She's the Boss

• Title Page
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty One
  
• Chapter Twenty Two
  
• Chapter Twenty Three
  
• Chapter Twenty Four
  
• Chapter Twenty Five
  

by Lisa Lim

edited by Felicia A. Sullivan

Copyright © 2012 Lisa Lim. All rights reserved.

First Edition

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Chapter One

THWACK! TWHACK!

The hood of my Mini Cooper smashed into rolling tumbleweeds as I sped across the plains. Twenty minutes later, I swung my car into Lightning Speed Communication’s parking lot. After circling the lot several times, I negotiated a rather tight parking spot between two Chevy pickup trucks.

Sandwiched between the two monster trucks, I was clambering out of my Mini Cooper when a silver Corvette flew into a reserved parking spot and came to a screeching halt.

Show off.

Men who drove Corvettes usually had something to prove. The door clicked open and a tallish, broad-shouldered man got out of the car and straightened himself. The smell of his cologne, co-mingled with the smell of success, clung to him like an invisible mist. He was extremely well-coiffed, clad in a gray suit, single-breasted with peak lapels. I noted the high collar and working buttons on the cuff, left unbuttoned.
PHWOAR!
This guy wears his suit as comfortably as most men here wore jeans. His effortlessly chic attire screamed of good tailoring and simply stated, “I am definitely not from Pocatello, Idaho.”

“Hi.” I smiled delicately, just the right amount to accentuate my cheekbones.

He acknowledged my presence with a nod and gave me the visual once over, up and down assessing the basics. When his steely eyes settled on my skirt, his demeanor instantly shifted. The hard set of his shoulders revealed his disapproval.

I rarely ever felt underdressed. Nonetheless, next to Mister I-just-flew-in-from-Milan, I felt like a bedraggled beach bum in my denim mini, cotton tank top and flip flops.

I began to quail under his considering look. Nervously, I reached for my Ray-Bans perched atop my head.

Today, like most days, my hair was styled in a loose, wind-swept ponytail, giving me the tousled and unkempt look, which I loved because it allowed me to indulge in my inner messiness. What I
didn’t
love was how chunks of my hair got tangled up in the metal hinges.

I yanked, tugged and twisted at my Ray-Bans but they refused to budge.

“Damn it!” I uttered a low curse, tugging frantically. Finally, I made an almighty effort and yanked harder, freeing my sunglasses and snapping off chunks of hair in the process.

Great. This is why I had unwanted bangs.

By the time I’d emerged from my curtain of uneven bangs, Mr. Corvette had already disappeared.

I breezed into the office, humming “Takin’ Care of Business,” punctuating the bass slide with a particularly impressive air-guitar performance. In the midst of all my head banging, I ran smack-dab into Hillary, a fellow ‘soop’ (short for supervisor).

“The new director is here,” she hissed. “He just moved into town, all the way from Palo Alto, California.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed brightly. “What’s he like?”

Hillary opened her mouth and seemed on the verge of saying more, but she didn’t. “I’m trying not to be an office gossip,” she said woodenly instead.

The expression on my face indicated that I found this a very disappointing position for her to take. Let’s face it, while no one claims to
like
office gossip, everybody enjoys it.

I lifted an inquiring brow. “Should I have cause for concern?”

Hillary managed a micro-smile. “You’ll find out soon enough. We have a meeting at Conference Room Seven in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late!” With that, Hillary turned on her combat boots and stomped off.

With a deep sigh, I started for my cubicle, passing other cubicle dwellers as I walked by. How I yearned for my very own office. It didn’t have to be anything fancy. Just something a little bigger than a coffin-sized cubicle. Really. My cubicle was so small I almost needed an oxygen mask just to sit in it.

I had barely sat down at my desk when Rick’s head popped over my cubicle partition. “Karsynn, I have an escalation.”

It was much too early in the day for this. “What’s it about?”

“The caller insists that he will only speak to a supervisor.”

“Why?”

“He says it’s highly technical.”

“Give me a minute.” I fired up my computer and slipped on my headset. I was looking forward to this call with all the enthusiasm I usually reserve for laundry. “Transfer him to me. Extension 488.”

Seconds later, my phone beeped. “Good morning, sir. My name is Kars and I’m a supervisor here at Lightning Speed Communications. Now, Rick tells me that you have a very technical issue.”

“Yes,” the caller replied haughtily, “highly technical.” Huge emphasis was placed on the word
technical.

“OK sir . . .” I adjusted my headset so it sat comfortably in my ear. “Tell me about this technical issue.”

“I’m signing up for online access and it’s asking me to register. The first question is: ‘What is your name?’ So what should I do?”

I rubbed my temples. “Err, type your name . . . perhaps?”

“And the next question is: ‘What is your email address.’ So what do I put down?”

“Your email address,” I said, steeling myself to patience.

“That seemed to do the trick,” the caller muttered, seemingly surprised. “How did you know what to do?”

Um, I thought cynically, I used my brains.

I sat back and sighed heavily. This caller would have stretched the patience of a saint. Fifty million cockamamie questions and light years later, I thanked him for calling and released the call. I checked my watch. Shoot! I was late for the meeting.

“Rick?” I called.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be in a meeting for the next hour or so. If there are any more escalations, you can take care of it since you’re the only team lead in charge right now, OK?”

“Got it,” said Rick, sitting in his pile of junk and yet his garbage can was curiously empty. Clearly, he was not a believer in the old adage that a tidy desk means a tidy mind. It never ceases to amaze me how he can work in such filth. I’m not that fussy, but I was brought up with certain standards of hygiene.

I found myself staring helplessly at the ever growing mound of dust and debris. It was so thick I could hardly see the surface of his desk. “Rick!” I coughed loudly as I walked past his cubicle. “Seriously. It’s like Operation Desert Storm in here.”

“Oh.” He looked up and smiled at me benignly. “I’m not asthmatic so the dust doesn’t bother me.”

“But it bothers your neighbors.” I sneezed into my left hand because I only really use my right. “And it bothers me.”

“All right,” said Rick sourly, “I’ll clean my desk next week.”