Page 1 of The Boss

1

MATTHEW

Ineed to cure whatever infected my brain that made me think two weeks in my brother's branch office was a reasonable plan.

The bourbon is decent. Not great, but decent enough that I'm not insulted by the eighteen-dollar price tag, which is saying something because this hotel charges twelve dollars for a cup of coffee that tastes at least sixty percent water and maybe a drop of espresso.

I've been nursing this glass for thirty minutes, checking my phone every five because my VP probably reorganized my entire filing system while I was on the plane. Dean means well, but the man color-codes things for fun. I'll spend a week undoing whatever organizational fever dream he's having without me there to stop it.

The bar is dimly lit, all black and walnut oak, the kind of place you just know overcharges everything. For the record, I'm far from frugal, but I also hate overpaying, which is funny because we've made a business out of selling handbags and wallets that don't cost below five thousand. That’s a lot of greenbacks for a purse.

Jazz plays softly in the background. Definitely not live, but it's not bad. At least they got that right.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out. Another email from Dean. Subject line: "Small organizational update."

Fuck. He wasn't even supposed to be in the office until tomorrow.

I set the phone face-down on the bar and take another sip. Two weeks. That's what I promised my younger brother, Levi. Two weeks to cover his operation while he finally takes Angela on the Maldives honeymoon they should have taken six months ago.

They got married, and he went back to work the following Monday because we just launched a new collaboration. I couldn't even blame him because I would have done the same.

The thing is, Levi and I learned the same lessons growing up. Dad made sure of that. Every morning over breakfast, he'd drill it into us that we don't work for ourselves. We work for the thousands of families who depend on Astor Group paychecks. Their mortgages, their kids' college funds, their retirement plans, their vacation. All of it sits on our shoulders. Dad carried that weight every day of his life, and he made damn sure we understood we'd carry it too.

But where I took that lesson and built walls with it, Levi somehow managed to stay warm. That's Mom's influence. She was everything Dad wasn't—relaxed, funny, the type of person who made you feel like the world wouldn't end if you took a day off. Levi got more of that from her than I did. Maybe that's why he can run a branch office and still remember to buy his wife flowers. Maybe that's why his employees actually like working for him instead of just fearing him.

I check my phone again. It's a text from my assistant.

"Matthew, Dean wants to know if you'd like your pens arranged by brand or by ink color."

Jesus Christ.

I'm typing back a response ("Just leave my office alone.") when someone slides onto the barstool next to me. I don't look up immediately. Hotel bars are full of business travelers who think proximity equals permission to start conversations. I like my peace, thank you very much.

"Shirley Temple," the woman says to the bartender.

Her voice is a bit raspy, and somehow, that gets my attention. I look up, and…

Holy mother of God.

She's got dark hair that falls just past her shoulders in waves, and when she turns slightly to scan the room, I catch her profile. Sharp cheekbone, long lashes, and full red lips.

As she tucks a strand behind her ear, the helix and conch piercings catch the light. The only reason I know is because I wanted one back in high school, but Dad looked at me as though I asked for a forehead tattoo.

I never knew it would look so hot.

She catches me staring when the bartender slides her drink across the bar. Her eyes meet mine for a split second before she looks away, but there's something in that glance—not embarrassment, exactly. More like she's deciding whether I'm worth the trouble.

"Shirley Temple," I say. "Bold choice for a hotel bar at nine PM."

She turns back to me, one eyebrow raised. "You have something against childhood nostalgia?"

"Not against it. Just didn't expect to see it ordering drinks next to me."

"Well, I didn't expect to see someone actually drinking the bourbon they charge almost twenty dollars for, so I guess we're both full of surprises."

Smart mouth. I like that. "Fair point. Though in my defense, the coffee here costs twelve dollars and tastes like they filtered it through a gym sock three times, so the bourbon's actually a bargain."

She laughs. The sound hits me square in the chest, and suddenly my pants feel tighter than they did thirty seconds ago. What the fuck? Did I actually just get hard because of that?