Boss On A Leash: A Single Dad Billionaire Romance

by Kara Hart

  She tunnels right through me, carrying a storm throughout the lobby, until she’s finally outside. The two glass doors swing shut so hard I brace for them to crash. “Ali,” I cry out.

  But I know there’s no stopping her.

  There’s no winning. The final bosses are just too strong. No matter what, they always win. That’s how this game goes. I have all the money I could ever dreamed of, but I’m the biggest loser in the world.

  “Well, that’s over,” I mutter.

  I’m so heart broken I can’t even feel. The weight is heavy, but it’s like I’m not even there. Did the last week even happen?

  Jim watches her leave, pleased as a wolf. “She’s something else. You lucked out for a few days.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Glad I came tonight.”

  I pull out my phone to text the babysitter. Any chance you can stay the night? Ali left, and there’s a lot I need to take care of here. I’m sorry, but I’ll triple your pay.

  She can read between the lines. Ali dumped my ass. I need to spend some quality time in my office with a bottle of Glenlivet.

  Amanda returns my text, enthused.

  Absolutely!

  I turn toward my office, but Jim grabs me by the shoulder. He pulls me in with a tight squeeze. He reeks like bourbon. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. I was trying to give you a chance with this magazine fiasco. Maybe that gave you some stress. I can’t claim to understand the mind of modern day CEO’s. They act like a bunch of children,” he says.

  “What are you trying to say?” I ask.

  He pats my shoulder. “From here on out, use your telephone.”

  Ali

  I kept my phone off the entire night, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from texting me. “Please call me. I need to explain.”

  Men always need to explain when they’re caught. But I didn’t leave to hear an explanation. He still has money and notoriety, things he so clearly valued over me. When the seasons change, he’ll be fine. I’m not sure if I will, though.

  If this were a book, it would be called Beauty & the Bastard.

  Unfortunately, It’s not a fictional story. It’s a tiny window into my life. And though I’ve hit another rough patch, I refuse to be bitter about it. I’m going to keep my pride in a little box near my bed, in tact for the next season of heartbreak. Maybe that one will go a little better.

  I’m not mad at him for what he did. The idea was idiotic, and I’m not sure it would have worked, even if I agreed to the shoot. Mama Bear sucked. That’s why no one read it. It doesn’t matter if you hire Angelina Jolie for the job. People still won’t shell out the ten dollars to see some half-naked, plaid-shirt-wearing lady straddling a gas pump. It’s been done to hell and back.

  No, I’m not mad at him for acting like a dumb puppy dog. I’m mad at him for lying. Not only did he lie, he did it right to my face. Maybe it’s petty. I go back and forth on that. Some girls are far too forgiving. I guess I’m somewhere in between.

  When I wake up, the morning light filters in through my broken window panes. Scrapped lesson plans line the walkway inside. There’s an ancient Burger King bag scrunched up on the sofa. A bra hangs from my door knob. I guess I’ve spent so much time with Marc I forgot I used to live like this.

  It’s not depressing, I tell myself. It is what it is. Back to the basics.

  After throwing away the BK bag, and some other embarrassing food purchases, I sit on the couch and reach for the backpack that contains my laptop. My hand swipes through air. I left my laptop at Marc’s place.

  Okay, that’s fine. I have some grading to do, so I get up and dig through my desk drawers in the corner of the room. Of course, they’re empty, spare a few loose sheets and colored grading pens. My school papers are at Marc’s house. I left them inside my favorite room, the one with all the beautiful books. Even my dog is still there. What will happen to my beloved station wagon…?

  My entire life is at Marc’s house. I thought I’d have more time. But I don’t want to see him again. It’s too embarrassing to think about what happened. Using my image to bolster his own is a new low. But I’ll need to find a way to get my things back.

  The one thing I do have is my TV. It’s a small twenty-some inch screen with a stick that streams all sorts of crap. Wanting to veg out, I scroll through the countless choices of entertainment. I can’t focus on the titles. They all feel weirdly related to my life.

