Bossy Bully: A Sweet Billionaire Boss Romance (Sweet Bossy Millionaires Book 1) Page 2

  “But, Mr. Calder, I—”

  “Take your cheap suit, and leave.”

  Margaret gasps and I’m too stunned to move my legs. Finally, the synapses come back between my muscles and my brain and I turn on my heal and hurry out. My face feels like it’s burning, my body as if I’m floating. None of that could have been real. Who acts like that in real life? Playing my card was risky, I get that, but it was a chance I had to take, and it backfired. Anything I’d said or done in front of this man would have likely backfired.

  What desperate, self-loathing idiot would want to work for a bossy bully like Jett Calder?

  I rush past the other applicants, ignoring how they look at me, hurry down the hall to the elevator and finally breathe when the doors shut me into the car alone. Holding back a sob, I whip out the paper from my purse and force myself to open it. I force my brain to take it in as a reminder.

  I can’t forget my obligation.

  $50,001.00

  “$50,000 for tuition, and an extra dollar for good luck, vita mia.”

  My Papa came from Sicily with every penny he’d saved from his pay as a farm hand of thirty years. He then gave me every cent of that hard-earned savings so I could go to college and walk away with as little debt as possible. I’d promised to pay him back but hadn’t expected the urgency to do so this soon. Funny how a massive heart attack changes things. He’s weak and recovering now, holed up in our living room because he can’t climb the stairs to his bedroom, confined to a life of rest until he gets stronger. Every day is a fight to get him to stay in bed, to keep him from leaving and going back to the loading dock at Warner’s where he’d been unloading grocery trucks. He needs the money that I owe him so he can retire and sleep at night not worrying about his next paycheck.

  I hate Jett right now.

  But I’m the desperate self-loathing idiot who needs this job.

  Chapter Two: Lora

  “Bucky, for the love of Pete!”

  My Australian Shephard chases his tail in a rapid loop, round and round so quickly that I get a little vertigo from watching him. He’s six months old, a chunkus of fur and solid dog body, and never stops moving.

  Wrangling him into the dog groomers didn’t go well, considering he caused me to drop my cell under my car and spill my coffee down the front of my black and white stripped tee shirt, yellow cardigan and down the front of my pants. Good thing I’m wearing black skinny jeans so it doesn’t look like I wet myself. Now that he’s freshly groomed and feels fancy and all good about himself, I can’t get him to settle down enough to get back into my vehicle.

  “Bucky!” I say his name firmly, the way the dog trainer taught me. My pup glances at me and I swear he shrugs nonchalantly before resuming his tail chase. The strip mall is busy with cars coming and going through the parking lot. It’s only a matter of time before someone needs to get through and my dog can’t be bothered to get out of the way.

  I bought Bucky before Papa had his heart attack, thinking a puppy might cheer him up from my Mama’s sudden passing. Plus, I’d heard that pets help keep you young and get the brain stimulated which can help prevent dementia and other things. A few days after I’d brought Bucky home, the heart attack had struck, and now that Papa is recovering, I don’t feel right leaving him alone with a super-hyper ball of fur that eats literally anything he can get his jaws around. I can just imagine the string of Sicilian cussing as he chases the puppy to dig things out of his mouth or clean up yet another pee spot on the floor.

  It would have the opposite effect of keeping him young at this point.

  Once I start working, Bucky will have to go to a doggy daycare until Papa is feeling better. Until then, it’s me and him against the world. Too bad I hadn’t had him with me yesterday. I smirk as I imagine Bucky lifting a leg on Jett Calder’s expensive desk… maybe his slacks. I imagine a little more than pee, in a much more detrimental location, like the driver’s seat of the fancy sports car he probably has.

  It’s a weird mixture of hot and cool today with a heavy side of humidity, and I’m suddenly too warm in my sweater. My hair has lost the beautiful, polished waves and gone back to a poof of wild curls. I threw it up in a messy bun, but the humidity has made tendrils go crazy around my face. I’m ready to get into the car, crank the AC and get my tired butt home. Time to browse the internet for jobs. It’s all I do lately. And it’s depressing as heck. I picked up freelance jobs from an employment website during college. It paid the bills while being flexible, so it worked for its intended purpose. I’m ready for more, now. More work. More responsibility.

