Page 6 of Manhattan Bossholes

She crossed her arms and frowned at me. “Okay, then sit in a corner and be miserable.”

I grabbed my purse. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll try to be home soon, so save me a spot on the couch.”

“I’m telling you, you’re wasting a fabulous look,” she scolded me. “Take advantage of your hotness for a change.”

I held up my foot. “Do you see these shoes, woman? The only thing I’m taking advantage of is a chair.”

“Kick them off and dance! Live a little.”

I waved off her ridiculous suggestion and headed out the door to what was bound to be a long and annoying night.

Half an hour into the cocktail and hors d’oeuvres part of the engagement dinner, I was ready to duck into the ladies’ room and carve out a tunnel, Shawkshank Redemption-style, just to get out of here. It wasn’t that I didn’t like parties. Despite my bitching to Darcy, I did know how to have fun. But I was already stressed from the car debacle, and my mood wasn’t helped by the way Prentiss had started bragging at me the moment I’d arrived. My mom could barely get a word in edgewise. For my part, I didn’t bother trying. Prentiss never had any interest in what I had to say, anyway.

I excused myself to grab yet another drink and froze when I saw who was leaning against the bar like he owned it. An actual VIP who was a legend in his own mind and didn’t let anyone forget it.

What the hell was sportscar guy doing at my stepbrother’s engagement party? And why did he have to look so damn good? A perfectly fitted black suit, black shirt unbuttoned at the neck. I swear he had an aura that filled a room. The guys he was talking to were equally attractive, but the bosshole with the red car had something extra. A magnetism, if you were into the tall, dark, and jackass vibe.

At first, I was shocked to see him again. Then pissed off. Then, as I realized the opportunity I had at hand, I was elated. I’d already downed a glass and a half of champagne, which was enough liquid courage to stomp over to him and give him a piece of my mind.

I chalked up the twist in my stomach to nerves and nothing more. I would never, ever admit to being attracted to someone so awful.

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping in front of the handsome blond guy who’d been talking to Satan.

The group of men gathered with him turned to look at me, and he froze when he recognized me. I felt a surge of triumph.

“Yeah, it’s me, the victim of your shitty driving skills,” I glared at him.

Someone blew an “uh oh” whistle, and the three other men excused themselves when they saw my angry expression and clenched fists. But rather than looking appropriately rattled, or maybe even apologetic, Satan just arched an eyebrow and looked down his nose at me like I was a pesky server trying to steal his plate away. I’d hoped to catch him off guard, but his steely demeanor suggested that nothing threw this man off his game.

Well, that was about to change. He’d never met a woman like me.

“Well look at you, Piper,” he said. “You clean up well.”

“Save it,” I said, my frown deepening at him using my name like we were old friends. “Listen, I appreciate the oh-so-generous offer to fix the car you dented, but I refuse to admit I was in the wrong.”

“And why not?” he asked in a silky voice. “It’s not for insurance, since we’re handling it privately. I just want you to admit you made a mistake.”

“But I didn’t!” I sputtered, my hands flailing. “So why would I say anything like that?”

He leaned closer to me and gave me a wicked smile. “For me.”

Why did that grin do something to me? I hated him and his entitled attitude, but my body didn’t get the message. The way he was watching me made me feel downright fluttery, like I was a girl with a crush.

But no, I was a girl in a crash. A crash that absolutely wasn’t my fault.

I was about to go nuclear about his ego when a familiar voice rang out from behind me.

“Hey! I see two of my favorite people have finally met.”

My stepbrother leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek, then slapped Satan on the back. Paul looked like a spiffed-up version of his usual self, his curly hair gelled into submission and in a sleek navy suit instead of his usual hoodie and jeans.

“Have you done introductions yet? Vincent Forde, Piper Doyle. Piper, Vincent,” he said, gesturing between us.

I frowned at him, then at the man I could now call out by name. His security goon kept calling him Mr. Forde, and yeah, I’d seen his name at the top of the building.

“But how do you know…” I pointed at Vincent.

“We were roommates at Cornell. He’s one of Dee’s Lost Boys.” He shook his head and smiled. “Seriously, I can’t believe it’s taken this long for my sis to meet the legendary Vincent Forde.”