Paws off the Boss - Casey Griffin (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📗

exchanged it for a temporary pass. “You can pick it up again on the way out.”

“Thanks.”

Scanning through the security gates, Piper slipped into an elevator. The suits shuffled to let her in, ducking to avoid the helium balloons. She tried to ignore the fact that she looked like a stripper at a funeral, but when the doors shut, that was impossible; they were mirrored. It was hard to deny the humiliation when it was staring her in the face.

She tipped her hat low to block the sight and imagined that she was a different kind of professional, dressed in a blazer and pencil skirt. Dressed in something meant for luncheons and quarterly meetings, not for swinging around a pole, stuffing dollar bills into her bra. But she reminded herself why she was doing this. All the crummy jobs would be worth it in the end. Everything would be fine. And she would have accomplished it all on her own.

Leaning over, she pressed the button for the fortieth floor, choking on the cloud of Old Spice cologne from the man next to her. His eyes followed the bounce of her cleavage as she stood back up. She wanted to tell him to take a picture, but instead, she gave him a wink with her honey-brown eye.

“Howdy.”

He grunted in disapproval. Frowning, he turned away, studiously ignoring the reflection in the doors. She bit her lip to hide a smirk.

Floor by floor, the elevator thinned out. Old Spice continued the ride with her to the top, fixing his sad comb-over in the reflection. When the doors opened for the last time, he waved the balloons away and stepped out. Piper followed him into a modern foyer. She often delivered telegrams to offices but never to one this nice.

Wrangling her balloons, she crossed the high-gloss tile to the glass desk in the middle of the reception room. A woman a few years younger than Piper’s twenty-six sat behind it, poised like a model for spray tan products. The nameplate on her desk read “Veronica.”

“Hi there,” Piper said.

Veronica’s eyes scraped over Piper’s costume. She held up a finger while speaking into her headset. “I’m sorry. He’s not available at the moment. He’s in a meeting. … Uh huh.”

Piper’s gaze flitted around the room, taking in the expensive paintings and the bouquet of hydrangeas bulging from a giant crystal vase that probably weighed a ton—and cost as much.

“Okay. I’ll tell him. Thank you.” Veronica ended the call and smiled; well, maybe it was supposed to be a smile, but it looked more like a sneer. “Hello,” she said to Piper, although she was staring at the horse. “Can I help you with something?”

“I work for Sam’s Old-World Singing Telegrams. I’m here for an Aiden. Aiden Caldwell?”

“Aiden?” Veronica practically choked.

As though with new eyes, she took in the sight of Piper again and smiled. But Piper didn’t get the impression she wanted to be friends.

Veronica bit her lip. “This should be interesting.”

“Interesting? Why?”

“Go on through.” She flicked her orange hand toward the glass doors to the side of the desk, bracelets jangling. “Third room on your left. Just head right in.”

“Thanks.”

Veronica pushed a button behind the desk, and the doors unlocked, allowing Piper access to the offices. She followed the directions, balloons trailing behind her, until she stood in front of a sign that said Boardroom One. She reached out and gripped the door handle, but then hesitated.

“Come on, Pipe,” she whispered to herself. A few more weeks of tuition fees to pay off and she could quit.

The bigger the act, the better the tips were. She reached into her bra again and pulled out her phone. Cuing up the cheesy, country-themed music, she hit play and burst through the door. A guitar, a warbling harmonica, and the rhythmic clippety-clop of horse hooves blasted through her phone speakers.

Shoving the hobbyhorse’s wooden pole between her legs, she yelled, “Yeehaw!” and skipped into the room, tassels swaying and heels clicking.

The lights were dimmed, the curtains closed. Her eyes struggled to adjust. Unable to see where she was going, her foot caught on something, and she stumbled forward.

The box of chocolates flew from her hands. The horse clattered to the floor. Balloons floated in all directions.

She reached out to catch her fall. Her knees took the landing hard, but her palm fell on something soft. When the lights flicked on, she saw her hand was nestled in a man’s lap.

Gasping, Piper fell back and stared up at the man. He held a dripping coffee cup. A brown stain spread across his expensive white shirt and tie. Then she saw his face.

Of course he was gorgeous. He had to be gorgeous. That was so damned typical.

“I–I’m so sorry,” she said.

The man seated next to him huffed. “What’s going on here?”

Piper tore her eyes away to face the speaker: Old Spice.

Oh, God. She hoped he wasn’t the one she was supposed to sing to—if they didn’t call security to kick her out first. Delivering a telegram to a crotchety old guy like him? There was nothing worse.

She struggled to untangle her boot from a cord that snaked across the boardroom floor. “I’m looking for Aiden Caldwell.”

The hottie with the coffee-stained shirt stood and helped her up. A shadow of a smirk danced across his perfect lips. “I’m Aiden.”

Correction: that was worse.

He wasn’t the wrinkly old businessman Piper had imagined. But he wasn’t simply cookie-cutter young and attractive, either. He was the kind of hot you would join a gym class for just to work out in the row behind him. Five days a week! And Piper hated the gym. But by the fit of his suit, she could tell he was a devoted gym member.

She swallowed hard. “You’re Aiden Caldwell?”

He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the naturally tousled mess. His ears blazed a flaming pink, and he held a finger in front of his lips to hide an embarrassed grin. Suddenly, she wished it had been Old Spice she was sent there for.

“Yes,” he said. “That would be me, unfortunately.”

The music still clippety-clopped, and Piper became painfully aware that an audience of constipated-looking business types stared at her from around a massive table. The presenter stood at the head of the room in front of pie charts and graphs, laser pointer frozen in his hand.

“I … I’ve got a telegram for you.” Piper tried to act peppy, like Sam paid her to be, but it was hard to rally after her most epic failure.

The room filled with titters and chuckles. She kept her eyes on Aiden, waiting for some cue. Old Spice huffed through his nose and arched an eyebrow. This seemed to sober Aiden up.

Taking a seat, he gestured. “We might as well get this over with.”

“Right,” she said.

After a deep breath, Piper cleared her throat. With a country-and-western twang, she began to sing, looking at everyone in the room except for the intended subject.