by Sierra Rose
His deep, passionate kisses were something I’d never ever forget, no matter how many years passed and how many lovers I invited into my bed. No one would ever compare to Jake. Of course, none of that mattered. I would never forget his betrayal; it had rocked me to the very core of my being. His sweet talk would never work on me again.
I shook my head. “You don’t get it, do you?”
He inched closer. “What?”
A tear ran down my face. “I was supposed to be living a happy life with you.”
“So this is about revenge now? You just want to stick it to me. That’s why you won’t go on this trip your mother wanted us to take?”
My lips pressed into grim lines. “Yep. You stuck it to me, and Mom has given me the perfect way to stick it back to you.”
“That’s cold, Ashly. You have no idea how much that money would change my life.”
“Cold? Maybe, but you made me. Because of you, I’ve been cold, mean, and miserable. You shattered my heart into a million tiny pieces.”
“Maybe, but I’m a different man now.”
I stared at him.
“Hey,” he said in a soft voice, trying to change the subject, “how’s Tiger?”
Tiger was a white and orange striped cat we’d adopted when she was only a kitten, a stray who had followed us home. We both loved her, and she’d become a part of the family.
“Is she even still alive?” he asked.
“She’s fine and, unlike you, she sleeps by me every night.” With that, I turned to leave. I half-expected him to follow me, but he didn’t. Without another word to him or the attorney, I slammed the door, making sure Jake knew he could screw off and leave me alone—for good.
End of Sample.
My Despicable Ex is free at most Amazon stores.
http://www.amazon.com/My-Despicable-Ex-Ashly-Roberts-ebook/dp/B00FXAG6MS
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The Boss’s Son
The Boss’s Son
By
Sierra Rose
Copyright © 2015 by Chrissy Peebles
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Chapter 1
Britt Collier was perilously close to losing her shit. She was the only accountant on the payroll currently and while she didn’t mind answering relevant questions, she didn’t need her smarmy boss leaning over her desk. He was obviously craning his neck to get a view down her blouse. Familiar with this tactic, she had her blouse buttoned up high and a tank top on beneath it so even in the case of some catastrophic button apocalypse; she’d still be safeguarded from his prying eyes. If the small company had an HR department, she’d file a complaint for sexual harassment. As it was, the hiring manager was also the COO’s assistant so it wouldn’t exactly be news. The COO, also called the chief operations officer, director of operations, is a position that was one of the highest-ranking executive positions in an organization. Maybe someday, she’d get that high up the corporate ladder. A girl can always reach for the sky, right? In fact, Britt was pretty sure the assistant got her cushy dual-title job by doing some horizontal interviewing with Mr. Freeman himself.
Britt would’ve liked to imagine herself as a no-nonsense woman, a feminist who took no prisoners. However, she slumped at her desk miserably and said nothing as Freeman reached across her to point at her monitor. He couldn’t stop staring at her chest. She slid back from the desk in her wheeled office chair and stood.
“That’s about enough.” She said.
“Pardon me, Miss Collier?” He said, eyebrows raised warningly.
“I explained all of this in my email. So if you don’t mind, I have expense accounts to update.”
“Sure. I know how busy you are.”
“If you’ll excuse me.”
He smiled.
She breezed out of her own cubicle and went to the ladies room just to be away from him. She wished she could have said something cutting and clever, something that humiliated him the way his attempts to brush against her breasts humiliated her. To make herself feel better, she checked the date on her phone. Six more days, she told herself with a nod. Britt managed to get through the last hour of work, briskly double-checking spreadsheets and crossing items off her to-do list. She finished up a healthy ten minutes before five, with time enough to tidy her desk and make her list for tomorrow’s workday. As soon as the minute hand hit the twelve, she was on her feet, purse in hand.
Down the elevator from the eleventh floor which Creative Consulting occupied, she reached the lobby just as Marjorie, her best friend, emerged from the stairwell. Marj was training for a half marathon and maintained that elevators would weaken her. They headed by mutual consent to Joe’s Java, the coffee shop around the corner from the office building. They had a standing Thursday after-work coffee date.
Settling into a booth by the window, Britt sipped her caramel latte and sighed with relief. It was quiet there, but not the kind of quiet that she got at the office, with its annoying buzz of fluorescent lights overhead and the expectant shark-in-the-water silence as she strained to hear if Freeman approached. He wasn’t really a shark, she reasoned, more of an octopus with all those arms and hands. Marjorie got herself something with soy and protein powder that had a greenish cast to it.
“That looks like paint. Ugly paint. Like doctor’s waiting room paint.”
“Thanks. It’s good though. Coconut water and kale and protein powder—”
“Sounds like paradise.” Britt groaned.
“No, paradise would be three weeks in Bali with Ryan Gosling.”
“Still Ryan Gosling? Can we please move on from the Notebook?”