  More money.

  I slip out of my sweater and groan at the large brown coffee stain down the front of my shirt. Suddenly, Bucky lurches forward on the leash and I jerk forward as he pulls me in a circle. The bag of dog food in under my arm folds in half, the top ripping and spewing kibbles everywhere. I shout at the dog and try to rein him in, but he’s whipping me around and I can’t quite get my feet under me. My left shoe flies off my foot as I pull back hard on the leash and drop the dog food by my car.

  Bucky does an impressive little side flip and sits before me as if he’s waiting to be judged on his performance.

  I’m panting, my head spinning. Just then, my cell phone rings, and for a second, I think it’s still under my car until I remember I’d already retrieved it and put it in my back pocket. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon instead of had a spin-off with a forty-nine-pound puppy. I really need to work out more.

  “Hello?”

  “Why are you out of breath?”

  Justin’s voice sounds mildly curious, though, I could give him an elaborate story of how I’d just run five blocks to rescue a kitten from a burning building set on fire by aliens and his only response would be, “oh.”

  “Playing with the dog.” I grab my keys and press the fob to unlock the door. There’s a pause and I stop myself from rolling my eyes. Justin and I have been dating for a year. I knew within the first week that he had horrible telephone skills. I’m still not sure why he doesn’t just text me instead of calling. He keeps me on the line with frustratingly long pauses in between sentences, little to no response to my replies, and most of the time, chews in my ear.

  There’s no chewing right now, so I consider this a special occasion.

  “So, what’s up?” I nudge the conversation along like I always do while I look around for my shoe.

  “Nothing. You didn’t tell me how the interview went yesterday.”

  “Right.” I cringe. “Yeah, sorry, I was busy helping Papa in the afternoon and didn’t get a chance to call.”

  Truth? I didn’t tell Justin about the dumpster fire interview because he would have either said nothing of any help or support in response, or said that he told me so. He’d thought I was reaching a little too high by applying at TerraLuxe, that I should settle for something less ambitious until I gathered experience. He also read somewhere that TerraLuxe employees were a breath away from mutiny and the entire empire was about to fall.

  He starts to crunch on something, and it crackles in my ear through the speaker. “And?”

  “I didn’t get it.” I balance the phone on my ear and heft the dog food into my trunk. “I’m going to do a bunch of follow ups on applications I’ve already sent out.”

  There’s a gulping sound and then the rustle of a bag, and then silence. It bothers me that my first thought after that horrible interview wasn’t to turn to my partner for comfort. Instead, I’d avoided him. I knew that didn’t bode well for our relationship, but despite how generally bored I am with our partnership, Justin and I do have our good times. I recently determined that we’re passing the time with each other and that’s probably all this will ever be. Sometimes, I think he wants more but we never talk about it.

  I never ask.

  “You know the offer at my mother’s company stands. You could start tomorrow if you were serious about finding a job.”

  I bristle. “That’s a little condescen
ding of you.” Ah-ha! My shoe.

  “No, it’s the truth, Lora. If you really wanted to work, you would take the job and be done with it.”

  I pull the phone away from my face and silently scream at it as I hop on one foot and slide my shoe on. Justin’s mother owns an assisted living home for elderly people who need assistance with daily living. She offered me a basic administrative position, the pay barely enough to justify transportation costs to get to work and back each day. The benefits are scant and expensive. Not to mention, the commute is two hours per day, worse if traffic is awful. I can do better. I know I can.

  Before I can respond, Bucky pulls on the leash again and starts rapid-fire barking. I glance his way and see a black SUV barreling down on us. I shout and Bucky slams into me, his fluffy, hard body hitting my legs and pushing me off balance. I reach for him, trying to protect him as I stumble backward into the car next to me. The SUV slams on its breaks, screeching across the asphalt and coming to a hard stop inches away from my open hatch. My eyes fly to the driver—a man with a cell phone in front of his face and dark sunglasses covering his eyes. A second of slow realization has me doing a double take.

