Bossy Nights

by Liv Morris

  “My boss will just have to do without the fancy coffee for his meeting,” she says, walking me toward a bank of elevators. “Mr. Hammond will understand, though.”

  “Barclay Hammond?” the question rushes from my lips.

  “Yes. I’m Alice Mackenzie, Mr. Hammond’s assistant. What’s your name, dear?”

  “Tessa Holly, ma’am.”

  “Well, I’ll have you back on your way in short order. Promise.” Her kind eyes warm away some of my shock.

  Once in the elevator, Mrs. Mackenzie hits the button for the highest floor. The numbers over the door fly by as we move closer to the handsome suited player who bought my dinner and drinks last night. My stomach twists in a knot. Will he remember me? There’s no way I’ll ever forget a man like him.

  7

  Barclay

  The five head editors for Hammond Press are gathered around a large rectangle table in the boardroom connected to my office, and I sit at the head, presiding over an emergency meeting.

  Don Black, our company’s prized author, has been missing in action for two weeks—something he’s never done in the fourteen years we’ve published his books. If anything, he and his agent are high maintenance, communicating almost daily, requesting numbers or extra publicity.

  “I’ve called his agent two or three times a day. Sent emails too. All unanswered. It’s like he’s ghosting me.” Marcus Gunderson, my editor-in-chief, wipes sweat from his forehead, as if he just finished a marathon. The dark circles under his eyes and ashen complexion make him appear ten years older. “His agent says he’s, and I quote, ‘taking a break.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

  “There can only be one answer. Another publisher is trying to lure him away from us. Our company depends on him. Hell, all of us do.” I glance around the table, stopping to look at each of them. “Those nice vacations you all take during August? The checks you write to your kids’ prep schools? Well, kiss them goodbye if he jumps ship to one of our competitors.”

  Marcus turns white as a sheet of copy paper. He has two sons at The Dalton School on the Upper East Side, where the tuition is over forty thousand a year.

  “I’m at a loss.” Marcus runs shaky fingers through his brown hair. “I’ll try his agent again after the meeting.”

  “At this point, we don’t have a firm answer on whether he’s attending the Warwick Awards this weekend, correct?” I ask as my jaw tightens. “He has to be there. Rumors are circulating that he’s won book of the year.”

  Marcus shakes his head while all the other editors avoid eye contact with me. I give my employees plenty of space to do their job, but I demand excellence and pay them accordingly. And when I feel like they miss the damn mark, there’s a price to pay.

  It’s not just about the money the company loses. It’s about people’s lives. How they feed their children. Pay their mortgages. One mistake can have an avalanche effect on the entire company.

  “We need an answer today.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of the company’s future pressing heavy on my shoulders. “Losing Black isn’t an option.”

  Silence lingers, making one thing crystal fucking clear: no one has a plan for reaching Black.

  “Marcus, you have until five o’clock to get a yes from either Black or his agent, or else.” I rise out of my chair, towering over the table. “And believe me, you don’t want to know what ‘or else’ means. Now, get to work. The meeting’s adjourned.”

  “Understood, Mr. Hammond.” The fact that Marcus called me by my surname further drives home the point. His neck is on the line, and he knows it.

  The editors gather their belongings in quick fashion before scrambling out of the room. I walk over to the window, needing a few minutes to reflect on the repercussions of Black leaving. Nothing is forever in this business, and hell, we’ve published him for fourteen years—an eternity in today’s fickle business climate of reaching for the biggest brass ring.

  Leaning a hand high on the window, I gaze out at the shining copper building across from Hammond Press. It houses our largest competitor, Seamen & Schilling, with Mort Tuckerman sitting on the penthouse floor as CEO.

  He’s tried to end our company countless times over the years, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s behind Black’s lack of communication. My blood boils at the thought of him winning over our prized client.

  I can’t fail, and it’s not just about my own ego getting bruised. Hammond Press’s success or misfortune will be my father’s legacy. He poured his life into making this company a publishing trailblazer.

  I will not fail him, and in the end, the company’s fate lies in my hands. I need to handle this potential catastrophe myself.

