Bossy Bully: A Sweet Billionaire Boss Romance (Sweet Bossy Millionaires Book 1) Read online

  Bossy Bully

  Elizabeth Otto

  Copyright © 2019 Elizabeth Otto

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and not to be construed as real.

  Chapter One: Lora

  TerraLuxe.

  I might as well be sitting in the greenroom of a television show or something, because it feels surreal to be perched on this clearly high-end designer chair in the posh, modern reception area of the TerraLuxe corporate office. I imagine celebrities and important people sitting in a chair like this, and I’ve never been either of those things. This company has been number one on my list of the ten top places to apply when I graduated with my business management degree. That degree is still hot off the press, and I don’t have much work experience outside of a short externship I did over the summer, but I’m not letting it discourage me or sway me from my plan.

  The other candidates in the room are discouraging, though. I pretend not to notice how we all sneak glances at each other, sizing up who is more professionally dressed, who seems calmer and more prepared. I put my Calvin Klein suit and heels on credit, and it was worth it because I know I look good, even if I did max out my card to get this polished presentation. I’d gone to the salon for a hair relaxing treatment and deep conditioning to get my mess of red curls under control. The resulting waves hanging down my back was worth the two-hundred-dollar price tag. I don’t like spending money, not when I already owe so much. Realistically, what brand new college grad can afford to? But it will be worth it if it helps me land this job. I must look the part and make these other suits believe that I belong here, and most importantly convince the CEO I’m going to interview with.

  The CEO I haven’t seen in years, but I’ve never forgotten him.

  Feeling eyes on me, I glance up and my lips go immediately numb. The woman across from me is wearing exactly the same suit, but in deep burgundy instead of navy blue. She smiles tightly as if she realizes it, too. I mentally calm myself. This is not a big deal in the bigger picture. It’s just an outfit. Do interviewers even notice these things? I’m still the best fit for this gig. Me, not her.

  Except the woman stares at me as if she thinks our outfits are a problem, and there is an air about her that exudes confidence that I just don’t have. I’ve never been able to drum up that amount of self-worth, never been able to fake my way through it. My resume isn’t that impressive. My heart starts to race. I barely graduated. I didn’t volunteer or double-major or play collegiate sports. I’m not book smart. I can’t look someone in the eye longer than a couple seconds or it makes me uncomfortable. Public speaking? Forget it.

  I breathe out of my nose. In and out, in and out. I’m really not qualified for this job. How in the heck did I even get a call-back for an interview? My hairline begins to tingle, and I touch there as a creep of desperation inches along my gut. I can’t afford to get sweaty. Nervous sweat smells weird, plus when I get anxious, I sweat more than I’ll ever admit. It’s not becoming on a woman. It’s not becoming on anyone! My armpits dampen, my silver blouse sticks to my back. My Mamma always said I was hotblooded, and not in the way that counts. She should have just called me out on being a self-conscious, awkward, sweaty pig. My throat goes tight and I have the sudden need to run to the restroom. I need to dab my face and my pits and…

  Stop it, Lora Marcetta. I hear the line so clearly in my mind as if my Mama was right here next to me and not two years buried in the ground, saying it with loving firmness. I pull another slow breath in through my nose and grin. I have a secret weapon, something no one else in this room has. Okay, that makes me feel a little better. My grin turns into a smile and I catch the woman’s eye across from me again, staring at her with confidence I’m beginning to truly feel. She looks a bit startled.

  “I like your suit,” I say. My heartrate is slowing. My stomach is settling. My overactive sweat glands are shriveling up.

  “Thanks, yours too.”

  I do like her suit, but I’ll like it better when I see her leave in it. After I get the job, of course. Opening my leather handbag, I peek at the paper folded on top. I touch it with the tip of a finger, mentally reciting the words written inside. It’s a reminder that I need this job before something terrible happens to my Papa. He’s out of time, and I’m the only one who can help. I did what I had to do in order to get this interview, even if the guilt bothers me, because I need this job.

  I do know why they called me back. They’re taking a chance on me because I made myself sound too qualified not to. My guilt likes to temporarily cover up what I did, but each time I look at the paper and think of my Papa and how hard he worked for my Mama and me, the guilt goes away some. This company has quite a few open positions. I’m not qualified for many of them, but this is an entry-level position, barely above coffee-girl. I made a few tweaks to plump up my dismal resume. Minor things. Things that might be overlooked when it came time to fact-check.

  This is Terraluxe, Inc., the largest luxury property development firm in Miami and the Caribbean. The starting pay is ridiculously good—higher than any other related position I could find. Advancement opportunities are guaranteed, and by the time I climb the ladder, no one will have bothered to look, or care, that I might have fudged my resume a little. It’s brutal out here and new college grads are flocking in man-eat-man droves to nab positions that pay enough to cover minimum college loan payments. My loans aren’t as bad as some, thanks to my Papa, but the residual debt will be stifling if I don’t get on top of it.

  Besides, the CEO and owner, Jett Calder and I went to college together. He owes me.

  He just doesn’t remember it yet.

