He shakes his head. “It’s because you have a thing for her. It’s okay. Just admit it.”
I feel my eyes stretch wide. “Have a thing for her? Her?” I point toward the door.
He nods, smile still in place.
“Not in million years, my friend. Have you seen the women I’ve had on my arm? I could have 12 just like her—better than her, even.” I know I sound like a complete dick, but goddamn if she doesn’t bring it out of me.
“No,” he says, still shaking his head. “She’s the only one you can’t have—the only one who stands up to you and tells you exactly what she thinks whether you like it or not, and that drives you crazy.”
I open my mouth to argue, but my phone rings and I stop to answer it. “Hello?”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Lewis, but this is Jeff from security in the parking garage. You’re not going to be happy, but there was just a woman in here beating the ever-loving shit out of your car with a golf club. We have it on video if you’d like to press charges. Should I call the police?”
“Not yet. I’ll be right over.” I hang up the phone and shoot Daniel a look.
“What was that about?” he asks, standing up and watching me round my desk.
“She beat the shit out of my car with my own fucking golf club,” I say, heading for the door. All I hear behind me is Daniel’s loud laughter.
I get to the parking garage and go straight to my car. I nearly fall to my knees when I see the busted windshield, headlights, and taillights. “Oh, what did she do to you?” I ask my car, reaching out to rub my hand across her hood. This Audi R8 isn’t just a luxury supercar . . . this is my baby.
“We’re really sorry, Mr. Lewis. We tried getting here in time, but the damage was already done and she took off running. Would you like to watch the footage?”
I’m speechless but I nod.
“Right this way.”
He leads me to the security room and pulls up the footage. I watch the black-and-white screen as she comes into view, holding my golf club. She drops her purse on the ground and takes the club in both hands. It sails through the air, smashing against the first headlight, causing me to flinch. She works her way around the car and looks to be done, but then at the last minute, she climbs up onto the hood and swings again and again until the windshield is completely shattered. Her head whips around quickly, apparently getting caught in the act, then she jumps down, tosses the golf club, and takes off running—grabbing her purse as she passes it.
“Would you like for us to call the police, sir?”
“No,” I answer. “I’m going to handle this privately. But will you send me this footage?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
As I’m leaving, I pull out my phone and call a tow truck to take the car away. I call the garage ahead of time to let them know my car is coming in, and I don’t hang up until they promise to make her beautiful again. Then I go back to my office to think about what it is I want to do.
Daniel wasn’t wrong. I’ve had a thing for Poppy since the day she walked into my office in that short skirt with red fuck-me pumps, which were completely inappropriate for a professional setting. Those shoes, though, were sexy as fuck, and they gave her long, tan legs a nice shape—a shape I thought I’d for sure see wrapped around my hips. But that hasn’t happened, and that’s because from the moment I hired her, she’s hated me.
I have high expectations for all of my employees. If I hire you for a job, I want the job completed on time and my way. Poppy and I have butted heads too many times. She’s constantly tardy, she’s never prepared, and she’s always a mess. She can’t keep things tidy while working. She has a one-task-at-a-time mindset, and I can’t stand those kinds of people. Hasn’t anyone heard of multitasking? I do it every damn day. It’s not that hard. Why didn’t I fire her immediately? I don’t have a fucking clue. I guess I thought I could train her, and selfishly, I was probably thinking with my dick.
I could easily press charges against her now, but where would that get me? She doesn’t have the kind of money it’ll take to fix my car. She could be thrown in jail, but that doesn’t get me anything either. I still have to deal with the damage she’s caused. There’s only one way out of this that will get me exactly what I want.
After my last client leaves at the end of the day, I grab my things and head out to the parking lot where the dealership delivered my rental. I get behind the wheel and drive over to her place. It’s an apartment building in Lincoln Park. The area is trendy, but the building seems pre-war and a little run-down. I see her name next to a buzzer but notice the door isn’t even latched, so anyone off the street could just walk into the building. This is completely unacceptable for anyone—let alone her.
I take the stairs up to the third floor and knock on her door. The door opens but the chain is still in place. At least she’s smart when it comes to safety, but that little chain isn’t going to stop someone who really wants to get in. I see shock register on her face before disdain quickly replaces it.
“What are you doing here?” she asks through the cracked door.
“I came to talk to you,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light.
“Talk to me? I think we’ve done enough of that. You can go to hell.” She tries closing the door, but I put my foot in the way, preventing it from shutting.
“I think you’re going to want to hear me out.”
She flashes me an annoyed smile. “And why would I do something stupid like that?”
“Simple.” I pull out my phone and flip the screen around to show her the footage of her smashing the shit out of my car.
Her eyes move from my face down to the phone.
“If you don’t, I’ll press charges.”
She takes a deep breath and clenches her teeth. I can tell by the way her jaw is flexing that she’s realizing she’s screwed.
“Fine.”
I remove my foot and she shuts the door. I hear the chain sliding across it and then the door is back open.
I step inside and follow her down a short hallway and into the living room, where she sits on the couch. I look around the room. “This place isn’t very safe,” I tell her.
