Boss Undercover: Part 1 (Boss Undercover Series) Read online

  “Well, it ain’t no Ritz, but it does the job,” she replied.

  “I’ll take it,” he confidently said.

  “Wait, really?”

  Zack nodded, crossing his arms.

  ***

  CLAIRE

  His sleeves tugged up, and so did Claire’s interest: veiny, hairy bold arms, a woman’s weakness. She wondered how much he lifted. No, she scolded herself.

  “Okay, c—cool,” she agreed. “I just need you to sign this agreement I briefly—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted. “Pass it over.”

  Claire left to retrieve it, placed it in front of him. “Here you go,” she said, offering him a pen.

  “Thanks, darling.”

  “I ain’t your darling, Mister,” she said, crossing her arms. “When are you thinking of moving in?”

  “Tonight,” he replied, without looking up.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, so, cheer up.” He smiled as he got to his feet. “I’ll be seeing you very soon.”

  Chapter Four

  ZACK

  Zack had the exact same unpleasant taste lounging in the back of his throat as he got onto the third bus of the day…so far. He hated the sight of it. On the tawdry, moss green seats sat other passengers, unbothered by the filthy environment. He couldn’t understand why it didn’t trouble them. Was this normal? Were dry stains, sticky chewing gum, and packets of rubbish stuffed down the sides of seats or carelessly shuffled around the floor normal? Had humanity gone insane? Was it worth all this hassle just to prove a point? He didn’t know. Nor did he want to know how the middle-aged, greasy grey-haired woman sitting at the front holding her trolley close to her was biting on the ends of her nails as if they were a feast. Zack pulled a face of grimace. What next? Appetite for flesh? he thought.

  His phone began to buzz, as did his ears when some lad pushing to the back played his music obnoxiously loud from the mini speakers on his phone whilst adjusting his snapback.

  “Hello?” he answered, shuffling closer to the window, but not too close, afraid he’d come into contact with that sticky piece of pink chewing gum he’d noticed earlier.

  “Mr. Benson, it’s Olivia,” a nasally voice replied.

  “Ah, Olivia,” Zack reiterated, hoping that even his personal assistant wouldn’t be able to sniff out from his background noise that he was on a bus. He wanted to hold onto some dignity.

  “I’m sorry to pester you, sir, but I’m just letting you know that the council has accepted your plans for construction on their site. The agreed cost is set at six hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Would you like me to follow up with an email?” she asked. He could imagine her pushing the rims of her glasses up, a habit he’d gotten used to seeing.

  “Yes, that’s fine. Could you also make sure to send out that email I have saved on my laptop? Send it to all department managers. I want them to be aware of the next project coming up in this area,” he said, trying to refrain himself from being distracted at the sight of another passenger two seats down and vertically opposite him snacking on a greasy, dripping meat sandwich. It made him want to gag.

  “Certainly, Mr. Benson,” she replied.

  “Oh, and keep me posted regularly. I’m going to be away from my desk,” he instructed her before ending the phone call and slipping the device into his flannel’s breast pocket.

  Was it humanly possible to run a business that required him to answer emails, phone calls, show up at events, hear from the other two branches the business also ran, and play a hoax as an employee? Well, maybe if you weren’t Elijah Benson, his father. But for Zack, Kyle was right—there was at most very little for him to do. No one knew his face. That was why changing the company’s path to go green was his toolkit to making a name for himself rather than relying on his father’s successful past as UK’s leading house-building company. It was a lot to live up to. He wanted to scrap cheap fossil-fuelled homes and construct greener, affordable housing. It was something he knew he couldn’t even breathe down his father’s neck unless he wanted an early death sentence.

  Alas. No one could understand how much it meant to see his penthouse creeping into view after it felt like an eternity trekking up that hill. He was actually quite proud of himself. For a person who didn’t ever use public transport, he’d worked out, with the help of Google Maps, how to find the nearest bus stop to his home. It didn’t mean he enjoyed it, nor did he relish the fact that he’d managed—no, instead he had wished he had Wickes, his personal driver, chauffeuring him back and forth.