  There’s Marc & Me, a tearjerker romance about a couple who falls in love and gets an iguana. Next, there’s My Pal Sammy, an animated, children’s movie. Next on the list is Rich Bitch. That would’ve been me if I had no self-esteem.

  I turn the TV off. I can’t watch any of this stuff. These programs are supposed to help people escape from their lives, but clearly I need to move to a different country or something.

  As I sit on my couch, surrounded by the disaster that is my life, I start to slip. I grab my phone, turning it on for the first time in eight hours. The screen lights up with a flurry of messages.

  Please hear me out. I know I’m stupid. I know I’m arrogant. But it’s not what you think. Call me.

  There are so much more. After a certain point, I wonder if he even went to bed at all last night. Finally, at the end of the long string of groveling texts, he admits defeat.

  Maybe it’s better this way. You were always too good for me.

  The worst part of this is my lack of motivation. I’m not sure if I want him to give up so easily. When he first asked me out, he tried everything, including gifting me a book I could have exchanged for my own castle in the English countryside. I acted like I was too good for him. It was a cheap opportunity to feel better about myself.

  I’m not better than anyone. I’m just a woman who had her heartbroken.

  Marc’s last text message leaves a hole. I start to remember how he was with Sammy. Careful and nurturing, always looking out for her since her mother died. He’s been the faithful watchdog I wish I had growing up. And that’s what makes this so hard. If anything, Marc deserves better.

  We rode our relationship nice and slow. Everything was falling into place. The sex was great too. Marc was a real pleaser.

  I sigh and head to my bed, my old source of comfort. Falling against the mattress, I calm down. It’s going to be okay. This is life. It’s just time to move on.

  As soon as I close my eyes, my phone vibrates across my bedside table. Groaning, I hit the ignore button and turn to the other side. It goes off again.

  Annoyed I can’t even sleep in peace, I fling the covers up and pick up the phone. It’s actually not who I expected. It’s a text from Amanda.

  Are you and my dad fighting?

  I’ve never met Amanda’s dad. Amanda didn’t send this text message. I figure it’s one cute little girl from Sammamish, Washington. Sammy.

  I didn’t expect Amanda to stay the night. I wonder where Marc slept. The urge to text him seeps in, but I ignore it.

  My first thought is that Marc is using his daughter to get me back. Of course, that’s a wild assumption. I’ve got it in my head that everything is a weird elaborate game for Marc. But if there’s something he was honest about, it was his love for Sammy.

  I stare at my phone, resisting the urge to respond. But when it goes off a second time, I feel really inclined to reply.

  Will you still read to me?

  It cracks my heart in half.

  I was looking forward to spending more time with Sammy. But after Marc and I broke up in the most public way possible, I’m not sure it’s wise to step foot in that house again.

  But when she calls, I don’t resist the urge to answer. I put my ear to that receiver, and I feel regret start to trickle in. “Ms. Greenwald?”

  “Hi, Sammy. How did you get this number?” I ask.

  “The phone,” she says. “Rowdy misses you.”

  I’m sure he does.

  She’s eight years old. She’s not supposed to know how to use the latest smartphone. “Does
Amanda know you did that?”

  I hear her run and shut a door. “No,” she says. “Please don’t tell her, Ms. Greenwald.”

  I sigh. “I won’t tell her if you promise you’ll stop stealing. It’s not a good thing to do,” I say.

  “I know,” she whispers. “But I didn’t want to wait until Monday.”

  Collecting my thoughts before I speak, I nibble on the edge of my lip. “Look, Sammy,” I mutter. “Life is complicated. Sometimes you like someone. Then they do something to make you mad.”

  “Like Xander,” she says. “He made me mad, so I pushed him.”

  “Right. Like Xander.”

  As soon as I say the words, I nearly drop the phone. That’s not what I meant. It’s also a stunning admission I didn’t expect to hear. Now that I think about it, she has had a couple of very intense temper tantrums. She was learning through me, and I failed her.

  “Is it like that? Did you push my daddy?” she asks.

