Page 455 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Yes, and it was very effective. The filthy mop water stopped me in my tracks,” he said sarcastically, locking onto me in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. I felt like I was in his crosshairs, and I didn’t like it one bit. Everything about his expression said that this was a guy who wasn’t used to losing.

Well, he clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with. Branson or not, I wasn’t going to just roll over and play dead. That wasn’t my way.

“No one’s ever complained about me playing music after hours before,” I snarked back at him. “Which means you’re either new here, or you just got your hearing aids tuned up.”

He cocked an eyebrow again. “Are you implying that I’m old, Miss Reynolds?”

I smirked as I slowly dragged my eyes down his body, like I was trying to appraise an antique. I expected him to fidget a little, but the guy seemed to enjoy the way I was taking him in, which made me even angrier. “I’m saying that the only people who complain about Beyonce are grumpy old men, so draw your own conclusion.”

“I have absolutely no issue with Beyonce. I like Beyonce. Your singing, on the other hand…”

“Oh, come on!” I glared at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Says you. I never want to hear that screeching again.”

“And why should I give a shit about what you want?” I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in frustration. “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

Dave took a tentative step forward, reminding us that he was still in the room with us. “Oh, uh, Natalie, you should probably know that the man you, uh, mopped is—” he began.

“We’re good here, Dave,” the guy interrupted quickly. “I’ll handle it.”

Dave bobbed his head and laughed nervously. “Okay, got it. Just holler if you need me, okay?” He backed out of the room, and I could swear he did a little bow towards the guy. Ugh, gross. Just because he was part of the founding family didn’t mean he was the king or anything.

We glared at each other, and I realized that my chest was rising and falling like I’d just jogged a few laps. My skin felt flushed and prickly too. I chalked it up to that unblinking stare of his. I slipped my hand up the back of my neck to untangle my hair from my collar, then realized that I was smoothing it. What? No! Why the hell did I care how my hair looked? Was it because the guy was watching every move I made?

“So, who are you really?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest.

“The man in charge of the sound system,” he answered deadpan, his face an expressionless mask…except for the little hint of a smirk. Was this asshole enjoying this?

“If you think this is funny⁠—”

“I think a lot of things are funny,” he said, “but I don’t count being soaked with a mop and accused of being a stalker among them.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t act like one, then,” I said. Probably not the best of ideas to be this nasty, especially given how deferential Dave had been, but what the hell—if he could dish it out, then he’d have to take it. Besides, it wasn’t like I could get away with pretending to be demure at this point. He already knew better.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“So,” I insisted, “are you going to tell me who you are? Or should I start bringing my crystal ball into work?”

“Just as long as it doesn’t have built-in speakers.” And, with that, that annoying little smirk of his grew in size.

I opened my mouth to hit back at him, but he was faster. He raised his hand in a halting gesture.

“Since it seems like you’ve been living under a rock, my name is James Branson and I⁠—”

I didn’t even hear the rest of his words. The alarm sounds ringing inside my head were just too loud. This was worse than I thought. I hadn’t misheard it. He was the actual boss. My boss, my boss’s boss, Dave’s boss—everybody’s boss.

Oh, no way.

I tried to clear my throat to hide my shock and wound up launching into a mortifying choke-coughing fit. He watched me struggle like I was a fish flopping around on dry land, until I finally managed to catch my breath.

Shit! The scenario was way worse than I thought. The smug, grinning asshole watching me nearly choke to death on my own spit was the actual, real deal owner of the company. James Alexander Branson the Second. Like, his signature was on the paychecks and everything.

And I’d nearly mopped his face off.

Shit. Shit-shit-shit.

I needed this job. I needed all three of my jobs if I expected to be able to afford my final semester at design school. But I wasn’t about to bow down to him, especially with the way he kept pushing my buttons, like it was nothing more than a game to him.