Page 16 of Dirty Boss

V.A.

I tookthe little box of gold-wrapped chocolates between my fingers, eyes narrowing. Sincere apology, or snarky gift?

Unwrapping one of the treats, I took a seat at Mr. Big Shot’s desk. I kicked my feet up on his desk as I bit into the chocolate, gooey caramel dragging out the other half as I pulled it away from my lips. Delicious.

I uncapped his pen as I chewed the second half of the chocolate and scribbled my response:

Tribute accepted.

The sugar hit got me through the shift, but I still woke up the next day with an aching body that had to be forced to do themounting list of chores before being dragged into the restaurant in too little time.

So maybe I was a little snippy when a familiar broad-shouldered man sat down in my section and opened the menu like he was going to order something other than the chicken breast.

“The specials are the same as last time you were in,” I said in way of greeting.

“Hello to you too, princess.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“How about sunshine? Because of your disposition, you see.”

“Har har. How about you call me nothing?”

He grinned. “Chipper as always, huh. So the first few times weren’t a fluke.”

“And yet here you are.”

He tilted his head. “You seem more irritable than usual though. Is everything okay?”

I’d had a terrible morning. There didn’t seem to be enough time to get through all the drudgery, let alone leisure or recuperation. My resolve had slipped while I ate breakfast, and I’d thumbed through the society pages of online magazines to look at all the people I no longer associated with. I’d seen photos of my mother at a charity auction, dressed in Valentino, smiling with her paddle in her hand. She’d bought artwork for the Hamptons house, apparently, which meant she was redecorating it again. Good for her.

And then my clothes had been damp, and they’d frozen hard on my way to work. The heat of the kitchens had thawed them again, but they hadn’t dried.

My life could be summarized into one word: discomfort. Maybe the sincerity of Vaughn’s question is what made me slip up and tell him a partial truth: “Everything’s fine, except that my building’s dryers don’t seem to be working properly so now I’mstuck working in damp clothes for the next six hours.” I smiled at the man who seemed to want to contribute to the discomfort whenever he could. “But now you’re here, so at least everything is a little bit worse.”

He laughed. It was a rich, warm sound that made a tingle go through my stomach. I liked making him laugh—except, no. He was the worst. I didn’t like him at all. A scowl drew my brows low, my fingers tightening around my tray.

I didn’t want to like the man. He represented everything I hated. He reminded me so much of James, in that there was something magnetic about him. Everyone in the room glanced at him at some time or another. When he walked in, people noticed.

He wasn’t the top dog—yet—but he had that special something that turned heads. Not just his good looks; it was his bearing, his ice-blue gaze that seemed to pierce through you, his confidence. If he got clothing that actually fit him properly, he would be unstoppable.

And I would still be here, serving him chicken breast for lunch, looking at photos of a life I didn’t want anymore but couldn’t seem to forget.

“Damp clothes,” he mused, wrinkling his nose. “That’s unfortunate. I won’t ask you if you cleared the lint trap,” he said, like we were sharing some kind of joke.

My brows tugged together. “The what now?”

He blinked at me. “The lint trap.”

“Oh.” I chuckled. “Right.”

“You know what a lint trap is, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure,” I answered, waving a hand. “It traps lint.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” I smiled brightly, dying inside.