  “A’ight, Zacky boy.” Kyle smiled, lunging over to him. Not in bright-coloured chinos, but basketball-type shorts just stopping inches away from his hairy knees. His friend, strangely enough, was in his penthouse.

  “Again? What do you call this?” he said, walking into the central room and immediately blinking several times. “What’s been going on in here?” he exclaimed, planting his hands out to the side, hinting at the presence of his brother, Jared, relaxing on the couch with two barely clothed women lying against his naked chest. “I’m sorry, since when did my home become an open house?”

  “Oh, hey, bro.” Jared’s tone was gruff as he lazily smiled. “Hope you don’t mind, I was visiting, and Kyle here was just in the middle of a small get-together. I think your name got lost in the invite. I hope you don’t mind.” He coughed as he stretched his arms to embrace the women closer.

  Jared was four years younger, barely an adult in Zack’s eyes. Their features were similar, only his brother had brownish hair, and he was a lot shorter than Zack.

  “Ha! No, it’s fine! So, while you’re at it, why don’t you go fuck in my bedsheets too?” Zack hissed, dropping his hands onto his hips.

  “Whoa, whoa! Angry man who’s gonna shit his boxers, calm!” Kyle interjected, hushing his finger over his lips at the sleeping pair either side of Jared.

  “What the fuck do you call this, Kyle? Just because I’m—wait, have you told him about it?” he muttered, jabbing his finger at Jared.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Ah, great,” he sighed, shaking his head.

  “No, it’s cool,” Kyle insisted. “Look, I’ll drop you off if that stops you from making a scene.”

  “Fuck off, Kyle.” He sighed. “And I’d rather get the bus…in fact, I will. I’m not losing this bet. I know what you’re trying to do! So fuck it. Excuse me. I’ve got to pack,” he spat, pushing him aside.

  “Whatever you say,” Kyle said before calling out after him, “you might want to be careful of your bathroom sink. One of the girls, Becky, was sick in it earlier!”

  ***

  ZACK

  And here Zack was again, squashed up against a window by a scruffy-looking guy who’d taken the seat next to him. It just had to be Zack, didn’t it? He held his duffel bag protectively on his lap, his black hoodie up, a frown on his face, and every stop they’d passed, he begged it was this man’s stop. He hated buses. Hated them.

  And now it was raining. Great.

  Heaving his wet duffel bag and tugging on his mini suitcase, he stopped outside door number forty, feeling the slick slap of water still cascading down his forehead. He knocked on the door, tugging off his hood at the same time.

  The door opened inwards.

  “Well, you look like a wet rat,” she remarked, her arms crossed over her pink camisole top.

  “Oh, ha ha,” he replied, his voice tight and hoarse from the wet, chilly cold. “Can I come in or do I have to wait here like I had to wait for that bus?” he grumbled.

  “You do travel light,” she commented as he heaved his suitcase into the corridor. “Are you sure you’re planning to stay? Did you even have furniture where you came from?” She followed him as he slapped his duffel bag onto the side of the sofa and then ran his fingers through his wet black locks over again and again.

  “Shower?” he asked as he rubbed the palms of his hands together.

  “Same place as before. Down the end of the corridor
by the bedrooms,” she replied, staring.

  “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He smirked.

  “Pssf,” she hissed, rolling her eyes. “Trust me, I wouldn’t really care to,” she lied.

  “Whatever makes you sleep at night,” he replied, picking up his duffel bag from off the side and whistling then as he headed towards the bathroom.

  ***

  CLAIRE

  Claire frowned. Jackass, she thought. Remind her why she agreed to do this again? Oh, yeah, the rent. And probably because of his abs. No. Definitely not.

  In the kitchen, she was adding the spaghetti pasta into the hot, boiling water when she heard him next. She definitely, absolutely, most certainly did not drop the rest of the packet when mean ol’ abs walked in.

