Well, there goes my weekend of binge-watching Netflix in my pajamas.

“How long, exactly, is this retreat?” someone in the back of the boardroom asked.

Brian Gage, our illustrious CEO, said, “We leave for the mountains next Friday at noon, and return Sunday evening. Exercises begin with dinner on Friday, go all day Saturday, then we regroup Sunday morning to discuss the retreat and its results. You can leave anytime after that. Any questions?”

The head of Accounting raised his hand like a third-grader. “Is attendance mandatory?”

Oh no, he didn’t. Over the long table, my gaze met with the almond-shaped eyes of the head of Human Resources. Susan and I rolled our eyes simultaneously. I shook my head in pity, already knowing enough about my new boss to know that everything about Brian Gage was mandatory.

He was the first to arrive and the last to leave. Actually, he was the second last, since as his new executive assistant I didn’t dare go home before him. I kept trying to get the jump on him in the morning, but it was tough.

It was getting to the point where I might as well just sleep under my desk and try to sneak in a shower in the steel and glass en suite bathroom connected to his steel and glass office.

Right now, he seemed made of steel and glass himself as he stared at Mr. Accounting. The room was so quiet; you could hear his year-end bonus drop.

Standing to my left at the head of the table, Gage put his hands on his hips. His sudden movement was enough to make my fingers tighten around the pen with which I was dutifully taking notes. At least he hadn’t elbowed me in the head. I rolled my chair to the side a few inches, not realizing how close he was.

Note to self: manda-fucking-tory.

After a long pause, he continued. “Spouses and significant others are not invited.”

That wouldn’t be a problem. The closest thing I had to a significant other took double-A batteries.

“At the retreat we will do some group and individual exercises in trust-building and communication,” Gage said.

My eyes rolled again. Yeah, he could use some work on communication skills. I’d already noticed that in the few weeks that I’d been working there—not that I could say anything to him. I had a feeling that his previous assistant had left after recommending he remove the smartphone from his wealthy, tight, successful backside.

“Don’t worry,” Susan added from her end of the table. “There will be no building of towers out of office furniture.”

Everyone chuckled, sort of. Then she met my gaze again.

“It’s worse,” she mouthed to me.

Great. This being my first “retreat,” I had no idea what to expect. Usually retreat meant failure of some kind, or at least strategic withdrawal. Soldier retreated in battle, “exhausted” celebrities go to retreat clinics. Work retreats, I understood, were the worst of the worst—strategic withdrawal with a bunch of passive-aggressive blowhards, after which you all feel like exhausted failures. Yippee.

Why had I taken this job again? Oh right, I was a millennial cliché.

Not only was I single at the age of twenty-four, but I was living with my parents in order to save money. A college degree in Rhetoric turned out to be, well, rhetorical when it came to the job market. I’d flitted through temp work while looking for just the right job, until it occurred to me that the better strategy would be to make the job right for me.

I’d spent the past two years since graduating floating from one temporary job to another. The most useful skill I’d been able to apply was my ability to touch type one hundred and twenty-five words per minute. Thankfully, I’d developed some expertise in ghostwriting correspondence and internal communication, but it wasn’t my calling.

I was still waiting for something to call me—or at least text. It was Susan who had phoned me for an interview.

That fateful day still stuck out in my goldfish-like memory. I’d been as nervous as a teenage girl taking a pregnancy test—not that I’d know from experience. My formative years had been spent with my heart turned inward and my head in a Harry Potter book.

But nervous I was. When I stood up from my seat in the waiting area, I had to make sure that my sweaty palms hadn’t left a mark on my pencil skirt when I smoothed the creases out of it.

I was ushered into Gage’s office, and the butterflies in my stomach had babies. I wasn’t expecting the hottest smartphone application developer on the West Coast to be so, well, hot.

He stood behind a glass and steel desk, his tanned arms a stark contrast to the rolled-up sleeves of his blindingly white shirt. My gaze followed the buttons of his shirt up to his square jaw, full lips, a slightly crooked nose, and piercing blue eyes. They were almost the same blue as the glints in his coal black hair under the fluorescent lights.

His suit jacket was slung over the back of a massive black leather chair—presumably his throne—and his hands rested on his lean hips.

Easily, he gave off the impression of a man who was very successful, very driven, and who had a very large stick up his ass.

His hands moved from his hips to rest on the desk as he leaned forward. “Madeline Jones.”

It wasn’t a question. I already had the feeling that he made more statements than queries, as a whole.

Propelling myself forward, I put my hand out. “Most people call me Maddie.” His grip was strong, and almost as hot as my face felt.

I had the distinct feeling that he’d already assessed me from my auburn head to the high heels pinching my toes, without ever moving his eyeballs. And found me lacking.

“I’ll get right to it,” he said, gesturing for me to sit in a clear Lucite chair in front of his desk. I wondered if having his guests look like they were sitting on nothing was a power tactic for him. With those X-ray eyes and demeanor, I didn’t think that Brian Gage needed any more power trip strategies.

Apparently he knew my previous contract employer, who had blabbed about my business communication skills over single malt scotch at some networking event. He told Mister Gage about not having to write his own bullshit letters, and how my letters generally got better results.

Gage pulled out some of the letters that my ex-boss had shared with him and we discussed why and how I wrote what I did. I became more comfortable talking about my word choices and techniques of persuasion. Then he pushed some paper across the desk at me.

“This is the kind of thing I send to venture capitalists and investors,” he said.

My eyes widened as I read it out loud. “My company needs money. I will make you money in return. Give it to me.”

“It’s not working.” He frowned.

No shit. “Have you considered saying please?”

“I’ve managed to attract a hundred million dollars to date,” he pointed out.

“You’ve been lucky.”

His expression was positively glacial. “I’m not lucky. I’m good.”

That was Day One. Now I was on Day Forty of captivity, and the stick in his ass hadn’t bent yet. And we were going to do trust exercises at some resort in the mountains. On the plus side, there would be lots of sticks around in case anything was dislodged.

“Maddie will send you the details,” he said now, effectively dismissing everyone in the boardroom. They shuffled out, a few people bitching to each other under their breath. I remained in my seat until Gage fell into his chair beside me.

“This will be good,” he affirmed. I didn’t think he was looking for a challenge, and he wouldn’t get one from me right now.

“Yes, sir. They seem, uh, enthusiastic. Gung ho.” Okay, even I couldn’t make that communication persuasive in the slightest. I used my toes to swivel myself in my chair from side to side. If I’d been alone I probably would have spun myself like a little kid.

“You can’t lie worth a damn, Madeline.”

“No, Mister Gage.”

“Never lie to me.”

“Yes, Mister Gage.”

“You’re lying to me now, aren’t you?”

“No, Mister Gage.”

“Maddie…” he growled.

I looked at him. “Yes, Mister Gage?”

The staring contest commenced. His gaze was opaque and penetrating, like a lizard waiting for the right moment to capture. Nope, wasn’t going to blink. I could play this game, and win. My eyes watering, I lasted two long, silent minutes before I blinked.

A smug smile spread over the bosshole’s face. My cheeks grew hot.

Retreat. Retreat!