  This isn’t how I wanted the conversation to run, so I steer it back to what she just told me. “Sammy, you know you can’t push Xander.”

  “He said I’d give him cooties.”

  Being an adult is a weird thing. We think we act differently, that our judgments and actions are more adjusted and even noble than a child’s version of the same. In the end, we’re not too far from each other.

  “You can’t push someone just because you didn’t like what they said to you, Sammy.”

  “Why? My dad did something stupid, and you made him sad,” she says.

  “Did Amanda tell you that?” I ask.

  “She said you didn’t make him sad, but I know my dad. It’s Sunday. He always takes me to the park on Sundays, but today, he didn’t. So you had to have hurt his feelings.”

  Great problem solving skills. She must’ve learned them in my class.

  Without knowing what else to say, I take a deep breath and feel the need to tell her the truth. “I liked your dad a lot,” I say. “Like, a lot a lot.”

  “But you didn’t like me?” she asks.

  “No, Sammy. I love you. You’re one of the most amazing girls I’ve ever met,” I say. “It’s just that, I’m in a weird place right now. I didn’t expect a lot of things to happen that did, and...”

  I’m just rambling and hoping an eight year old girl can understand where I’m coming from. I don’t even know where I’m coming from.

  Sammy finishes my thoughts for me. “And now you’re all alone?”

  My sinuses swell as tears threaten to start dropping like bombs. I’m trying to be strong here, but it’s really hard. “Yes, Sammy. I’m all alone,” I whisper.

  “Can we still be friends?” she asks.

  Muting the phone, I cry. I can’t help it.

  I unmute the call. “Always,” I say.

  I got a window into their life, and it was wonderful. Truly everything I’ve ever imagined a family could be. But sometimes you have to let things go, even if it feels impossible.

  The grief hits me in waves, each one harder than the last. “I have to go now, Sammy,” I say.

  “My daddy likes you a lot, by the way. He bought you a ring.”

  What?

  “Amanda said I couldn’t go in daddy’s room, but I snuck and found it,” she says.

  That must be for someone else. Marc was into me, but he doesn’t strike me as the type of guy to propose within a week of meeting. Then again, he’s a guy that takes big risks for big rewards. Maybe he thought I was a prize worth taking a chance to keep.

  That makes me feel kind of sorry for him. It’s stupid. If I forgave him, it could open me up to more hurt. That’s why I’m not forgiving him.

  “My daddy doesn’t like anyone,” she says, giggling. “You’re the only one.”

  Shit.

  Did Marc really buy me a ring? I hope not. That would make this really hard to let go. Am I really that shallow? No. It’s not about the stupid ring. It’s about Marc taking the next step to propose.

  Well, he ruined that. Not me.

  “That’s sweet of you to say.”

  “I didn’t say it,” she mutters. “He did.”

  “He told you I was the only one?” I ask.

  “Yes, and he said you were wife material,” she proudly declares.

  Sammy is manipulative. If she’s trying to get us back together, she knows exactly what she’s doing. Soon, she’ll be back to telling her dad I farted in class. I bet she can’t wait for that.

  At the very least, I need to get my bag, my car, and my dog from their house. After that, I can spend the rest of the year counting my blessings. If fate brings us together, so be it. But I’m not going to stay at their place long enough to find out right away.

  “Is he home now?” I ask.

  “No, he’s still at work. He’s always at work.”

  Another potential problem I’ve narrowly avoided.

  From Sammy’s end, there’s a sharp knock on the door that turns into a swift pounding. “Open this door right now, Sammy. This is the third time you have stolen my phone.”

  Oh, jeez.

  I hear them wrestle for control over the phone. Amanda grunts and exhales into the receiver. “Who is this?” she asks.

  “Guess who?”

  “Ali G,” she says. “I’m really sorry about this. It’s been a bit of a nightmare.”

  Sammy is screaming in the background. I picture her running around the room with Rowdy and Ragamuffin nipping at her heels, and it makes me laugh out loud.

  “Something funny?” she asks.

  “Just thinking about a good memory,” I say.