Her mouth drops open. “Thanks, Mr. Lewis, I appreciate your concern for my safety, but I’m fine.”
“Hey, I’m not here for the pleasantries.” I take a seat in the chair that’s facing her.
“What are you here for anyway?”
“Simple. I need you and you need me.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Why do I need you?”
“Well, you need a job, don’t you? How else are you going to afford all this?” I gesture facetiously around the apartment.
She rolls her eyes. “And why do you need me?”
“Ah, see, that’s a little more complicated.” I sit up, resting my elbows on my knees as I keep my eyes on her. “You see, I’ve had this problem for some time now. My grandmother, who means the world to me, is very sick and dying.”
“Oh no,” she breathes out, already feeling sorry for me, the poor little rich boy.
“She’s very special to me because after my mother passed away, she was all I had. My father was too busy working, and if it hadn’t been for my grandmother, I would’ve been raised by whomever my dad could hire.”
She nods, understanding.
“Her one wish in all the world is to see me married.”
Her eyes go wide. “I AM NOT marrying you.”
I snort. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking you to pretend to be my fiancée for a little while—just until she passes.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then she stands up and starts pacing. “How long does she have to live?”
“The doctors have given her six to nine months, but we don’t think she’ll make it that long. Her quality of life is diminishing every day.”
“And how often would we have to put this show on? Like, once a month or something at family functions?
”
“I have dinner with my grandmother every Friday night, and then there’s family brunch every Sunday.”
“Twice a week?” she asks, her voice rising and her eyes widening.
“For starters. There will be events here and there that I’ll have to attend for family obligations. Business deals, mergers, that sort of thing. But this isn’t an I rarely call on you here and there kind of thing. If you accept, this will be a day in and day out kind of deal. We have to sell it, which means we’ll have to get to know each other on a personal level. Not anything like how we are now.”
“Ugh,” she groans, falling back into her seat on the couch. “So not only do I have to come back to work for you where I’ll see you all day, but I also have to get to know you all night?”
“That’s right,” I agree with a nod and a smile.
She shakes her head. “Nope, no way.”
“All right. I guess I’ll just go ahead and call the police and turn in this video. You know that’s a felony, right?” I ask, pulling out my phone. “Get that pretty face ready for your mug shot, sweetheart.”
“Wait.” Her head falls back, causing her silky hair to fall off her shoulders. Her eyes close like she’s praying to the gods. “I’ll do it. I’ll come back to work for you and I’ll play this stupid little game.”
“Good. Thought you’d see it my way. First things first: pack your shit.”
Her head pops up. “What? Pack?”
“Yeah, my fiancée can’t live in a shit place like this. You’ll be moving in with me for the time being. My rental is downstairs. Bring what you can for now and we’ll have movers get the rest later. I’ll see you down there,” I say with a smile as I head for the door. I put my hand on the knob but freeze. “No cats allowed at my place.”
She frowns. “I don’t have a cat.”
All those fucking cat excuses and she doesn’t even have a cat? Yep, I’m feeling a lot better about my decision. I’m going to make her pay.
Three
Poppy
How the hell do I get myself into these messes? What have I done? I was happy to be rid of that job and him, and now I’m moving in with the guy? How is this normal? Do fake fiancée contracts actually exist, or am I trapped in some weird alternate universe?
I’m muttering a long string of cuss words as I’m shoving shit into my bag. If he’s going to make me do this, then I’m going to make it way more difficult than it has to be. He thinks I’m a pain in the ass? He hasn’t seen nothing yet! I grab every bag I own and fill them with random shit—even shit I don’t wear or haven’t worn in years. I pack every pair of shoes I have and every random product in my bathroom. I take the first load down: six bags that nearly take me to the ground, but I manage. I stop in front of the car he’s leaning against. It’s another ostentatious two-seater sports car. Go figure. Makes me wonder if he’s trying to make up for his lack of a personality . . . or maybe even a micropenis. I smirk to myself imagining that God cursed him with a teeny weenie as a way to keep him humble with his East Coast money and frat-boy good looks.
“Here’s half of it,” I say, dropping the stuff on the concrete and turning around to get the rest.
“What the fuck is this?”
“My stuff. You wanted me to move in with you, yes?” I pause. “I’m going to need clothes if you don’t want me walking around your house naked.” I continue on, getting the rest of the stuff I packed.
By the grace of God, we manage to squeeze into the car that’s loaded down from top to bottom with my bags. I have bags under my feet that keep my knees in my chest. I have bags on my lap so high that I can’t even see where we’re going. There are bags stuffed into the trunk and up between us. I can’t see a thing from behind all of my belongings, but I have a feeling it’s for the best, because it feels like he’s driving like a bat out of hell.
He jerks the wheel and makes a fast, sharp turn that has the tires squealing off the pavement. One of the bags between us falls into his lap.
“What is this shit?” he asks, grabbing the bag and tossing it out the window.
“Hey!” I yell, trying to turn back to see which bag it was so I can remember what was in it.