  “Shit,” she cursed, bending down to pick up the mess.

  Oh, minus one for her. Bonus points for his apparently egotistical self. She did drop them, not because he startled her, because she heard him coming, but because Mr. Abs made a grand entrance. Literally. Oh, she would have paid her neighbours to have seen the mean pecs on him, the parallel train tracks chiselled to his chest, and that dangerous upside-down triangle leading into treachery. Oh, mother of pancakes. This was not good.

  “Can—” she cleared her throat, “can I help you?” Blinking, she looked anywhere but his chest.

  “The hot water. It’s different than the shower I had. Do you mind?” he said, faintly grinning. It was deliberate. She knew he had her trapped, for the time being, where he wanted her. Did she also mention he was wearing nothing but a white towel riding low on his hips? No?

  “I suppose,” she squeaked, turning down the gas on the hob before following him to the bathroom.

  He stepped aside as she headed in, switched on the shower, and turned the dial slowly to the left. “Here,” she said, “you just have to turn it this way. It should have already been on hot, but I guess I forgot to change it when I had a cold shower,” she explained, slowly pulling her arm back from behind the shower curtain.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Cool.”

  His hand went for his towel, immediately ringing alarm bells. “Whoa, whoa!” she exclaimed, covering her eyes. “I’m still here, y’know?”

  “I know.”

  She pulled her hands away, raising her eyebrows. His towel was still intact. “Keep it hidden, pal,” she warned. “There’s two people under this roof, you know.”

  Zack was biting back so hard. “Won’t happen, again, Ma’am,” he apologised, smiling as she daggered her eyes at him.

  She left then, hot-headed and disappointed at her female hormones. If there was one thing she wanted to be good at, it was singling out the jerks. She had barely become acquainted with the man and already he was gonna give her the full Monty show.

  ***

  CLAIRE

  How does one eat? How does one chew? How does one swallow?

  She probably didn’t seem conscious of how she was eating. Picturing herself as she sat there, swirling her fork into the spaghetti and slowly chewing the odd meatball without making a mess made it, somewhat indescribably, a joke. This was Claire. And if she knew herself, like the torture she’d put her parents through anytime they’d took the night off cooking, she knew she was a messy eater.

  It was his fault. Yes, he sat opposite her, digging into the bowl of spaghetti she’d kindly offered to share. Now she regretted it. Big time. She wanted to shovel it down her throat, but that annoying nag inside ordered her different. How it made sense, she didn’t know. Because just look at him, her nag told her. He’s God’s gift sent from heaven.

  “This is nice.” He dug his fork aggressively into the bowl as he wolfed down his fifth round of spaghetti. “Oh God, you don’t even realise how hungry I am,” he moaned, rubbing his right hand across his chest, satisfied.

  Claire blinked several times.

  “I mean this…” Zack grinned slowly, pausing his fork somewhere in the middle of the bowl. “This is fucking tasty. Like, I didn’t even think it would taste this good,” he confessed, shaking his head with a smile as he dived for another bite.

  “Gee, thanks,” she mumbled. “I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or what.” Her eyes were torn at the sight of spaghetti sauce speckled on his white v-cut shirt.

  “So,” he began, completely changing the topic. “What’s there to know about Ms. Claire Winter? Huh? I think now’s a good time to get into the nitty gritty.” His eyes briefly met hers before lashing hungrily back to the bowl of food.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Oh, c’mon. You can’t tell me you seriously have nothing to tell,” he replied, disappointed.

  “Well, maybe I don’t,” she meekly suggested, digging her fork pointlessly into a meatball she knew she wasn’t going to eat. “Anyway, I think it’s me who should be doing the asking.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know anything about you. And you know nothing about me. For all you know, I could be the classic femme fatale, luring male victims into my trap before dishing their heads on a silver platter. And let’s be real, you were quick on moving in,” she said openly, jabbing her fork into the meatball again.

