Boss I Love To Hate

by Kayla, Mia

  Boss I Love To Hate

  Mia Kayla

  MAM BOOKS LLC

  Copyright © 2019 by Mia Kayla

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at http://www.authormiakayla.com

  Cover Designer: Jersey Girl Designs,

  http://www.jerseygirl-designs.com

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Mitzi Carroll

  http://www.facebook.com/MitziCarrollEditor

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9996757-2-4

  Created with Vellum

  To my Daddy, whose birthday is today.

  “A father holds his daughter’s hand for a short while, but he holds her heart forever.” – Unknown

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Mia Kayla

  Chapter 1

  Sonia

  “Her boobs can’t possibly be real.”

  My best friend, Ava, always tried to make me feel better. Too bad I knew she was lying. Lying through her teeth.

  With my forefinger, I pushed my glasses farther up my nose and leaned closer to the computer screen, so close that I nearly went cross-eyed. The scent of coffee hit me directly in the nostrils. The sound of paper spat out of the printer. The chatter of my coworkers rang loudly behind me. But I ignored it all and concentrated on my computer screen—her—my replacement. Jeff’s replacement for me.

  “She’s not that pretty,” Ava continued.

  I scrolled through my ex-boyfriend’s Facebook feed again, fixated on their endless pictures together, laughing, hugging, smiling, eating. And her … I couldn’t get over her. The replacement was beautiful, her body built like those mannequins at the store, tall and perfectly proportional. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. High cheekbones contoured like those stupid tutorials Ava always watched on YouTube.

  “I hate her.” Venom dripped from my tone. Not only because she was beautiful, but also because she had him.

  Already tired of looking at my computer screen, I leaned back against my chair and straightened my pens, separated by color in their cup-like containers.

  “I’m telling you, she’s not that …” She coughed. “But do you think her boobs are real?”

  “They can’t be.” My eyes level with the screen. “Who has a perfect face, body, and boobs, too?”

  Why must life be so unfair?

  “Sonia!”

  I jerked back at the sound of my boss’s voice and knocked over my coffee in the process, causing me to jump back and drop the phone. “Damn it!”

  Liquid spilled everywhere—on the desk, on my keyboard, on my skirt.

  Fisting a handful of Kleenex from my tissue box, I cleaned up my desk. The light-brown liquid soaked the tissues. I grabbed more, repeated the process, patted my damp skirt down, and glared at his office door.

  I had ordered his breakfast, picked up his dry cleaning, and gone over his schedule for today. What the hell did he want now? Couldn’t I get some peace for five freaking minutes?

  I reached for the phone dangling off my desk and placed it to my ear. “Gotta go, Ava. The crass hole is beckoning.”

  She sighed overly loud. “Tall, dark, and oh-so fine. Give my love to your BILF.”

  Boss I’d Like to—yeah, right.

  How about Boss I’d Like to Kill?

  “I’ll tell the BILK you said hello. Bye.” I reached for my iPad, adjusted my glasses, and skittered to his office, my two-inch turquoise Mary Janes clicking against the black marble floor. After I pulled down my plaid knee-length skirt, I entered his fishbowl office.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows outlined every single wall. His eyes focused on the screen in front of him, his backdrop was worthy of a picture frame—the Chicago skyline.

  Brad Sebastian Brisken had the face of a Hollywood heartthrob, the jawline of a GQ model, and the body of someone who lived at the gym all the time. His suit was always perfectly pressed, and the lines in his sleek slacks always hugged his firm thighs. There was never a dark strand of hair out of place. He looked like a Greek god—tall, fit, and fine.

  “Took you long enough.”

  “Sorry, was on the phone with my mom.” Jerkface. I didn’t sound sorry.

  And this was how our two-year working relationship had been going. Him being a jerk, me snapping back or blatantly not caring.

  Who cared if Brad was a millionaire? Who cared that he was seriously one good-looking, fine specimen of a man with his chestnut hair and dark brown eyes? Every woman fawned over him. Every male wanted to be him.

  Me? Sometimes, he drove me to the point of insanity where I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and choke hold him, WWE-style, until he turned blue.

  After working for him for over two years, there was one thing I had come to realize: good looks and all the money in the world did not make up for his jerk-like attitude.

  He motioned to the chair in front of his desk, and I sat down. And, as I swiped at my iPad, his phone rang.

  “Hey, Jimmy.” He leaned back on his chair, resting his ankle on the opposite knee, and with a flick of his hand, he waved me off as though I were a fly on his shoulder.

  I stood, about-faced, and was almost to my desk when he called out to me as though he had a permanent megaphone attached to his mouth, “Sonia!”