  The woman I complimented gets called into the office. She’s striding in there right now, meeting Jett for the first time. Probably a bit surprised by his handsomeness. It will make her want to impress him more, puff out her chest and fluff her feathers. It’s been three years since I last saw the TerraLuxe heir. Maybe he’s changed; maybe he hasn’t, but he was always easy on the eyes and was never easy to impress.

  I resist the urge to fidget or check my cellphone to mindlessly scroll social media. The sensation of being watched, observed, assessed is strong and it’s probably just me, but everyone else is sitting just as stiffly as I am, sans phone. So, I let my gaze wander again, taking in the impressive floor-to-ceiling windows across from me that overlook the beach, and the steel gray, dark blue, and white accents of the room. Executive furniture in dark, stained wood with plush blue cushions, industrial metal side tables holding copies of Fortune, Money, and Architecture magazines. The floors are gleaming white marble topped with striped with navy and red rugs. The color scheme screams powerful and wealthy and I’m glad that I dressed in silver and blue to match.

  I know that each of the TerraLuxe offices are decorated similarly. I also know that Jett Calder prefers bespoke black suits and a silver tie, keeps his hair shaved neatly on the sides and longer on the top so the deep waves make an impact. He took over the business from his father right out of college three ye
ars ago, and has expanded it multifold since, growing so rapidly that he’s building smaller corporate offices in the Maldives and Morocco to tap into the luxury condo markets there. He takes one cream in his Oolong tea, despises black coffee, is allergic to cats, and had a roommate named Ned in college.

  The only piece of information I didn’t gather about Jett from the internet is Ned’s name, because I met him when the three of us attended Miami Dade and went to the same parties. Jett and I ended up in a hot tub alone once, innocently. Nothing happened. Later that night… was a different story. Whether or not he remembers me or that I was there that night will be determined when I walk into his office. A sudden stench fills my nose, and I make an involuntary face. It’s the scent of crushed metal, gasoline. Blood. I recall a flash of Jett’s face, his perfect hair matted with blood that trickled over his temple. Clenching my eyes, I will it away.

  “Ms. Marcetta?”

  I quickly snap my bag closed and look up into the receptionist’s smiling face. It takes me a second to respond. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “This way, please.”

  I stand and smooth my skirt, passing the woman dressed like me in the hall. She’s frowning deeply. Maybe it was a trick of the lighting, but her eyes shimmered as if she were holding back tears. My stomach drops. Jett had a reputation in college. One he lived up to. I’d hoped for my own sake, that maybe he’d loosened up a little.

  He’d made professors cry back then.

  Sorority girls threw themselves at him, and then hated him with a special kind of venom reserved just for him.

  He was like an emotionless cyborg, all cardboard-expression with a side of hotness that somehow made up for the fact that he didn’t seem to feel. I figured it was rich, male privilege, you know, being pampered and spoiled by an uber wealthy family. I never gave it much thought… except for our brief time alone in the hot tub, I didn’t have much interaction with him. I won’t lie; I’ve had an agenda ever since our college days, because I certainly didn’t grow up rich and pampered, and I have a debt to pay. ASAP.

  The receptionist opens frosted glass doors, gives me an encouraging grin and I swear I see sympathy in her eyes. I grip my bag with both hands, straighten my spine and step inside. My heart is racing as I take in the scent of cedarwood and teak. A large black desk sits along the full-length windows, but there is no one behind it. He’s standing by a cabinet across the room from his desk that I’m sure has a fancy name, but I don’t know what it is. He’s pouring water into a glass, completely ignoring me as I walk to the middle of the room, unable to take my eyes off him as I’m struck with familiarity.

  It’s the same Jett, but different. Tall, imposingly broad, narrow waist and long legs. His hair is still dark and thick and wavy, perfectly trimmed though it’s more styled than I recall. His profile shows off the aristocratic nose and strong jaw that I remember, and if I recall correctly, there’s a shallow divot in the center of his chin, and his eyes are aqua. His fingers are long and square-tipped as he lifts the glass to his lips and takes a drink. I wait until he’s set the glass down to introduce myself.

  “Mr. Calder. I’m Lora Marcetta. Nice to meet you.”

  He gives me a cursory glance, barely even a look, and heads to his desk and takes a seat with a frown that clearly displays he’s bored. Uncertain if I should follow and sit, I put on a smile and turn to face him. He looks at me fully, and yes, I see the green blue of his eyes, but his chin is covered by a short beard. There’s no recognition in his expression, no sign that he remembers my name or my face.

  “Are you friends with the woman who was just in here?”

  The question takes me by surprise, but I think fast. “The other candidate? No, sir.”

  “You’re wearing the same suit.”

  I blink.

  He waves me to a chair, which I quickly take. “If you’re serious about interviewing at this level, you’ll be sure to dress unlike anyone else who is competing against you. Cookie-cutters don’t rise to the top, and certainly not in cheap suits.”

  My brow furrows but I quickly school my features. Despite the sting to my pride, I manage to give a neutral, pleasant expression. “Yes, sir.” I’m not sure what to say, so it’s all I manage.

