Mindy Cooper was tired. Tired of pretending to be Bernard Morton's administrative assistant. Tired of not being a reporter for the Schuyler Square Times. Tired of trying to avoid Bernard's less than subtle attempts to get her in the sack. All in all, she was plain tired.
"Look, Bernard," Mindy said through tight lips, "you need to get going on the whole Fat Off campaign. Straighten things out with the EPA. Change the name of Fat Off. Get it on the shelves before someone steals it from you."
Bernard didn't look too worried. If anything, he was looking more Warren Beatty-like than usual lately, a fact that was throwing Mindy completely off her game. If only Bernard was repulsive looking and didn't smell so good. Then she knew that she'd be able to see him more clearly and recognize him for the creep that he truly was. Her attraction to someone with so few scruples troubled Mindy. Did that mean that she didn't have any scruples? Did it mean that, given the opportunity, she'd give up her low paying but noble job as a journalist to become Bernard's mistress and live a life of disgusting but pleasurable luxury?
"Mindy," Bernard replied in his usual patronizing tone, "don't think that I don't appreciate your input but let's remember that you're my assistant. You have nothing to do with promotion or any of the legalese that goes on at Kutrate Kemicals. You're job is to do what I tell you to do and shut up."
Mindy glared at her boss. Honestly, what was the matter with her? Did she honestly think that she could be happy being this man's mistress when he talked to her like she had the IQ of a turnip? Thankfully, Bernard hadn't brought up the whole mistress idea again. There was a good possibility that he'd forgotten about it. Bernard Morton was 50 if he was a day and everyone knew how the grey cells started to go at his age. "I know what my job is," Mindy snapped, "but I can't sit here while you try to market something named 'Fat Off.' That is the worst name I've ever heard! It sounds like something you'd use to clean a particularly greasy oven with. Who came up with it anyway?"
"I did," Bernard said calmly, "and I like it."
"Why don't you hire an advertising agency and let them come up with a better name for you?"
"Why should I pay someone else when I'm perfectly satisfied with what I've got?" Bernard eyed Mindy speculatively. "Speaking of that, you've never given me an answer about that other job I offered you."
Mindy swallowed. "What other job?"
"The one of being my mistress. I've been thinking about you, Mindy, and you'd be a fool to turn me down. I'd set you up in a nice studio apartment, buy you a good used car, pay your utilities--"
So much for living in the lap of luxury. "And what would I have to do in exchange for such a gracious lifestyle?"
Bernard failed to note the sarcasm dripping out of Mindy's voice. "What do you think a mistress does, sweetie? Take my clothes to the cleaners? Although I would expect you to do a few of the niceties like that."
Why was his offer not sounding all that horrific? It would be pleasant not to have to pay rent or car payments--although Mindy had something better in mind than a studio apartment and a used Ford Focus.
Where's your pride? What about Tyler? What about your self-respect?
"Let me think about it," Mindy told Bernard, shocked as the words fell out of her mouth. She knew that there was nothing to think about. She knew that no how, no way could she ever sleep with her boss. She knew that.
Didn't she?
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