Page 467 of Manhattan Bossholes

“I don’t. How did you know?”

She pointed up towards the speakers. “Music. Loud music. And no complaints!”

And it was then I realized that the throbbing in my head wasn’t just due to what was about to happen with Clint.

“Is this…” I began.

“Yup. Beyonce.” She pumped her fist in time to the beat, and for a moment I was brought back to the night in the shop, when she’d nearly mopped my face off. Natalie had been trouble since the moment I met her.

So why was I getting ready to fight for her?

We walked into the main studio space, and I felt like I was in a different world from the one I was used to. The floor with the executive offices radiated an atmosphere of quiet concentration, not the unfettered energy of the creative space. The oversized windows were draped with garlands and other glittery decorations from past fashion shows, and a few of the windows were papered over with design concepts for upcoming launches. There were more piles of clothing dotting the space, along with every variety of creative desk decoration. The room was the equivalent of an exploded box of crayons.

“James!” a voice boomed loudly enough to be heard over the bassline, setting my teeth on edge.

It was Clint from his bird’s-eye perch above the design floor, where he could oversee every aspect of what his team was up to.

I glanced up and gave him a terse nod.

He seemed to realize there was no way I was going to meet him in his space and headed down the metal staircase. As usual he was tricked out like a dandy in a gray three-piece suit and orange bow tie, so over the top that I half expected him to throw a bowler hat on top of his bald head as well. The man waxed his gray-speckled mustache into perfect points, so how did I not know he was a problem? He was practically cosplaying as a cartoon villain.

I noticed that he didn’t even glance at Natalie as he strutted across the room. Everyone hunkered down over their drafting tables as he walked by.

“What an honor! And what brings you to my humble abode today?” he asked.

“We need to talk,” I said simply, pointing to one of the glass walled conference rooms off the main design floor.

Now he shifted his eyes to Natalie, as if he sensed things were about to get real—and that it was her fault.

I was shocked she’d remained silent given how she usually responded to stress. Why was I hoping for a bit of snark from her?

Hold on. Did I like this woman’s sass?

Natalie sat at the head of the table, a bold move because it forced Clint to make a decision; take the chair opposite her at the other end, or leave it for me? In a surprise move, he opted to stand with his arms crossed defiantly.

The man clearly didn’t know what was in store for him.

“Sit,” I said, motioning to a chair at the center of the table.

Clint’s face shifted from mild disdain to a flicker of fear as he collapsed into a chair. “What’s going on?”

“Do you have a problem with your newest team member?” I gestured to Natalie, who was impressively stone-faced.

He scowled. “No. How could I, at this point? She’s barely been here a week.”

“Agreed, how could you possibly judge her performance in such a short period, especially when she’s still learning how things are done here?”

He nodded, still looking confused.

“That’s why I found it so strange when Natalie came into my office to tell me that you belittled her in front of the rest of the team for not understanding company protocols.”

Clint’s head spun to Natalie and his expression darkened. “Why would you say⁠—”

I held up my hand to cut him off. “I can talk to the rest of your team to corroborate her story, but I wanted to run it by you first.”

He seethed silently.

“She also mentioned that you wanted a Branson-specific palette from her within twenty-four hours. Could you turn one around that quickly, Clint?”