“Never. I’m nothing if not loyal.”
“How many guys have you dated this month exactly, Miss loyalty?” Britt said playfully.
“That’s dating. Me and Ryan Gosling, that’s true love.”
“Does he know about this?”
“No, it’s better this way. I don’t want to break up his happy home.”
“How selfless of you. Freeman was in my office this afternoon pointing at my monitor.”
“Ugh. Did he drop a pen so he could peek up your skirt?”
“I wear pants for a reason.”
“So he went strictly for the boobs. I hear you.” Marj said ruefully. “In a week he’ll be retired and groping his way through unfortunate bingo players down at the senior center.”
“Does he seem like a bingo guy?”
“No, he seems like he’d hang out down at the strip clubs and insist on making change out of the g-strings.”
“Ew. Yes he does. At least he won’t be breathing down our necks anymore.”
“You mean heavy breathing down our necks. He’s such a pervert.”
“Believe me, I won’t cry any tears when he leaves but what if the next guy is an even worse asshole?”
“Is that possible? I mean, Hitler’s dead, right?”
“Yes, but there are plenty of chauvinist pigs out there in the world of upper management. They like positions of authority when they’re not sunning themselves on a convenient rock.”
“Right. Well, let me see the houses.”
“Apartments. I’ve found three properties to choose from. I’m so excited to show them to Kevin tonight.”
“Six months is a long time
. Where are you going to celebrate?”
“They just reopened Tamarind after a remodel and we’re dying to try it.” Britt said excitedly. “I bought a new dress and everything.”
“You shopped? You must be excited about this.”
“Well, we’re moving in together after all these months. I’ve been looking forward to it. No more watching back to back episodes of Flip That House because I’m lonely and bored. We’ll be together and really start our life. I wanted to get someplace we could fix up together, make it our own, but Kevin isn’t really into DIY.”
“Neither are you.”
“In all fairness, no, I don’t have a lot of home improvement skills but I’d like to learn. I watch those tutorials on how to strip and paint a bench from a yard sale and stuff and I’d like to try it.”
“You watch videos about benches? Honey, you need something better to look forward to than that.”
“What do you suggest I do?”
“Find yourself a nice video with Ryan Gosling in it.”
“You are impossible.” Britt shook her head and finished her latte.
“I like this first one.”
“Me, too, but I think the kitchen’s too small. What if I had to assemble a lasagna or something. There’s no space on the worktops.”
“What are the odds that you’ll be assembling a lasagna? Are you counting taking one out of the freezer as assembly?”
“No, I’ve been watching these cooking shows and—”
“We have to get you premium channels. You’re watching lasagnas and benches and you think you like it. There’s more out there. Movies, shows about zombies and shit.”
“I’ll stick to the cooking. You can have the zombies and shit.”
“Thanks. What about the third one?”
“It’s my favorite. It has a rooftop garden. We could have one of those tables with the market umbrella and we could eat antipasto and watch the sun set.”
“If that’s your fantasy, go for it.”
“What?”
“It’s just that Kevin doesn’t seem like the antipasto at sunset type, unless he’s playing on his phone in the fantasy. He has a serious problem with the phone addiction.”
“Says the woman who calls Siri her bff?”
“She knows everything! Besides, you know she can’t replace you.”
“I think if I set the scene, maybe some terracotta pots with flowering plants or herbs in them, a chilled bottle of white wine, fresh blood oranges…”
“Is this a fantasy about Kevin or a fantasy about living in a magazine spread about Tuscany?”
“It’s my house fantasy, ‘kay? Let me have it. This may be my last chance to think about it. He may hate the idea of the roof garden.”
“Only if he has to climb stairs or anything else that requires putting down his phone. Seriously, Britt, I’m not sure you’ve thought this through. Do you want to live with someone like that?”
“He’s perfectly fine. He remembers my birthday and he always calls if he’s running late. What more could a girl want?”
“Attention. Excitement. Someone with a personality.”
“He has a personality.”
“Liking his phone and being afraid of olives is not a personality.”
“He isn’t afraid of them. He just doesn’t like them.”
“He practically laid an egg when the waiter put olives in his martini last week. I mean, what did he think came in a martini? A whole pineapple?”
“Okay so I can forget antipasto…but he’s a great guy and we’re going to have a fabulous life.”
“I hope you’re right.” She said. “Anyway, we’re unloading the bastard boss so that’s a good thing.”
“Here’s a picture of the dress…” Britt pulled up a photo of the dress she’d bought for their dinner.
“It’s stunning.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“I bet he rips it off of you.”
“Highly doubtful.”
She sighed. “Yeah, we are talking about Kevin here.”
