Page 8 of Dirty Boss

I wastired.

And that’s when I saw it.

Scrawled on the back of the quarterly finance report was a note. The handwriting was neat, but whoever had written it had pressed so hard that the paper had deformed, and the imprintof their words was visible on the blue folder beneath. The note read:

Mr. Big Shot,

For three days, I have cleaned the mess made by your dirty work boots. Tonight, I find myself unable to remove the stain from the carpet. If you insist on keeping your boots dirty as some macho show of being “one of the guys” when you leave your fancy corner office and go on site, I would appreciate it if you would at least knock the salt and gravel off before traipsing across the carpet. If that’s too much to ask for, look forward to more salt stains around your office. I will not be cleaning them any longer.

Signed, Your Friendly, Invisible Cleaning Woman

I read the note three times. She didn’t sound fucking friendly to me. I crumpled the note and chucked it toward the trash. The ball of paper bounced off the rim of the basket and fell on the floor, just a few feet away from the salt stain that had offended her so much. I made to get up so I could throw it away properly, then reconsidered. Maybe when she saw the crumpled paper, she’d get the message. I didn’t have time for yet another snippy woman who thought she was better than me.

Which made it even more inexplicable that I found myself at Carmine’s once again for lunch. My eyes tracked the swinging blond ponytail across the dining room, and I asked the hostess to seat me in her section.

Maybe I knew how much I’d enjoy the look on her face when she saw me. The shock, quickly followed by disbelief, and then the gratifying clenching of her jaw and narrowing of her eyes.

She’d be beautiful if her attitude wasn’t the size of a small planet. I enjoyed watching her march over to my table and paint an obviously false smile on her face.

“Hi. I’m Alba. I’ll be your server today.”

I hadn’t registered her name yesterday, but I made a note of it now. “Hi Alba,” I said, and put a hand to my chest as I introduced myself. “Vaughn. Good to see you again.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” she shot back, then clamped her lips shut. Her face went faintly red, which was lovely. The blue in her eyes shot thunderbolts at me, and I watched her inhale, then exhale. The vapid smile returned to her face; her mask was back on.

I didn’t want the mask. I wanted the real her. I wanted her to antagonize me so I could spar with her and feel better about the shitshow of my life.

I gritted my teeth in my best approximation of a smile, and I knew it hadn’t reached my eyes. “I’d like to hear the specials, please.”

Her mask dropped, annoyance flashing, and a rush of pleasure went through me. “They’re the same as yesterday. They’re weekly specials, which means they only change once a week. I can try to explain it in smaller words if that’s still too complicated for you.” Her smile was sharp as a blade.

I braided my fingers and leaned my forearms against the table, holding her gaze. There were so many ways I could’ve let off some steam to relieve the stress of my company’s current predicament. I could’ve gone to the gym to run it off, or boxed one of the heavy bags. I could’ve had a few drinks and called one of the friends I’d neglected. I could’ve found some woman willing to roll around in a bed with me.

But I was here. Antagonizing a waitress who clearly hated my guts.

I arched an eyebrow. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. Remind me.”

Another deep breath, and then she rattled off dishes and their prices. There was a steak sandwich, a seafood dish, and a starter that included some kind of duck. I listened, and when she was done, I said, “I think I’ll have the chicken breast I had yesterday.”

Frustration laced her every expression, from the pinching of her lips to the flashing of her eyes. All she said was, “Of course,” and took the menu from me.

I watched her walk away, admiring her long legs and utterly straight spine. She moved like a dancer, graceful, strong. But the weight of her pride kept her from gliding the way she might’ve otherwise.

When I paid the bill at the end of my meal, she flicked her gaze over the receipt. A muscle jerked in her cheek.

“Something wrong?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.

“No,” she said, then dragged her gaze up to mine. “Thank you.”

Oh, that sounded like it hurt. So itwasher pride that weighed her down. And my generous tips were rubbing her the wrong way.

Good.

I grabbed my jacket and scarf, nodded to her, and walked out of the restaurant.

THREE

ALBA