  It can’t be!

  The SUV lurches into park, the driver’s door opening. The driver steps out, smooths a big hand down the front of his impeccable suit as he comes into view, the hood of his SUV between us. His face shows nothing, while I’m struggling to breathe, as if nothing had happened. As if he hasn’t nearly run me over and smashed into my car. Shakily, I check my cell and see that Justin disconnected the call. I slip it into my back pocket, and face the man who, for the second time in as many days, has jacked my adrenaline and not in a good way.

  “You almost killed me, Mr. Calder.” I’m shocked by the thick anger in my voice.

  He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into his inside pocket. “That’s an exaggeration. I wasn’t even close to hitting you.”

  I throw my arms out to my sides to indicate that I’m basically trapped in a box, with my open trunk to my right, a row of cars behind me, and his big, fat SUV in front of me, blocking me in. Bucky growls low and hovers at my legs. Poor little guy had thrown himself at me, trying to protect me from the barreling vehicle. My heart swells and softens even as it pumps with anger.

  I indicate to the cell phone he’s still holding. “Were you distracted by your phone while you were driving?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” I challenge. I have nothing to lose here. “So, when I call this to the police and tell them that I saw you on your phone while almost running me over, and they ask to check to see if you’ve been texting, what will they find?”

  He looks genuinely confused. “Why would you call this in? No damage was done.”

  I cross my arms and look to the sky. “What planet are you from? You could have killed me, my dog, slammed into my car or all three. This is a reportable event, Mr. Calder. You were practicing distracted driving, and you’re not above the law.”

  I get the impression that he’s working through this in his mind, maybe tackling it from all angles. He doesn’t look upset or irritated, but rather, wears a light layer of introspection. I’m not sure what to make of it. I expected him to bark and yell and ram words down my throat. Instead, it seems I’ve confounded him.

  “I believe you’re in a position to make demands of me at this point. What do you want? Money for better interview clothes? Perhaps a fake reference to amp up your lack of hire-ability so you can find a job?”

  My pulse has finally slowed, but it beats incredibly hard in my temples as if I might get a migraine. I bend down and pet Bucky, whose shaking against my legs. “Can you back up your SUV so I can get my dog in his kennel?”

  Jett glances at Bucky before doing as I ask. I pick up my furball and put him inside the secured kennel in the back of my Ford Escape. He cuddles into his blanket and I’m not sure if I’m angrier that Jett Calder nearly killed me or that he upset my puppy. Shutting the hatch, I start my vehicle and blast the air conditioning to keep the dog cool, then turn back to find Jett waiting for me with expectancy on his face.

  “Well? What’s it going to be?” He straightens the cuffs of his suit coat and I can’t help but watch his fingers.

  “I’d like a job.” I lift my chin and hold his gaze.

  The corners of his mouth flatten. “As I said, I’ll consider some sort of reference.”

  “No,” I shake my head. “I want a job at TerraLuxe. In fact, I want the job I interviewed for yesterday. I’m more than capable.”

  “Not possible. The position is filled by someone much more capable than you.”

  He says these things without an ounce of forethought. They just pop out of his mouth, as if slinging insults is the way two people communicate.

  “You haven’t changed since college, Jett.” He looks a little surprised when I use his first name. “Let me play this out for you. TerraLuxe has an impressive number of job openings, some that remain unfilled since shortly after you took over as CEO two years ago. I may be just guessing here, but I imagine it’s because you’re having a hard time keeping employees. Your sparkling personality is just too sparkling for most people, I assume.”

  He doesn’t respond to the sarcasm, or anything I’m saying. Huh, he’s like Justin. All cardboard in the rapport area. I continue. “I’m willing to stick it out, to be woken up at three a.m. to come to the office, and get you coffee five times a day from the Starbucks across town if that’s what it takes. As long as you allow me to do my job and earn my paycheck, I’m all in.”