***
When Kevin called to ask her to meet him at Tamarind so he didn’t have to drive back across town just to pick her up, Britt told herself he was remarkably practical. He would probably get there first, secure a romantic table with a waterfront view and order her favorite wine so it would be waiting for her. She parked, got out of the car and smoothed the hem of her new dress. It was a little daring for her taste but the saleslady said it was sexy. It was a deep eggplant purple, fitted and off the shoulder. It hugged her curves in all the right places and she’d worn long silver earrings with it, a plummy pink lipstick and smoky eye makeup. She felt more glamorous than she ever had, more ready to be a real, grown-ass woman who made a commitment and lived with her partner.
Chapter 2
As she swept in to the restaurant, past its sleek brushed stainless steel bar and along the sandblasted floor out onto the waterfront terrace. There, in the flicker of candlelight, sat Kevin. He sat at a table at the back of the terrace, not near the water. There was no wine. He was playing with his phone. Shrugging, she approached the table. He didn’t stand, pull out her chair or even compliment her unusually glamorous and sexy dress. When she spoke, he looked up, gave her a nod, and returned his attention to his phone.
Britt perused the menu and settled on the shrimp. The night air was warm and fresh and the scene was beautiful. She tried to ignore her irritation at his attitude. She pulled the folder of property printouts from her bag and set it on the table. They placed their orders and she piped up, requesting a bottle of chilled wine.
“Did you have a good day at the office?” she asked cheerfully.
“It was fine. Busy.”
“I can’t wait for Freeman to retire. He can go to the nursing home for lecherous antiques,” she giggled. He didn’t laugh.
“Would you like to—” She started to open the folder but his phone beeped and he returned to it, tapping away.
He laid it aside again and she continued patiently.
“Since we’ve been together six months as of last week, we’re right on schedule to look at an apartment together. Isn’t that…the timetable you mentioned?” She heard her voice rise uncertainly at the end of the sentence when he gave her no nod of encouragement, no indication of interest. His shuttered expression remained and they sat in silence, awkwardly. The wine arrived and she sipped it without tasting it.
“Now, Brittney,” he began rather sternly.
Kevin’s phone beeped and he reached for it. She covered his hand with hers, trying to seem like it was affection and not almighty aggravation.
“Could you leave that thing alone long enough to finish a sentence?” she asked tensely.
He tugged his hand and phone back and sighed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, genuinely concerned.
“Corinne just wanted to know if it was over.”
“What’s over?”
“This dinner.”
“Who is Corinne?”
“That’s what we need to discuss. I’ve been seeing her for a few weeks now and we’re pretty hot and heavy. I never meant for any of it to happen, obviously. She just showed up with the dry cleaning one day at the office and I couldn’t help myself.”
Britt clutched at her stomach, feeling that sip of wine roiling with panic.
Oh my gosh! I can’t believe this is happening.
“Corinne wants to know if it was over…” she said woodenly. “She’s in a hurry for you to break up with me so you can—what?”
“Now, Brittney. Let’s be civil. We had a nice time together but it didn’t work out.”
“You cheated on me.” Her voice was hollow, dull with disbelief.
The folder in her hand felt impossibly foolish, conspicuous. She felt her face redden, certain everyone on the terrace knew that she was being dumped. She had gone there with a sheaf of apartment listings, prepared to merge their finances and futures and start a life with Kevin. Sh
e was going to have to walk out of here single, not on the road to happily engaged and cohabiting couple hood. What would she do with the file folder? The thought of it seemed terribly important. If she left it on the table, unwanted, wouldn’t the server or bus person look at it and think, pityingly, oh that woman had no idea? If she took it with her, should she leave it in her car as a hideous reminder, carry it into her apartment to glare at her from a countertop until she tormented herself by reviewing that perfect rooftop garden just once more?
Livid, humiliated, she felt her hands start to shake. She gripped the folder until she saw her own knuckles go white.
“It just happened, Brittney. She’s a terrific girl, lots of fun, very carefree, gorgeous. Here, I have a picture on my phone if you’d like to—”
Whack! Britt smacked him on the head with the manila folder. Startled, he gaped at her.
“There’s no call to resort to violence. I thought you were a reasonable person. I see that I’ve overestimated you.”
“Fuck you, Kevin. Although since she already has, I can’t imagine what you think Corinne wants from you besides money. It’s certainly not your incredible prowess in the sack.”
She snorted, threw the folder across the table, the pages leafing out and fluttering to the table and the deck at their feet. Appalled, he knocked over his chair and stalked out. Britt was even more embarrassed now. She had no idea where she got the temerity to whack her cheating ex with a folder and tell him off. She was the sort who suffered in silence, not the kind who stood up and threw things. She was both shocked and perversely proud of her behavior. She put a hand over her mouth to suppress her laughter. It wasn’t like her at all. Not one bit. She looked around to see and, yes, everyone was looking at her. Flushing, she took a sip of her water and decided to brazen it out.