Bossed

by Sloane Howell

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

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Sloane Howell

  Excerpt from Scored by Sloane Howell copyright © 2017 by Sloane Howell

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Scored by Sloane Howell. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399179112

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover photograph: anetta/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgments

  By Sloane Howell

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Scored

  Chapter 1

  Jenny Jackson

  Who is Ethan Mason?

  I strode down the busy sidewalk like a lost child at the mall, conspicuous amidst a crowd of pedestrians who seemed to move with purpose, all knowing exactly where they were headed. Suits blew past me in every direction, all oblivious to my presence as I craned my head up, looking for any glimpse of a street sign.

  Where the hell am I?

  Used to living half an hour—with no traffic—outside of the large Texas city, I didn’t venture downtown much, and it certainly showed by the agitated looks of everyone who passed me. It had all happened so fast. I’d applied for a staff accounting position—one of many around town—but this was at a sports agency, Mason and Associates. Usually, I would’ve researched the firm and done some form of due diligence, but they called me back the same day and scheduled an interview for the next morning. Today.

  I rounded a corner and a park came into view across the street. In front of the park sat a mobile coffee cart, just off the main thoroughfare at the edge of the sidewalk. Thank God. The strong aroma from the roasted beans cut through the bevy of exhaust fumes and blaring horns sounding all around me.

  A cab approached, seemingly out of nowhere, and slammed on its brakes as I attempted to cross the street. I skidded on the heels I hadn’t worn in over a year, teetering for balance as my hands shot up in defense. “Sorry.”

  I cringed at the string of expletives hurled by the cabbie as I gathered my wits and continued toward the heavenly scent coming from the tree-lined sidewalk just half a block down. After I crossed the street I checked my bag and confirmed my resume was still safely inside my portfolio along with two pens and enough paper to transcribe the entire interview if needed.

  Thinking about my resume sent me into a dark thunderstorm of self-doubt. Three years of bookkeeping for small businesses was hardly impressive, and last I had checked, I couldn’t list “almost a CPA if my father hadn’t become sick” as a credential.

  I cleared the thought from my mind and attempted to focus. The coffee cart was calling my name and I started up the sidewalk. Large, bright-pink azalea bushes bloomed throughout and a few children squealed while their father chased after them. I halted in my tracks and smiled, remembering days like that with my dad, which now seemed a distant memory.

  When I turned back to the cart, a suit and tie slammed into me, knocking my bag to the ground. I stumbled around in a momentary daze, trying to process what had just occurred.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Please excuse me.” I crouched down and quickly gathered all the papers that had spilled out of my bag and shoved them back in. Finally, I turned my head to meet a perfectly creased pair of black slacks, then lifted my gaze up to the guy’s face. He had to be mid-to-late twenties. He glared down at me with a pair of warm brown eyes, holding his phone to his ear. His hair was dark and combed back like the models who graced the covers of GQ or Style. His lips curled into a devilish smile as my face flushed with heat at the sight of such a handsome man. It was like seeing a lion on the Discovery Channel, only live and in the flesh. Predatory men like him weren’t supposed to actually exist in everyday life.

  His brows pinched together and he scoffed, “You’re excused.”

  I was at fault. I knew this. Standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk and staring out into the park was just asking for trouble. But something about his cocky attitude and the way he spoke to me crept under my skin in the worst possible way. Pulling myself to my feet, I propped my hands on my hips, and glared at the back of his jacket as he started to walk away. “Excuse me?”

  He froze in his tracks as I eyed him from head to toe. His suit hugged him perfectly, as if it were specifically tailored to every dimension of what I imagined was the body of a Greek god. But being attractive wasn’t an excuse for being a dick, no matter how fast my heart sped up when he turned around, and his gorgeous eyes found mine again.

  “Hang on a moment,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

  He took a few steps that seemed to last an eternity as he neared me. “Sorry. I thought I’d said you were excused already.” He paused for a quick moment, then his eyes widened. “Oh my. You’re deaf.”

  He held out his hands and flawlessly signed, You’re excused. I knew because I’d minored in ASL in college.

  Before thinking, I signed back, You’re a fucking prick, coupled with a smile that matched my sentiment.

  He stared at me like I was an alien for another brief moment, before raking his gaze up and down my body. I clenched my fists at the shiver it sent crawling up my spine, and the heat it sent between my thighs.

  “Well, aren’t you a clever one? Never would’ve guessed you had an attitude, judging by that outfit.” He smirked.