  “As I said, the position has been filled.”

  “You have other openings.”

  “All well above your ability and education.”

  “Then teach me.”

  He grins at that, and it’s not a pleasant one. It’s condescending and a little evil. I blink, and the motion brings a memory of Jett’s face covered in blood. It’s quick and startles me and then it’s gone. I could tell him that I was there that night so many years ago, that I’m the reason he’s alive and able to be standing here right now, insulting me. But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve done some shady business with my resume, but I’d never stoop low enough to use that fateful night as leverage to get what I want.

  “I do have something you might be tolerable at.” He gives my body a once over, frowning at the stain on my shirt and looking pointedly at my hair. “Do you own anything designer?”

  I shake my head sassily. “No. No, I don’t. My clothes are cheap knock offs that I get from the toothless man on the corner of Market and 5th.”

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “I can fix that. Can you socialize, or are you always this abrasive?”

  I nearly choke on my own spit. Me? Abrasive? “What exactly is it that you’re asking me to do for you, Mr. Calder?”

  He shifts his weight and has the grace to look a little uncomfortable. Which makes me uncomfortable, because now I’m really, really wondering what he’s thinking.

  “My personal assistant quit three months ago and I’ve yet to replace her.”

  “You want me to be your personal assistant?”

  “The duties are a bit different than what you might expect.” He takes a small leather notebook from his inside pocket and scribbles on it, thinks for a second, and writes some more. Ripping off the page, he hands it to me. “Proposed salary and benefits. Look it over.”

  Watching him, I take the paper, almost afraid to look. But I do, and my face goes numb. Keep it cool, keep it cool. I swallow. I fiddle with my hair. I try not to faint. There are six figures written on the paper, and beside the words, ‘health insurance’ is a dash, followed by, ‘free single premium’.

  “I… but you didn’t say what duties were involved.” I drag my gaze back to his.

  “This isn’t the place to discuss it, obviously. Why do you think I gave you a note instead of blurting it out loud?” He waves me off and heads to his vehicle, opens the door. “Seven-thirty a.m. sharp is th
e only time I can give you to discuss. Be there or consider yourself perpetually un-hired.” He gets in and drives away, slowly, until he’s out of the lot, and then speeds off.

  I’m holding the paper so tightly, its turning into a sweaty ball in my palm. I don’t relax my grip. Right now, it’s my lifeline.

  Just what does Jett Calder want from me?

  Chapter Three: Jett

  It’s four in the morning and I haven’t slept yet.

  The lamp on my desk has a bulb that mimics daylight and I wish it were as simple as turning it off and tricking my brain that it’s time to sleep. But it won’t work. Nothing works. I crack the top of an energy drink and down half of it. It tastes terrible, like overly sweet grape cough syrup, but I force myself to consume it. I never know when fatigue will overwhelm me, so I try and head it off my pumping myself with vitamins and energy supplements.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had a crash and though I have hope that it won’t happen again, I know that it will. It’s just a matter of time. Right now, I’m hyper-focused. I wouldn’t have even known what that term was had I not gone to see a new specialist a few months ago. She pulled together the symptoms I’d had my entire life and knitted a diagnosis I now wear like a comforting sweater. For the first time ever, I know why my brain does what it does. I know all the why’s, but I haven’t relented to treatment or the deep cognitive therapy she says that I need.

  I can’t. I won’t.

  My symptoms have been getting stronger since… the accident. And it’s always haunted me that it’s because of what I did that night. This mis-fires of this mis-wired brain of mine is a punishment. I want to feel it, to let it affect me. I deserve it.

  The problem is that my illness is affecting my business, and I can’t allow it to continue. While I submit to my punishment, I have to find a way to temper myself enough to keep my employees happy and functioning. My Grandfather started TerraLuxe and brought my father in as a partner. Grandpa died, and dad retired to Thailand with his fifth wife. He doesn’t care if this company fails or succeeds anymore. The weight of responsibility is on my shoulders, and while I’m growing business exponentially, I’m having major difficulty relating to the people who work for me.