Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
I toss my legs up on the desk, crossing them at the ankle like a true boss.
Then, I grab Willow’s highlighter and puff it like it’s a big fat Cuban cigar.
I don’t want Willow’s life, but the fantasy is fun.
I picture myself as a high-powered executive, but I know I’d be horrible at it. I’d be constantly getting into trouble.
I’d hand out raises like Oprah on a season premiere and cancel all meetings before 10 a.m. I’d fill the office with bean bag chairs and therapy puppies and I’d place a giant jar of peanut M&M’s on the reception desk. The dress code would be non-existent and of course, everyone would have Fridays off.
I puff on my cigar highlighter as I stare at the spectacular skyline.
“Who the hell are you?”
The voice is deep. Sharp. 100% not amused.
I freeze mid–highlighter puff and slowly turn in the chair, feet still propped on the desk like I own the place.
And wow.
There he is.
The grumpy boss. The terrifying Mr. Cranky Pants himself.
The man that Willow has complained endlessly about every time I’ve seen her in the past five years. The man who’s shaved years off her life. The man who’s about to get an earful from her overprotective younger sister.
“Amber,” I say as I stare into his dark brown eyes. “And who the hell are you?”
“The owner of this company,” he says in a razor-sharp tone that would have most people scrambling in panic. I’m not most people. I stay nice and relaxed as I hold his bullying gaze.
“Well, whoop-de-doo for you,” I say between puffs of my highlighter cigar.
He steps into the office and holy hell this man is a looker. Mean, but a looker nonetheless. His suit is fitted like a glove on his tall, muscular frame. His tie is loose—the only thing loose about him—and I get an urge to take it off and slide it from his neck. Or, maybe I’d like to hang him with it. I’m not sure yet.
Those scorching brown eyes are something though. Deep, intense, a little bloodshot, and focused right on me. From there, it just gets better with his perfectly styled brown hair and the subtle wisps of gray mixed in, his symmetrical facial features, and his five o’clock shadow that gives his sexy jaw a nice shade of darkness to match his soul.
His back straightens as he steps into the office, glaring at me.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I grin at him. “I get that a lot.”
He stares, silent. Calculating. Like he’s trying to figure out if he should call security or toss me over his big broad shoulder and throw me out himself. I’d prefer the latter.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. “I’m just here to pick up a key from my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Willow Fletcher. Do you know her? Blonde. Brilliant. Currently on a plane to Kauai looking like she just escaped a hostage situation. Ring any bells?”
“Of course, I know Willow!” he snaps. “I hired her.”
“Then what the hell is your problem?”
“Excuse me?” he says, rearing back in shock.
I glare at him as I grind my highlighter cigar onto the desk, stubbing it out on the expensive oak.
“You work her too much.”
He scoffs.
I slowly rise, digging my fists into the desk as I glare at him.
“Do you get off on working your employees to the bone?”
“Do you know how much Willow makes in a year?” he shoots back.
“I’m not talking about money,” I say. “I’m talking about basic human decency. She’s a human being, and unless this office runs on human sacrifice, you might consider letting her leave before midnight once in a while.”
His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. No sound comes out.
I just stunned the dragon.
His mouth is in a straight line, but oh my god, does he look good not smiling. The tension in his jaw is practically vibrating. He’s got that whole stormy silver fox alpha thing going—dark tailored suit, silver at his temples, that perfect mix of old-money polish and simmering rage.
“Do you know what she does when she gets home at those ungodly hours?” I ask now that I have him on his heels. “She scarfs down a protein bar, watches eight minutes of a trashy reality show she’ll tragically never finish, and then falls asleep sitting up like a Victorian ghost. That is your fault.”
“My fault?” he says, staring at me in shock. “You make it sound like I’m forcing her to be here. She loves this job!”
“Sure,” I say with a fake smile. “The way people say they love marathons. Or colonoscopies.”
His lips press into a hard line.
I take a step closer, head tilted. “Look, I’m just saying… if someone looks that tired all the time, maybe the boss shouldn’t be proud of it.”
“I’m not—” he starts, but I raise a hand.