  I pivoted and walked back into his office. When I sat down, his phone rang. He picked it up, and with a flick of his hand, he waved me off—again.

  “Yeah, yeah. But did you get the tickets?” His boisterous laughter grated on my nerves. He swiveled in his chair and faced his floor-to-ceiling windows, his back toward me.

  This guy!

  I glared at him, stomped back to my desk, and was about to sit down when he called out again.

  For the love of all that is holy.

  My eyes fell shut, and I inhaled deeply. I took out my essential oils and rubbed one at my temples and my wrists. Lavender was supposed to alleviate stress, and I debated on dumping the whole bottle on myself to speed up the process.

  Breathe. Or go postal and lose your job.

  I counted backwards and walked into his office at a normal pace, purposely taking my time.

  “Did you spill coffee on yourself?” He lifted a perfect eyebrow and eyed the brown stain on the front of my skirt. “That’s a first.”

  Of course, it was a freaking first. I prided myself on being organized and neat, and I was—before stalking Jeff and his new girlfriend. Seeing them together and being so in love had officially screwed with my head.

  Brad’s head ducked back to his
computer screen where he tapped away. “Dry cleaning is on the couch. Where’re my other clothes?”

  I peered over at the far corner of the room where a pile of pants, suit jackets, and shirts were stuffed into an overflowing bag.

  “Last week’s dry cleaning is in your closet.” That was the first thing I had told him when I saw him this morning.

  Maybe I needed to slip him some of that earwax solution, leave it on his desk with a little courtesy note.

  “I’ve also made reservations at Alessi’s Restaurant for your date tonight.”

  He lifted his head from the screen. “I said Carlucci.”

  “You said Alessi.” My eyes widened, and I double-blinked. I’d chased this reservation down for the past few weeks and called every day to check if there was a cancellation. I’d finally snagged a reservation yesterday. Is this man serious?

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

  This coming from the guy who couldn’t read his schedule. Despite that I kept it organized, yesterday, he had met with the wrong Mr. Wilson.

  Boss, really quick, can I borrow your desk because it’s closer than mine so I can bang my head against it?

  “Did you book the hotel?”

  “Yes.” I clenched my teeth in a tight smile and ground my molars. “I also ordered flowers, and they will be delivered to your table.”

  I’d basically set the plans for him to get laid tonight. Who knew what poor soul he had his sights on?

  I had tried to warn off the countless interns and account officers who walked through Brisken Printing Corporation, but they still wanted him. Brad threw them one look, and they were all a forgone without-a-job conclusion.

  Because canoodling between the sheets with the boss could turn the most professional women into the jealous and crazy stalker types, which usually ended up with them quitting and heading to the back of the unemployment line.

  “What kind of flowers did you buy?” He leaned back on his chair and steepled his fingers by his lips.

  “Roses, the kind I always order.”

  “I want to change it up this time. Order me some peenees.”

  My brow wrinkled, and I leaned in, clutching the iPad against my chest. “What?”

  “Peenees. Remember, I told you about them the other day. The front desk had an arrangement of peenees.”

  My boss loved to hear himself talk, and I was on the receiving end of that one-way dialogue, but I filtered out all things not work-related, and that didn’t require my attention.

  What the hell is he even saying?

  “What kind of flowers?”

  “Peenees,” he drawled out the word as though elongating the E would make me understand him. He sounded like he was saying penises.

  Why will I have to order that? Isn’t she going to get that later?

  He almost looked annoyed, so I made him repeat it again.

  “Sorry, what was that again?”

  I bit my lip and schooled my features. If he was going to make my life hell, I could at least have a little laugh of my own.

  “Peenees.” His voice was softer this time as though he were unsure. “Oh, for shit’s sake, come here.”

  He began typing on his keyboard, and when I approached behind his desk, I expected to see a bunch of penises on his screen, but he typed peenees flowers in his search engine, and peonies came up.

  Like a smart-ass, I pointed to the screen. “There’s an O there. It’s pronounced as pee-O-nees.”

  He visibly frowned. “Real funny,” he deadpanned. “Do I look like a florist to you? Just add those flowers to the order.”

  “Okay, will do.” I smirked, stepping around his desk.

  He waved a hand, dismissing me. “Thanks. Wish me luck tonight.”

  Brad didn’t need luck. He’d get laid, and he’d lose interest. It was his MO. And I’d hear about it all the next day because he was a sharer—but only to me, it seemed.

  “Make sure you pick up my lunch at Klypso,” he added.

  “Already ordered. Is that it?” I lifted an eyebrow.

  The sounds of him typing on his keyboard echoed through the room.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t even lift his head from the computer.