  I push off the glass window and head out of the conference room knowing what I have to do to handle the problem. Forget the unanswered phone calls and ignored emails, it’s time to knock on Don Black’s front door.

  His home is in Greenwich, Connecticut, just over an hour away, and as a self-professed hermit, Black only ventures out on special occasions. If he won’t answer his door, at least I gave it a try.

  If only I had something in hand to lure him out of hiding. Maybe a chocolate cake from the bakery across the street would do the trick. Black doesn’t seem like the type for sweet frosted cupcakes. First, I need to order the car and have Mrs. Mackenzie sort out the dessert.

  Entering my office suite, I come to a dead stop. Mrs. Mackenzie stands near my desk, but she’s not alone. Right beside her is the blonde bombshell from last night—the one I swore to avoid at all costs.

  Forget the pink ruffled dress that exposed her soft skin. This time she’s wrapped in a leg-baring khaki coat with a belted waist showcasing hourglass curves. Hell, she’s standing in my office like a fantasy stripper here to entertain me.

  I blink a couple times, not believing what I see, but nothing changes. She’s still there, gazing at me with bright blue eyes and glowing porcelain skin, making her look even more young and beautiful up close.

  Hell, is she even twenty-one? Not that it matters. Either way, I’m too old for her.

  Helpless to stop my feet, I move to her like a black magnet to shiny steel, needing to know what the hell she’s doing in my office, besides being a distracting dish of temptation, making my better judgment melt away. For all I know, she’s a spy for the enemy next door. Though, I highly doubt Mort would deliver a beauty like her to me. He’d more than likely keep her for himself.

  “Hello again.” I can’t stop the rare smile that crosses my face. “Barclay Hammond.”

  I extend my hand, and she reaches for it. Her soft and delicate fingers fit into my grasp like a matching puzzle piece. A small shiver passes through her touch—a vulnerable and dangerous revelation.

  No one would call me a wolf, at least not to my face, but I’ve never been labeled as an angel either.

  8

  Tessa

  Standing in the presence of this handsome man, with his curious smirk, all the anger I have for his behavior melts away. I try to remember the words I wanted to tell him when he walked out of the restaurant after secretly buying my dinner, but nothing comes bubbling up in my mind.

  I have hormone-induced amnesia and finally understand how scoundrels get away with their actions. If I looked in the mirror, I’d likely see cartoon stars in my eyes. I couldn’t be more predictable if I tried.

  “Tessa Holly,” I whisper in response to his greeting, trying to decide whether this is a dream or reality. Never in a million years did I think my first day of job hunting would land me in the CEO’s suite.

  I glance from Mr. Hammond’s strong, handsome face to our connected hands. The touch between us tingles … or maybe that’s just me reacting to this man. Either way, I’ve already looked beyond last night without even demanding an explanation. It’s impossible to be angry when eyes like his scan over me, or a jawline shows such proud strength. Instead, I probably resemble a swoony dollop of meringue.

  “We meet again, Miss H
olly.” My name rolls off his tongue as he releases my hand. “It’s not every day I have encounters like this in my office.”

  “You two know each other?” Mrs. Mackenzie glances back and forth between the towering titan and me.

  “In a roundabout way, we met last night at Hammond Hotel,” he replies with an sly turn of his lip. Mrs. Mackenzie gasps, and I can only imagine what she’s thinking. The man has no shame. “Right, Miss Holly?”

  And how do I respond to him? Pathetically, by giving him a slow nod as my lips form a silent O. Plus, my hand is still tingling from his touch, and my dormant nipples have been brought to life. Such traitors.

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Hammond lifts his hand with an upward palm as his eyes shift between Mrs. Mackenzie and me. “It appears there’s something up between you two.”

  “Well … there was an accident with the coffees for the meeting. My apologies for not delivering them on time, by the way.” Mrs. Mackenzie flutters her hands in the air. Our incident in the lobby seems to have thrown her for a loop, or perhaps it’s the strange electricity buzzing in the room.

  “Coffee wouldn’t have helped this morning anyway,” he says with a frown while looking between Mrs. Mackenzie and me. My skin heats up as his eyes wander over my body. “What do you mean by accident?”