“Trust me, whatever was in there isn’t worth the hassle. I’ll replace whatever’s gone,” he promises, and knowing his taste, it dawns on me that the items that come up missing will have brand-new designer replacements. I smile as I start to think that maybe this isn’t such a bad deal after all.
“You ever heard of littering, asshole?” I say, gripping the bag on my lap for dear life.
We get to his place and I’m surprised to find he lives in a penthouse suite. The building is nicer than anything I’ve ever been in, but for some reason, I was expecting some Bruce Wayne mansion hidden away behind impenetrable brick walls. We each grab several bags and silently make our way to the elevator. I notice he doesn’t push a button but instead scans a key fob as the elevator smoothly makes its way to the top floor.
When the doors open to the grand foyer, he steps inside and leads me through the living room and down the hall to a bedroom. “This will be your room. You have a bathroom through there,” he points at a door. “And that’s the closet.” He points at another door. “Dinner is prepared and on the table by 7 p.m. nightly, and you are to attend. That’s when we’ll get to know each other.” He turns and heads for the door. “See you in an hour. I suggest you unpack and get cleaned up.” The door closes a little too loudly, sealing my fate as I live out the rest of my miserable life.
As doomed as things seem, I can’t help but feel a tiny bit excited with this predicament. No sense in treating this as a punishment. I have a bedroom the size of my apartment, and a luxury marble bathroom full of bubbles and oils. I’m going to enjoy every minute of making his life miserable. I smile as I throw myself back on the bed. It’s thick and soft and hugs my body like it was made for me.
I unpack some things—leaving most of it in bags because it’s stuff I never use, then I freshen up for dinner. I leave my room at 7:02 p.m., just because I know it will drive him crazy. As expected, he’s already at the table with restaurant-quality place settings. I take my seat and place a cloth napkin on my lap.
“I specifically said dinner is at 7 p.m. on the dot. It’s two minutes past. How the hell can you be late when you don’t even have to go anywhere?” he nearly yells.
I shrug and offer a smirk. “Real talent,” I say, only pissing him off more.
He flexes his jaw and I can tell he’s doing everything he can to hold back his anger, but instead of saying anything, he just starts making his plate and handing the serving dishes off to me.
I fill my plate with a fresh salad, pasta, and garlic bread, then he pours us each a glass of wine. I can’t help but look around the dining room as we eat. The table we’re sitting at is long and made of a thick, dark wood. I bet we could easily fit 20 people around it. On the far wall is an expensive-looking cabinet filled with fine china and drinkware—crystal, no doubt. There’s more money in this room than I’ve spent in my whole life. I’m sure of it.
“So, tell me about yourself, Poppy,” he says in his deep voice that always makes my heart thrum.
I take a deep breath and wipe my mouth with the cloth napkin. “What would you like to know?”
“Let’s start with our pasts, shall we?”
“Okay,” I agree, allowing my eyes to drink him in—from the top of his neatly combed dark hair to his even darker eyes and sharp, angular jaw. Fuck, if he could just keep his mouth shut, I could easily find myself attracted to him beyond just acknowledging his good looks. Too bad that’s ruined the moment he talks. “Well, I was raised in the country. My father worked at a lumber yard and my mother was a grade-school teacher.”
“Ha!” he scoffs.
“What?” I immediately feel my back stiffen.
He’s chewing and shaking his head. “You were raised by a teacher, yet 90 percent of the memos you craft for me have spelling and gramm
atical errors. Ironic.”
Are you fucking kidding me? Who says this shit? What an ass. But that’s okay; he’ll pay for it soon enough. “I said GRADE SCHOOL. It’s not like she taught the kids college English. Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I grew up in the country and it was fun. I had a good childhood even though my parents didn’t make a lot of money. I never knew the difference until I was a teenager anyway, and by then, I’d already learned that if you wanted something in life, you had to work for it.”
“Well, I’m glad to see that while your parents couldn’t afford the nicer things, they still instilled good values in you.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, believe it or not, I wasn’t raised by a pack of wolves.” I find my left hand balled into a fist under the table with my nails digging into my palm.
“Of course you weren’t. You have a basic understanding of modern technology considering how much time you spend on your cell phone. I wouldn’t expect that from a real-life Mowgli. Please, continue,” he says, urging me on with a wave of his hand. Classic Matthew Lewis—never letting a fucking verbal jab go unsaid.
“I made good grades in school and was in honors classes. I would’ve been valedictorian, but I got beat out by Stella Harris because I got mono my senior year and missed a week.”
“Mono, huh? I had that once too. They call it the kissing disease, you know.”
I draw my brows together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, were you a never been kissed type of girl or were you a girls gone wild type?”
I scoff. “What does that have to do with anything?” I’m trying really hard to not be offended, but it’s a hard feat at this point. It’s like he’s trying to piss me off. That’s when I realize that’s exactly what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to piss me off. And I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
He shrugs. “Just want to know what I’m getting into. That’s all.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend now, if that’s what you’re asking. And you’re not getting into this,” I say dramatically with air quotes.
Breaking up with My Boss: An Enemies to Lovers, Office Romance (Love You Forever Book 4) Page 2