My Arrogant Boss by Kylie King
Chapter Twelve
FINN
I checked my watch for the time. It was five minutes ‘til and Rachel hadn’t arrived yet. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she didn’t show up. It wasn’t like Rachel Quinn to appease me other than on the job, and she could have called a truce earlier for work purposes.
I flagged down the bartender and ordered another scotch. When he handed it to me, I sipped it slowly, peering up at the football game on the TV. I wasn’t a huge organized sports person, but Aaron and Jake were. They often had Superbowl and March Madness parties, and I always attended for the food and booze and their company. Times like this made me miss scheduling things with Aaron just for the hell of it.
Before he was married, he had way more freedom, but with Katie gripping him by the balls, he had to ask for her permission to do everything. That was why I never wanted to get married. What was the point of restricting myself to one woman for the rest of my life and giving up ample freedom when I could have had any woman I wanted without all the stress?
“Let me guess. Scotch?” someone asked, and I turned my head, coming face to face with Rachel beside me.
And fuck me. She looked incredible. Her black dress was short, revealing long silky legs. Her hair was in luscious curls, and she’d even put on makeup. She wore makeup to work, but it was never like this. She’d put forth an effort, and I immediately straightened on the bar stool when I realized she wasn’t just here for courtesy. She wanted something…and I sensed that something—or someone, rather—was me.
“It is scotch,” I said. “How’d you know?”
“You always order scotch at parties,” she said, taking the seat beside me. “And not only that, but you have a whole collection on a wall in one of the conference rooms.” She smiled at me through her red-stained lips, revealing bright white teeth.
“Honestly, the bottles in the office are just for show,” I said, smirking. “Do you want one?” I asked, lifting my glass.
“I’ll take gin.” She lifted a hand and flagged the bartender down herself. When she placed her order, she turned to look at me and said, “So I think we should create some kind of official agreement for what we talked about earlier.”
I sipped and then said, “You mean like a written truce?”
“Yeah. Something like that. We agree to get along from now on, and if we don’t, then I leave Brewer Coffee.”
“Okay.” I straightened myself on the stool again and extended an arm, offering a hand to her. “We can agree to get along from now, and if one of us has an issue, then we’ll part ways and pretend the other doesn’t exist.”
“Exactly.” She grabbed my hand and shook it. I closed my hand around hers and smiled. “Let the truce commence.”