Under My Boss's Authority: Office Romance Collection by Jamie Knight (small books to read .TXT) 📕

tried to put on a brave face. Stowing the recycled bag of trend back in the coffee cupboard, I accepted my terrible fate and brought the jumbo jug of instant coffee crystals to the counter. The steam flew like a white flag as the stove top kettle blew. I consoled myself with the fact that instant coffee was better than no coffee at all.

Once the caffeine had perked me up enough to function, I headed for my closet. The clothes inside stood like soldiers awaiting inspection. Not identical, but near enough that it was hard to tell them apart on first sight. Simple, subdued, black and white. Selecting the most sensible suit I could spy, I shook out of my P.J.s and slithered into the silk-lined wool.

It only took spilling coffee on a white shirt once for me to want to take every precaution, so it didn’t happen again. Even if it did feel a bit silly. I’d been working from home for nearly a year. Yet, I’d kept up my old routine, like I still had an office job. Which, sadly, hadn’t been the case for about three months.

It wasn’t a case of old habits dying hard, though they absolutely did, as much as mindset. Attitude wasn’t everything, but it could make a difference. Act like you have a job, and you won’t feel unemployed. Even if an unemployment check was the only real income you saw.

The angels sang, the room filling with light as laptop came to life. Bluetooth headphones filling my skull with music, I set about the labors of the day, hopeful in heart but steely in determination.

Scrolling through the want ads felt a little like some sort of digital treadmill, each of the listings scrolling by, most unnoticed, until they all became part of the same repeated blur. My finger on the scroll wheel was getting quite the workout. It sadly reminded me of the last time I’d tried online dating in a desperate attempt to break my lengthy dry spell.

I knew I wasn’t the hottest fox on the planet, but it wasn’t like mirrors shattered when I passed or anything. I had a pretty enough face, and while I’d never been happy with the size of my waist, it was accompanied by a decently sized bust and hips.

Yet, alone I remained. It felt a little pathetic to still be not just single, but a virgin, two weeks shy of my 25th birthday.

It felt very much like I’d left no stone unturned in my relentless search, for either love or for a new job. Except that there was always another stone.

A growing sense of pessimism gnawed inside my skull, threatening to greatly darken my mood. A change could be as good as a break, so I switched gears, and windows, over to my email. Hoping for a distraction, but never suspecting what I would actually find there that fateful morning.

It wasn’t the first time. If it was, I doubted I would have recognized the type so readily. Still, there was no mistaking the top message in my inbox.

The response was from Boucher Books. The biggest small press publisher on the west coast. What they lacked in print runs they made up for in mystique. There was never a book that their company released that didn’t garner instant critical acclaim.

That kind of hype, combined with the scarcity of copies, ensured the company sold out of every book they chose to print. Numbers which looked very good for their overall standing. Like filmmakers who booked the smallest screening room at Cannes so they could boast their showing sold-out.

While based on a template, the missive was surprisingly personal. Unlike any form letter I’d ever seen.

But in spite of that piquing my intrigue, the most interesting part of the email came in the later stages. Particularly the bit about wanting me to start immediately. As in that day, that instant. The exact wording was ‘at your convenience,’ but I’d been around long enough to know that basically meant ‘as soon as you’re able.’

The second most interesting part, at least to me, was that the letter appeared to have been composed by Hugo Boucher himself. It could sometimes be hard to tell with electronic communications. The signatures were just the same kind of text as the rest of the message. Anyone could have filled in the name. Except there were little quirks. A odd sentence structure here, speaking of someone for whom English was not their first language, and a typo there, that spoke of human intention.

I was able, and almost frighteningly willing, getting onto the company website within seconds and signing up for every group, mailing list and assignment they currently had on offer, before the minutes on the clock hand changed twice

It didn’t mean I would get every project I signed up for. It was mostly likely a candidate system. Everyone in that department who was interested signing up and then, whoever was in charge of the project, picking who they thought was best. It was a system I knew well, and tended to cope with, by way of the shotgun approach. It was a decent way of statistically raising my chances of get at least something that I might want.

Curiosity tugged. As I waited to hear back about which projects, if any, I’d been assigned, my mind drifted to the inciting email. I’d only managed to get my hands on one of Boucher’s books, and an electronic version at that. I was happy to get anything of course, but his seemed the kind of work to be held and experienced viscerally.

There were print copies. Mostly on eBay, posted by the lucky sods who had snagged them when they were still new. All for prices well outside what I could afford, even if I ate only rice, with nothing but dreams of anything beyond instant coffee. I’d already been a student once.

But the words from that digital copy of his work came back to me. Line