  “Wow, was not expecting that.” He chuckled, leaning his arm on the edge of the table. He only had to shift a little and already she was appreciating his thick, tousled black locks and begging herself to run a finger down his chiselled jawline.

  Get a grip.

  “So, where are you from? London? Around here?” she persisted after mentally scolding herself.

  “Around here, Birmingham,” he replied, anxious how far she’d dig. He hadn’t really thought of a good cover story.

  Claire pulled her hair into a tight ponytail. “Oh, nice. And what brings you into my flat?”

  “You.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Does that actually work?”

  “Pretty much,” Zack confessed, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re proving to be a difficult customer, however.” And there was that boyish charm.

  Claire snorted, standing up as she began to collect the dishes. “Since when was I a paying customer, Romeo?” She placed the dishes into the bowl, squirting the washing liquid and releasing hot water, watching as the suds expanded.

  “O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head!” Zack rejoiced. He pushed his right arm out as if to reach for her, then tugged on his grey jogger’s waistband, playing with the elastic string, while all the while an irritating grin lingered on his lips.

  Claire’s right brow lifted cynically. “All right, Shakespeare, calm down.

  “Ah, ah, ah, where do you think you’re going?” she scolded suddenly, hearing his naked feet plod away on the white linoleum floor. “I’m not doing all this washing up. You can at least do the drying!” she called out after him.

  “I’ve got work to do,” he replied, “but I’ll be back in a second.”

  Seconds later, she felt two arms slithering around her waist, each fingertip burning into her skin. She could feel a hardened torso, firm thighs pressing against the back of her own. Gently, she felt hands slide towards her hips, furiously tugging them against his own. Her lips parted gently, her wrinkled, wet hands squeezed the sponge between them in the washing bowl as his hands wandered towards her breasts.

  “Tell me what you what me to do,” he whispered against her ear.

  “Everything,” she confessed.

  Eagerly, she turned, mouth-to-mouth, soap suds crawling through her fingers into his hair. Tongues battling, no winner or loser, hands travelling skin-to-skin. The restless urge succumbing both bodies into one. A moan. A gasp.

  Claire blinked. Another presence was noticeably absent.

  She was standing at the sink; her hands were madly squeezing the sponge and a piece of pasta was bathing on top of a carpet of soap in the washing bowl. Either she had been caught day-dreaming or she was going completely crazy. Claire p
referred the latter.

  It was no surprise then when Zack, her newfound roommate, returned, holding a laptop under his right arm, heading for the kitchen table, that she’d nearly kicked herself. Don’t even dare, she threatened herself. What? Those kissable lips she’d seconds ago only imagined tangoing with her own. Or his arms? Wrapped around her? Nope.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he remarked, setting his laptop down and switching the ON button.

  “N-No,” she said, swallowing at least a mouthful of saliva. “I’m just tired. Do you think you could help after you’re done?” she hinted, exhaling afterwards, at his transfixed state towards the laptop screen.

  Zack was too busy typing away to have heard.

  ***

  ZACK

  There was one thing he was afraid to leave untouched—and that was ensuring his plans go full steam ahead on the Brownfield Project, constructing renewable energy efficient homes, was in the green. Now, why was this important? Well, if anyone knew Zack’s father, Elijah, he was a man of profit, a man even Zack believed had done corrupt business, paid the odd officer to look the other way, or evaded tax by some clever accounting. He’d seen it. Heck, his father had dodgy relations with a lieutenant in the police force, who’d personally ensured Zack’s brother, Jared, that he wouldn’t be convicted for underage drinking and driving. The point was, Zack knew that if his father heard he was making plans to alter the company’s path, it would release Satan, himself, from hell. So, why had he agreed to Kyle’s bet? He couldn’t just blame his own competitive spirit. At first, it did appear silly. Yet what was more apparent was he could work alongside those researching the potential clientele market, estimate profits, and potentially sell his idea closer than he could as CEO. He wanted the research and drafting to be done to the highest standard, enough so he could impress the chairman of the board, whom he suspected was still under the high influence of his father.