  I folded my arms across my chest and stared lasers into his eyes. The same eyes that sent nerves skittering through my body. “Well, aren’t you—”

  His hand shot out and his index finger was against my lips. “Shh.” He slid his finger down my mouth slowly before pulling it away and pointing to his phone. “Important phone call.”

  He stared out at the park as my chest rose and fell in huge waves. My face heated to an alarming degree.

  “Yeah, well, don’t let them fuck up my sandwich this time. I want the condiments on the side. They get the bread all soggy.” He cupped his hand over the phone and whispered, “So sorry. This will only be a second. Then we can get back to”—he wagged his index finger back and forth between the two of us—“this little thing we have going on here.”

  I should bite his damn finger off. Or lick it. Wha
t the hell, Jenny?

  “Yeah, see that it’s right before you bring it back to the office. Bye.” He tapped the screen on his phone and shoved it into his jacket pocket, then grinned at me. “Are we finished here?”

  “I bet you hear that a lot from the ladies.” I tapped my foot on the ground. He picked the wrong woman to be an asshole to. I didn’t care how expensive his Armani whatever suit cost, being a jerk wasn’t acceptable. Who did he think he was?

  “It’s usually more like, ‘I want you to finish here.’ ” He pointed at my chest and smiled a toothy grin.

  I remained unmoved by his misogynistic sarcasm. His smile widened.

  “No?” He drew out the syllable. “Here?” He canted his head sideways and pointed at my mouth, then chuckled. “What’s wrong? You can dish it out but can’t take it?”

  I sighed and gave him an obviously fake laugh. “Oh, I can take it. I just prefer an entree. Not an appetizer.” I shot a glance to his crotch.

  He leaned down next to me, his breath warm in my ear. “I can assure you, there’s plenty to eat down there.” He rose back up and examined me once more, as people made their way around us. “And it looks like you’ve been starving yourself for a while. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have important things to do.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do. There’s a special on mani-pedis around the corner. Don’t forget your Us Weekly.”

  Fucker.

  “You can bet I won’t. I love the style columns. You should check them out.” His voice carried to my ears from over his shoulder. He didn’t turn around again.

  I stood there, clutching my bag to my chest. I watched him disappear into the sea of suits while my heart tried to beat its way out of my chest. I glanced down at my outfit—knee-length, charcoal pencil skirt, tight red shirt wrapped in a buttoned-up white cardigan, black pumps. Sure, it was conservative, but I wasn’t dressed like a grandmother either. He was full of shit. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway. Guys like him dated models and plastic women who spent their days at spas and driving around in their fancy paid-for cars.

  Powerful men like him didn’t like to be challenged by some conservatively dressed twenty-five-year-old bookkeeper, whose ideal Friday night consisted of her father falling asleep early, and then laughing at Jimmy Fallon’s late-night antics. There was something about the mystery man though. His snide attitude and wit made my skin crawl, but I’d have been lying to myself if I said it didn’t get me hot and bothered at the same time. He was right about one thing—it had been a while.

  There wasn’t time to analyze the encounter with the beautiful asshole, so I momentarily scrubbed him from my memory and started toward the coffee cart, before glancing at my watch. Shit!

  My interview was in three minutes. Not having the slightest clue of where I was, I flew down the sidewalk and inhaled a huge breath of air as I passed in front of the coffee cart. “Thank you!”

  A large whiff of the coffee aroma would have to suffice. The worker hollered back a confused, “Umm, you’re welcome!” It was quickly drowned out behind me as I stared up at the buildings for any clue as to my whereabouts. I rounded a corner and weaved through a few stilled cars in the road, and there it was.

  I could hardly miss it, with the words “Mason and Associates” in huge block letters attached to the front of the building. I clutched my bag and took off. The backs of my heels rubbed with every step and I could feel the blisters forming, certain they would last for weeks. I was so worried that I would step into a drain or a crack and rocket forward onto my face like a stunt double that my head bobbed up and down between the people and objects in front of me and the sidewalk as I searched for anything that could trip me up.

  When I finally made it to the front of the building, I leaned against the wall for a brief moment. My lungs were ablaze as I tried to catch my breath and compose myself before entering. You have to get this job. It’s twice the pay and perfect for you.

  I pulled a makeup mirror from my bag and examined my face. One minute was all I had now, when I’d planned on being fifteen minutes early. My hair was starting to frizz, but not too badly, and a fine layer of sweat beads had formed along my hairline. I grabbed for a tissue and dabbed it on my forehead to make myself halfway presentable—well, that, and to hide the fact I’d just sprinted for two blocks.

