Blackmailing the Boss のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

As the Midtown breeze blows between the tall buildings, I brush strands of hair that have escaped my workday bun away from my cheeks and freshly painted lips. Shielding my eyes from the early evening sun, I gaze up at the giant limestone building in front of me. In a few minutes, I'm supposed to meet my best friend and roommate on the top floor at one of the newest, swankiest restaurants in Manhattan, Gaston's.Everyone is talking about this place. Gaston's boasts the best panoramic view of the city from its rooftop patio. The service is supposed to be unrivaled, and the chef is world-renowned. And those are only some of the qualities I've heard. With its recent grand opening, getting a seat at the bar, much less a reservation, is only for the elite.That's why as I stand on the busy sidewalk and gaze upward, I can't help but wonder what in the world I'm doing here. What is Shana doing here? A place this nice isn't our normal stomping ground.While the glow of the setting sun and the

Towering above me are long legs covered in tailored trousers. As I follow them up, they lead to a trim waist, a black belt, and a white shirt that buttons over a broad chest. I barely swallow the lump in my throat as I recognize the wide shoulders covered with the matching suit jacket. Seizing the napkin, I stand, suddenly face to face with one of the owners of the company where I work.My face burns with embarrassment as his shimmering green eyes narrow and head tilts. Inches away from me is one of the handsomest men I've ever met. He should be on the cover of GQ, not gracing the halls of Buchanan and Willis.His firm lips form a tight smirk and cheeks rise in amusement. "Miss Jones."Staring into the sea of emerald, I try to pretend I wasn't just on my knees in a chic restaurant in front of Duncan Willis."Mr. Willis," I respond, my voice cracking. Nervously, I take a step backward. As if the moment weren't awkward enough, I wobble, teetering precariously on my high heels.Swiftly,

"Yes. For Timothy and me. I totally forgot about it. I need to confirm when the wedding is. I know! If it's before you leave, you could be my plus-one.""And I totally would," she says, "if I wasn't leaving. I know! We could dance together and get your family talking."Laughter rumbles from my chest. "I'm going to miss you."With our dinner done, Shana says, "Come with me now. I'm meeting a few friends from work for a drink down the street."I decline, being a tad overwhelmed with Shana's news and my upcoming phone call with my mother. "I think I've had enough excitement for one night. You have fun celebrating with them. I'll see you at home."Shana and I make it to the elevator when I turn and notice the bar attached to the patio, now covered in see-through plastic windows. The view is still stunning and I imagine that in the summer, without the plastic, it's even better. The bar is relatively empty."I think I'm going to get another glass of water before heading home. Clear head for

I don't see Mr. Willis the next day or at all the rest of the week. I even avoid talking to my mother. We shared a few quick texts. She told me the wedding is rapidly approaching. It's this coming Saturday. And even though she's asked more than once for Timothy's tux size, I haven't yet had the courage to tell her about his dramatic fall from the Empire State Building observation deck. Although the story makes me chuckle, I'm concerned that she'll be able to fact-check me on that one. I give more thought to the taxi story.It's a little scary how much detail I've added in my head.All in all, getting hit by a moving vehicle in Manhattan is more believable than plummeting to your death from a busy tourist landmark. My parents have been to New York twice to visit, but with that limited experience, they aren't aware that traffic is more often at a standstill than it is whizzing around city curbs.The truth is that I wouldn't mind if Timothy actually had an accident. With all the talk of

Maybe if I call Aunt Laura now, she can move me to the kids' table. Or I could get one of those blow-up, life-sized dolls.I half giggle, half grimace as I make my way along the street to the building where I work at a real job. When I enter the lobby of the building that houses the offices of Buchanan and Willis, my mind is hundreds of miles away. Out of habit, I squeeze my way into the coffee shop."Caffè vanilla light frappuccino. Venti," I say while making mental notes: it's Monday. I need to be in Indiana on Thursday. I haven't asked for time off or bought a dress or ordered a blow-up date. My mind's a blur as the barista hands me my coffee and I turn, bumping right into him."Shit!" I say louder than I intend."Miss Jones."I look up from the steaming coffee that managed to mostly stay within the confines of the cup—thank God for lids—and stare as some trickles down my hand and a small drop lands on my white blouse. My gaze goes to the floor. In front of me are those same shiny,