  “Well, lucky you. It’s been a bit of a nightmare here.”

  Visiting that house was a little chaotic at times, but it was never that bad. “Sammy giving you a hard time?”

  “She keeps saying she misses you,” she says.

  “Yeah. She told me that too.”

  “Whatever happened last night, I don’t need to know the details. I just want to make one thing clear,” she says.

  “Go ahead. I need some sagely advice.”

  “You guys are perfect for each other,” she says.

  “That’s not the advice I expected to hear,” I say.

  “The truth hurts,” she says. “But it’s still the truth.”

  “We are officially done,” I say.

  “Everyone says that. I’ve told my ex-husband we’re done at least ten times, but I still keep calling him up for the d—”

  “I get it,” I say. “And I thank you for your honesty. But right now, can we please just stop talking about this? I need some time.”

  “I’m officially backing off.”

  Feeling the stress of the day start to creep in, I rub my temples. “I’m assuming he’s not there, right? I still need to grab my things.”

  “He hasn’t called or texted. He’s probably sleeping through a wicked hangover,” she says. “Your best bet is to leave now.”

  It’s ten in the morning. If he slept anywhere, it was probably in his office. I hope. He mentioned once that he spend nights over there sometimes.

  I’m just grabbing my things, not staying for dinner. It’s going to be fine. Maybe I’ll get one last look at his First Edition copy of Pride and Prejudice.

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Marc

  The morning after the unveiling party, I wake up in my office chair. Drool runs down my chin, drying in the warm rays of the sun. The sight of Mount Ranier gives me a headache that makes me pray for a lobotomy. I reach for a glass of tepid water that’s sitting on my desk. It tastes like heaven.

  A familiar voice makes the pain swell. “Feeling okay?”

  It’s Sandra. She’s a total ass-rider, but she’s always been somewhat of an ally. Without her skills, I wouldn’t have this job. In a way, I’m grateful for her micromanagement, even if she helped ruin last night. I’m not looking forward to hearing what she has to say about the party.

  I manage to swivel my chair to
face her, but it feels next to impossible. “I feel like shit.”

  “Just so you know, last night you texted me ten times in a row, freaking out,” she says. “Lord only knows how much you texted Ali.”

  Texting a woman you like twice in a row is against the rules, but ten? That’s a punishable offense. I don’t even remember doing it. After Ali stormed out of the party, I grabbed the biggest bottle of dark alcohol, and walked straight into my office. There wasn’t a chance in hell for me. Sometimes, giving up feels so good. It never feels the same the day after.

  “Do you still have that dunce cap I wore at the Christmas office party a few years back?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, it flew into the fire pit and almost burned down the entire AirBnB,” she says.

  If I recall the events correctly, Brian ate some magic mushrooms and went on a solo vision quest. He seemed to be the only one having a good time the next day. “That’s the last time we partied in Joshua Tree,” I say.

  “Memories,” Sandra says, stiff as a board.

  “I miss those days,” I say.

  “Well, I don’t,” she says. “And I didn’t come in here to reminisce.”

  I laugh, anticipating the shit storm she’s about to drop in my lap. “Of course you didn’t,” I say. “Okay, on with the show then.”

  She drops a folder onto my desk. “I came to tell you that Mama Bear is officially cancelled.”

  I nod. “Figured as much.”

  “Since you’re not capable of caring about our safety within the company, I reached out to Jim personally,” she says.

  I widen my eyes. “And?”

  She raises her chin. “We can all breathe a little easier with me at the wheel,” she says.

  “He’s letting us stay?” I ask.

  She loosens up enough to share a smile for once. “Yes,” she says. “We are staying in Seattle.”

  “Even though most of those shareholders live in New York?” I ask.

  “As long as we fly them over first class, they can handle the six hour flight,” she says.

  This is incredible news. It means Sammy can stay at her new school and keep the friends she’s already made. It also means I’m going to be near the woman I lost it all with. It’s not going to be easy seeing her at school meetings, or at the park, or flirting with some hot stud who Dean Berman hires out of spite for me.