  I walked through the double doors, and my heels clacked on the swirled black-and-white marble floor as I headed toward the receptionist. She sat behind a crescent-shaped mahogany desk, “Mason and Associates” affixed in granite block letters to the wooden wall behind it.

  I started to speak but couldn’t get a word out before she held one index finger up at me and tapped on her headset with the other. “Mason and Associates.”

  She pointed to the row of fancy leather chairs against one of the walls. I sauntered over and took a seat, my body relaxing into the soft leather before I remembered where I was. I jerked myself up straight and fumbled through my bag once more to make sure the copy of my resume was still inside.

  “Mr. Mason is in appointments all morning. I’ll send you to his voicemail.” She tapped the headset again, and something gave me the feeling she had transferred the caller before they could get another word out.

  I started to stand and walk back to her, but she held up her finger at me once more, and then pointed back to the chair. “They’ll be out for you in a minute.”

  “But I didn’t even—”

  “They’ll be out in a minute.” She tapped her headset and quickly took another call.

  Jesus.

  I took in the scenery of the lobby, all the while wondering what was beyond the walls. The doors were all closed, and it looked like they required some kind of security access to gain entry. I knew they were probably secretive about some of their dealings with clients, but I didn’t expect Area 51–style clearance to get past the receptionist.

  A door swung open, and a large man in an expensive suit stepped out. He had to be six foot five at least, and was built like a football player. “Miss Jackson?”

  His voice was much softer than expected, and he flashed me a polite smile—unlike the face of the company, who was still angrily yapping away at her headset.

  “Yes, that’s me.” I rose to my feet and snatched up my bag.

  “Todd Ryan, senior agent.” He held out his hand and engulfed mine within it.

  “Jenny Jackson.”

  His hand was soft and inviting, and I got the feeling he held back so as not to crush me with his giant bear paw.

  “I know. We’ve been looking forward to meeting with you.”

  Really?

  “Thank you. I’m looking forward to hearing what your company is all about.” I tried my best to keep pace as my heels clacked down the hall, my blisters increasingly painful with each step.

  I’d pictured something entirely different—busy people running around, screaming negotiating terms into phones, sports superstars coming in and out of the building with photographers trying to snap pictures.

  I definitely hadn’t expected this.

  We continued down the long hallway. The eerie silence bordered on creepy and amplified every sound we made.

  “We need to hurry. Bossman is meeting with you and he gets upset if we’re late.”

  What? I’m meeting with the owner of the company? Compose yourself.

  “I was expecting an interview with HR or a manager or something. Is this normal?” I chewed on a fingernail and stared straight ahead, at the middle of his back.

  “Yes. We do things differently here. It’s a boutique agency. Mr. Mason is involved in every decision and is present at all interviews of potential employees.”

  His strides were huge, at least two or three of mine. I tried to think about anything but the nerves rippling through my abdomen. Having butterflies was putting it mildly, seeing as it felt more like a flock of pigeons.

  He finally came to a stop and we turned through a door. It opened up into a giant open room two floors high
. A large bull pen of cubicles filled the main floor and offices and conference rooms ran along the bottom half of the perimeter. All of the offices had large glass windows and it was easy to see inside of them.

  I glanced up and there was a set of stairs running up to an office on the second floor that overlooked everything.

  “This way.” Todd resumed his brisk pace next to the wall and I followed quickly at his heels. I kept glancing at the employees. They all had their heads down, pecking on keyboards—nobody spoke to anyone else.

  Todd stopped in front of a door and his large frame took up the entire entrance, so that I couldn’t see anyone inside. “Ethan, I have Jenny Jackson here to see you.”

  Todd stepped aside and motioned for me to enter the room. I took a huge breath to calm my nerves. When I walked through the door, I saw that people in suits lined the edges of a long conference table. I glanced to the person in the middle and my breath hitched. I went as pale as a ghost and thought I might faint.

  It was him. The asshole from the park.

  Chapter 2

  Ethan Mason

  Well, well, your day just got a little more interesting, Ethan.

  Jenny Jackson looked two parts mortified and one part pissed off the second she saw me. She eased through the door and her eyes danced around the room. A million thoughts had already raced through my mind after our encounter on the street, and this seemed to amplify it further.

  When we’d bumped into each other on the sidewalk I’d been immediately intrigued. To be honest, I’d expected some lost-rural-girl-in-the-big-city routine. There was nothing lost about Jenny though. She’d matched every one of my comebacks, and there’s nothing sexier than a woman who can hold her own in the wits department.