  “I was walking through the lobby with your coffee order, and out of the blue, I ran into Miss Holly. She was covered in lattes and cold brews.” Mrs. Mackenzie turns toward me with an apologetic smile in her eyes. “She’s wearing my spring coat while I have her outfit dry cleaned. You should’ve seen the mess.”

  “That explains a few things, but I’m curious about something.” Mr. Hammond rubs his chin in thought, his eyes twinkling. “What brought you to our building, Miss Holly? Following me perhaps?”

  “What?” I sputter, not prepared for this question. The man thinks I’m stalking him like some desperate female. Okay, so I did stalk him online for an hour, maybe two, but I didn’t come here for any other purpose than to drop off my résumé.

  “Maybe you wanted to thank me for picking up your tab last night.” Mrs. Mackenzie gasps even louder than before, but I can’t look away from Mr. Hammond and his know-it-all, smug face.

  My cheeks heat up into a color likely matching fuchsia. Who does he think he is? Something inside me shifts gears, and I know my mouth is about to get me in trouble. Time to stand up for womankind.

  “Thanks for the dinner,” I spit out, moving closer to him with my hands on my hips. The hem of the short trench coat moves higher up the front of my naked thighs, and Mr. Hammond’s gaze doesn’t miss it either. Cocky man even licks his lips.

  I mentally do a windup for my next pitch below the belt. “Wonder what your date would’ve thought about it?” The sexy smirk disappears from Mr. Hammond’s face, replaced by a creased brow. I can’t wait to hear how he talks himself out of this mess, though his stern face, with its hard lines, is rather delicious.

  I bite my lower lip to keep myself from licking it. I sure as heck don’t want to mirror him or resemble the heroines in my romance novels—those silly women who succumb to lovers by a mere look. That will never be me. Ever.

  I take a step backward, needing distance, but Mr. Hammond moves forward. And poor Mrs. Mackenzie clears her throat.

  “Your sister, sir?” Mrs. Mackenzie speaks in a soft voice, tilting her head slightly. A light sparks in Mr. Hammond’s coal colored eyes.

  “Oh, right.” He throws his head back with a laugh. My, what a powerful neck he has. “The woman you think was my date is actually my sister, Victoria.”

  I remember the woman having matching hair color and even a similar skin tone. He didn’t kiss her directly on the mouth either, just familiar pecks on the cheek. I screwed up. It’s time for me to grovel and get escorted back to the lobby—where I belong.

  “I totally jumped to a conclusion based on what I saw, Mr. Hammond.” He gazes at me with dancing eyes, seeming to hold back a laugh. “Please accept my apologies. Also, I need to truly thank you for my dinner. It was very kind, sir.”

  I know when to admit my mistakes. I can almost hear my mother cheering in the background.

  He straightens and places his hands on his hips. I catch the strain of his tailored white shirt over his chest. He appears so intimidating and tall compared to my petite frame.

  “No harm.” He sticks his large hands in his pant pockets and rocks on his feet. The fabric strains against his thighs, like there’s a solid sheet of granite beneath the dark navy wool. “It was my pleasure, actually. Shame I couldn’t have joined you, though.”

  I bring my hand to my throat, maybe to check my rapid pulse. When did my breathing become so shallow?

  “Me too,” I manage to say. It’s a small miracle, because this beautiful man, and his sexually charged attention, makes me dizzy. Who knew I’d meet a man who made it difficult to just stand in his presence?

  “We should let you get back to work, sir.” Mrs. Mackenzie touches me lightly on my arm.

  “Actually, I need your help.” Mr. Hammond turns toward Mrs. Mackenzie, a work mode expression on his face. “Have my driver here in twenty minutes.”

  “Do you have an appointment downtown? I didn’t see one on your calendar.”

  “Cancel all my meetings today. I’m going to visit Don Black up in Connecticut.”

  “Don Black,” I blurt out in a rush. Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Mackenzie look at me, and I realize I’ve interrupted them with my silly fangirl enthusiasm. “Sorry. He’s one of my favorite authors.”