  Tapping his fingers against the gleaming top of his obsidian desk, he rubs his other hand under his chin as if he’s trying to decide if he needs to shave. He doesn’t. His beard is trimmed to perfection.

  “This isn’t a standard interview,” he says blandly. “I don’t want to know about you, what you do for a hobby or what your ten-year plan for your career is. I’m going to ask you three things and then we’re done.”

  I realize that he doesn’t have a single piece of paper on his desk. Not my resume or cover letter. Nothing. There’s no indication that he knows anything about my professional qualifications. Considering my resume is part bull crap, I don’t know if this is good, or bad.

  Feeling like I’m about to be swept up in an aggressive tide, I give a brisk nod and grip my knees with my hands to hold on. “Understood.”

  “This position will groom the correct candidate to become the assistant to my Head of Development. You’ll be organizing blueprints, contracts, acquisition and development financials and assisting with anything else that I ask of you. There’s no room for incompetence or unwillingness to comply with tasks that may appear beneath you.” He levels me with a stare that’s both intimidating and beautiful. “I’m the boss, and you’re the employee. You’re replaceable, therefore, no task is beneath you.”

  He pauses as if I’m supposed to respond to that. Warm and fuzzy level unlocked. Not. I don’t respond. I sit quietly as it hits me that Jett hasn’t changed at all. He’s still an arrogant bully.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “I require a response.”

  I have the passing thought that it’s a good thing he’s so remarkably handsome, because the rest of him is questionable. I punch that shallowness down. As if looks are a replacement for bad manners and abrasive social skills. I have no idea what to say to someone who just reminded me of how replaceable I am; however, I need this job and the pay it brings. If he wants me to be his donkey, then I’ll do it.

  “I understand that I am replaceable, and no task is beneath me.” I smile, showing teeth so he knows I’m serious. On second thought, that was silly. Now I’m just making myself look like a donkey. Clearing my throat, I re-center myself.

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “Are you willing to come to the office if I call at three a.m. and ask you to do so?”

  I can’t imagine what on earth I’d need to come to TerraLuxe at three a.m. for. It’s one of those unsubstantial questions, just to feel me out, to intimidate me. He can’t be serious, but sure, I’ll play.

  “Of course,” I say with conviction.

  He looks at me, just stares, though there’s nothing but an inner intelligence in his eyes. It’s almost as if he’s lost himself in his own train of thought and has retreated somewhere inside his head. I wait until the silence becomes terribly awkward and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do next. I shift in my seat and fold my hands. A few more seconds pass and I just want this over with.

  “Do you remember me?” I blurt. My cheeks heat as the question flies from my mouth. But it seems to pull him from his… whatever that was.

  “Should I?”

  Too late to back pedal now. “We went to Miami Dade together. My friend Marissa dated your roommate Ned for a while.”

  Nothing.

  Flustered, I drum up what to say next. “You and I went to an off-campus mixer once, had a talk while we soaked in a hot tub. You lost your favorite sunglasses –”

  “Did we have sex?”

  Being flustered is second nature for me, but it goes to a whole new level right now. I pull an imaginary piece of lint from the hem of my skirt. “Um, no, sir, we most certainly did not.”

  He relaxes and it isn’t until just then that I realize how stiff he’s been holding himself, as if rigidly anticipa
ting my answer. “So, I assume you’re not here to blackmail me for a job in exchange for your silence over a night we spent together that I likely won’t remember?”

  My hairline begins to tingle again. How did this interview get so far off track? This isn’t anything like what I imagined it would be. The secret hand that I want to play? It feels juvenile and ridiculous now. But I’m going for it anyway.

  “No, Mr. Calder. However, part of the conversation we had that night—with no intimate relations involved in any way—was that you were impressed by an acquisitions mock-up I created for a class we had together. You invited me to speak to you about employment once I completed my degree.”

  He leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers together as a snarky grin pulls one side of his perfect lips. “Why would I do that if there’d been nothing in it for me?”

  “Don’t answer that!”

  I spin in my seat, shocked to see a beautiful older woman striding pointedly across the room, her light blonde hair perfectly piled on top of her head. She’s wearing a red pants suit and leopard print heals, so colorful and different than the neutral colors everyone else around here was wearing. I hadn’t even heard the door open. Neither had Jett if the impudent look on his face is any indication.

  She stops at his desk and grins nicely down at me before turning a heated stare to him. He stares right back.

  “What are you doing here, Margaret?”

  “Mackenzie buzzed to inform me it wasn’t going well. Something about the previous candidate crying in the restroom.” She leaned across his desk and lowered her voice. “We talked about how to approach these interviews. Why aren’t you following the ground rules?”

  With a sweep of his arm, he pushes Margaret gently aside and rises from his chair. Straightening his suit jacket, he indicates that I should get up.

  “I don’t appreciate whatever twisted or made-up memory you think you have of some past conversation, in a hot tub at a party no less, but I hire based on fit, not acquaintance. You’re not qualified. Please see yourself out.”