  He was in fine form today. I tried not to roll my eyes as I slowly shut the door and made my way back to my desk.

  This is just a job, I reminded myself.

  Charles—his brother, the CEO of Brisken Printing Corp.—and Mason—his younger brother and the VP of finance—had hired me over two years prior. They had interviewed me, and I had been told that the job had two main functions. One: keep Brad’s schedule organized and on track. And two: do not sleep with him. It was two requirements that I had to adhere to.

  Before me, Brad had gone through six secretaries within six-months. But his inability to keep it professional and their inability to say no were affecting their work, and his schedule was disorganized. It didn’t help that some of those secretaries had gone on a warpath when Brad decided to move on. And he always moved on.

  He changed women like he changed the channel—quick and wanting to know if there was something better.

  I had been in a serious relationship with Jeff, so that number two rule was a no-brainer. It would not happen. Following rules was built into my DNA, and organization was one of my strong points.

  And, although super fine, Brad was not my type.

  I was kinda geeky. I embraced the romantic nerd in me. I loved playing Pokémon Go, I read a dangerous amount of romance novels, and I was the biggest Harry Potter Head.

  I couldn’t exactly picture Brad watching a marathon of everything on the Hallmark Channel or all seven Harry Potter flicks.

  Brad tended to like the girls with the A, B, Cs—ass, boobs, and curves.

  And I was five-two, petite, and flat-chested with dark brown hair and glasses because I couldn’t function without them.

  It was a match made in secretary-boss heaven. Purely platonic.

  No secretary in the whole Chicagoland area made as much as I did. Seriously. I was overpaid but under-laid, which was fine by me. And it was worth it. My friends who had full-time jobs worked a part-time job to make ends meet. Me? I had a one-bedroom condo in walking distance from work in downtown Chicago, and I could only afford it because of my job. Every year, I got a substantial raise and a bonus. It was as if they were increasing my pay exponentially every year I continued to keep my legs closed.

  The Brisken brothers paid their employees well, and keeping my panties on meant it would stay like that.

  * * *

  Brad

  Maybe Charles was right. I was already tired of the dating game.

  Looking at myself in the hotel bathroom mirror, I ran one hand through the top of my dark hair and let out a tired sigh. Tired dark brown eyes stared back at me.

  My younger brother, Mason, was in a five-year-long relationship with the epitome of a gold-digging she-devil. When I thought of their relationship, it only confirmed what I never wanted in one of my own.

  But my older brother lived in romantic bliss with his second wife, reminding me again how a good relationship should be. Seeing Charles and Becky together changed my mind about relationships.

  I wanted what they had and what my parents had—a real relationship with someone I could connect with.

  “Come back to bed, baby,” Olivia cooed when I stepped from the bathroom. Her tone increased in pitch, the way women tried to sound cute but weren’t.

  I toweled off my wet hair and body, slipped on my black pants, and worked to button my shirt. I stared at her long and hard, trying to force a connection between us, but it simply wasn’t there. “I’m sorry. I have to go. Early morning meeting.”

  She’d seemed prettier earlier, but maybe that was because I’d been drinking.

  That wasn’t true. I hadn’t had too much to drink. I had purposely remembered to pace myself.

  I averted my gaze, disappointment seeping deep into my skin. I had known this night would co
me. I was hoping it wouldn’t, but it had with the previous girls I dated. Like clockwork, after sex, I lost interest. Not because the sex was bad. It was good, as all orgasms were, but that closeness I had been hoping for—that familiarity—wasn’t there.

  This was our sixth date. I’d thought dragging it on would be sweeter, and we’d have more of a connection, but I guessed not.

  It wasn’t only Olivia’s red hair and deep brown eyes that had caught my attention; it was also her sharp wit and intelligent, investment banker self. Now, her red hair had lost its sparkle, and her brown eyes, which had once seemed endless and deep, were now shallow. I’d spent time getting to know her, wanting to know her, yet something else was missing.

  She pulled the sheets to cover her breasts and sat up straighter on the bed. “Are you really doing this right now, Brad?” Her once-strong tone turned whiny.

  This was the part I hated, but honesty was better than leading her on.

  “I really do have to get to work early.” I walked closer to the bed and sat at the edge, finishing off the last button. “You are welcome to stay till the morning. Breakfast will be delivered.” I took in her tousled red hair, her once-piercing brown eyes … but there was nothing. No spark. No sudden urge to kiss her. Only an unbearable itch underneath my skin to get up, leave, and shower again at home.

  “You’re not going to call me.” Her tone was resolute, soft, her high-pitched, trying-to-be-cute voice gone.

  This was better than the previous psycho woman who had destroyed the hotel room when I left, but it still sucked.