  “You have something in common with Hammond Press. He’s this company’s favorite author too.” Mr. Hammond’s tone is firm, without the adoration I exhibited.

  “I’ll text the driver. I believe Lawrence works on Thursdays. Anything else?”

  “Black’s ignoring our calls, so I need to bring him a peace offering. Maybe a chocolate cake from the bakery across the street. Anything to get me past the front door.”

  “I know what you should bring him,” I pipe up, unsolicited, and both of them turn my way.

  “You do?” Mr. Hammond regards me with narrowed eyes. The skeptical kind that need to be put in their place. Here goes.

  “I do.” I nod my head in confidence, standing a little taller. My shoulders shake with a little sass.

  “And how would you have gathered this information about a man who’s been on the New York Times since before you were born, not to mention his Pulitzer Prize for Fiction?”

  Mr. Hammond sure thinks he knows everything when he actually has no clue about his own client’s likes. My explanation should be rather embarrassing, but he did ask for it.

  “Off Mr. Black’s blog. You do read his daily posts? After all, he’s your favorite author.” I press my lips together to keep from blasting a “gotcha” smile. No need to gloat.

  “Okay, Miss Holly.” Mr. Hammond rubs the back of his neck and takes a deep breath. “Be a good girl and tell me what he prefers.”

  I wonder if it’s bad that I like him calling me a good girl, because it makes me feel weak-kneed. Probably, but I smile sweetly at him anyway. How many switches can one man flip?

  “Don Black loves cherries in everything, especially his sweets. He discusses this weakness at least once a week.” I tap my chin in thought. “A cherry pie is too predictable. I vote on bringing him a cherry tart.”

  “Perfect.” Mr. Hammond reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a Gucci wallet. What is it about that designer and the hot men working at this place? He opens it up, removes a black credit card, and hands it to me. I take it, of course, though I have no idea why. “Run across the street to Sweet Nothings and pick out a cherry anything.”

  “Okay.” I can’t say no, but my answer is less than enthusiastic. I’m wearing a borrowed coat, that exposes too much of my legs, and I need to wait a couple hours for my clothes. This entire interaction feels like a comedy of errors.

  “Mrs. Mackenzie, when will Miss Holly’s clothing b
e back from the cleaners?” Mr. Hammond stuffs his wallet back into his pocket, the card matter and my assignment a thing of the past.

  “Two hours, tops.” Mrs. Mackenzie clicks away on her phone, deep in concentration. The woman’s fierce. “Driver is secured. He’ll be here in twenty minutes. It’s the black sedan. Escalade’s in for service.”

  “Thanks.” Mr. Hammond walks behind his desk and shuffles a few papers on it. Then he glances up and scans me from head to toe. I swallow a breath. If only I knew what he was thinking.

  Do I leave for the bakery now? It’s all so confusing.

  “What are your plans today, Miss Holly?” Mr. Hammond’s commanding voice makes my mind mush. But, oh my God, why is he asking about my day? How should I answer him?

  I do have plans to continue my job search, but those can change on a dime for a CEO like him—or just him in general. After all, Hammond Press is my first choice, though he has no idea I even dropped off my résumé. I need to use my limited acting skills and play it cool. I don’t want to appear overanxious or nervous.

  “Well …” I pull my cell from the trench coat pocket and pretend to scroll over my screen. The thing isn’t even unlocked, but he’ll never know it. “Let me see.” I pretend to scroll some more. “I can rearrange things so I’m free.” I place my cell back in the pocket.

  “Great. You’re going with me to Black’s house.”

  “I am?” I squeak out in total shock, my eyebrows skyrocketing.

  “You are.” Mr. Hammond lasers his eyes on me. I nod, because there will be no denying him with that look, as if I would anyway.

  “She is?” Mrs. Mackenzie shakes her head. “But—?”

  Mr. Hammond interrupts her before she finishes. “I need to talk with Black. Today. A cherry tart delivered by her in a trench coat is a sure bet for him opening his door.” He rounds his desk and walks toward me, but my mind is still spinning. “Now, run along. Meet me in front of the building after you finish at the bakery.”