several minutes. I tried but couldn’t quite meet his gaze. My anxiety increased with each passing second and, therefore, my mind began darting in every direction. The car rolled along and I thought to myself that it must have extremely good shocks as it felt like we were gliding. I imagined the car on ice skates gliding across a frozen lake, being pushed by robots.
Finally, very quietly, he said, “Why?”
“Because-” I swallowed, my chest felt impossibly tight, “because I have a habit of saying some wildly inappropriate things- as you know. And you are not just my boss, you are the second ‘B’ in ‘B and B’, which is Betty and the Boss. I can recall at least seventeen things that I’ve said to you that I should never say to the Boss. And, if I keep calling you-” I took a deep breath, my fingers dug into the leather seat, “-keep calling you Quinn then I’ll say at least seventeen more- if not thirty four more, or two hundred and eighty nine more.”
“Then you should most definitely keep calling me Quinn.”
I sighed and eyed him warily.
Suddenly he leaned further forward and gently lifted one of my hands from the bench. His thumb moved in slow motion over the back of my knuckles as he held it between both of his palms. “Look. I’ve really enjoyed all of the seventeen wildly inappropriate remarks you’ve made and, if you recall, I’ve said at least seventeen myself.”
The sensation of his thumb moving over the back of my hand was doing something unexpected to the middle of my body. In an effort to mask the effect, I swallowed rigidly, my lips firming into a stiff line, and said nothing. What I wanted to do was start unbuttoning my shirt and ask him to mimic that motion elsewhere.
“I would be very disappointed if you started behaving differently around me.” His features and his tone were serious, imploring; his eyes appeared to be a dark, fiery cobalt in the dimly lit limo; but it was his thumb that was my undoing.
I felt flustered, confused; so, my tone more accusatory than I intended, I asked the first question which came to mind, “Why did you hire me?”
His thumb paused, just briefly, before he responded, “Because, despite what you insist to the contrary, you do have a photographic memory, you have an extremely analytical approach to business practice, you are a fantastic accountant, and your legs looked amazing in those zebra print stilettos.”
I pulled my hand out of his grip and, for lack of knowing what to do with the trembling appendages, I crossed my arms over my chest; “You can’t say things like that. You are my boss.”
His jaw flexed and he balled his empty hands into fists, “But I’m not just your boss, am I?”
“You’re right; technically you’re my boss’s boss.”