Bossy Bully: A Sweet Billionaire Boss Romance (Sweet Bossy Millionaires Book 1) Page 4

  I stand so fast, my chair rolls back. “Good morning,” I chirp, holding back the need to vomit. “I’m Lora Marcetta, Mr. Calder’s personal assistant. Bruce, I’d appreciate if we could meet after the meeting so you can fill me in on the details for this property and perhaps, I can assist in some way.”

  I side-eye Jett, bracing myself for the impact of his incoming words. I have no idea if this is in my job description, but I don’t care. I can’t sit and watch this poor man get quartered and grilled. Bruce looks grateful, and nods quickly.

  “Wonderful.” I sit before my trembling legs won’t hold me.

  Jett regards me for several long, tense seconds. “In the future, Ms. Marcetta will take the chair directly to my left. Anyone in her seat will be promptly fired. Moving on.”

  I sit through the remainder of the meeting, and quickly realize why he’s hired me. It’s a flurry of back and forth between Jett and his staff, with him dominating most of the interactions, and never in a positive way. I don’t feel as if I breathe until the meeting is over and everyone has filed out of the meeting room. The tension drains from the space as people leave, and then it’s just Jett and I, and he gathers his things and leaves as if I’m not there. I hurry after him, again, to his office because I have no idea where mine is, or what I’m supposed to do next.

  He points to an open door right next to his office, as if reading my mind. “There. Go.”

  The space isn’t huge, but it shares the same wall of floor-to-ceiling windows as Jett’s office, and I have the urge to pinch myself. The desk is whitewashed and L-shaped, a plush brown leather chair looking like something straight out of a luxe office supply website. A bouquet of pink tulips sits on the edge of the desk, with a little card that says ‘Welcome to TerraLuxe and good luck’, and I know immediately they are from Margaret. I smile despite the uncertainty I feel. Have I made the right choice?

  Am I doing the right thing? I’ve yet to tell Justin about this turn of events. Feeling guilty, I set down my bag and take out my cellphone. I should text him and let him know. That’s what people do in relationships, right? Share good news. Even though, I know he won’t agree or be overly excited for me considering he didn’t want me to work here in the first place.

  I pull up our last string of text messages and hesitate before I type.

  I should break up with him.

  The thought takes me completely by surprise, yet when I look at the screen, I imagine myself typing out the words. Sorry, it’s me, not you. I’m just not feeling it. You’ll find someone who is right for you. I’m so selfish. I mean, we haven’t had the most whirlwind, romantic of relationships, sure. Now that my fortune has changed, my first thought is to dump him? Yes.

  No. Justin has been there for me, in his own way, through my dad’s heart attack and finishing college and all the stuff in between. It wouldn’t be fair to just dump him like this.

  Do it. Tell him it’s over.

  “No phones.”

  I spin and the phone tumbles onto the floor. Jett walks in, reading something that he promptly thrusts at me. It’s an invite for tomorrow night, drinks at six, followed by dinner at a French restaurant whose name I can’t pronounce.

  “Find something to wear,” he says and turns to leave.

  “I can’t attend this with you. It’s very short notice and I have an obligation.”

  “Yes, you do have an obligation. To me.”

  “No, my father has an appointment. We won’t be back by then.” My father’s cardiologist is the busiest in the area and it took weeks to get a follow up appointment. They worked us in at four-fifty in the afternoon, and it’s an hour drive, in good traffic. There’s no way I’ll have him home, fed and settled in for the night by six. Not that he needs me to do everything for him. He’s an independent man with a recovering heart. Still, he’s my only family and I’ll do anything to make sure he’s taken care of.

  “It’s disappointing that you’ve been here three hours and are already flaking on me.”

  “I’m not flaking. You didn’t give me enough notice. I have a family.”

  “So do I.”

  You call your mother by her first name. I want to say it, so bad, but I don’t. I can’t imagine him leaving work to take his mother to an appointment.

  Curious, I set the invite on my desk. “Who are these people and why do they want to go to dinner?”

  “They are inconsequential, and this dinner is a waste of my time. However, it’s a good use of yours because it will allow me to see how well you can carry me through a social engagement.”

  “So, it’s a test.”

  “One I don’t expect you will pass.”

  I drum my fingers on the desktop. “Then why am I still here, Jett?”

  “I enjoy a challenge, and you might surprise me.” He leaves and I stare out the window, considering what to do. Turning my back to the office door, I take out my phone again and tap my finger on the screen absently, thinking. I have no idea how to guide Jett in the way he’s asking me to. I’m barely social myself. But I’ve never had an opportunity like this and, well, I’m up for the challenge.

  I pull up Justin’s name and I type out the message asking him to take my father to the appointment tomorrow because I have a job interview. And I send it, feeling like a horrible person. Feeling so low, so dirty. I was about to break up with him earlier, yet here I am begging a favor and lying about what I’m doing.

  I’ll make it up to him somehow, so I feel better about it, too. I need this job to pay back my father’s retirement savings and get him in a better place financially. I can’t give my new boss a reason to fire me already. After his performance in the conference room, I don’t think I can push him too far before he does just that.

  I just hope working for Jett Calder isn’t already rubbing off on me.

  Chapter Five: Jett

  It’s been thirty-six hours since I’ve slept and the dredge of it is finally catching up with me.

  I’m irritable to the point that I feel as if my head might pop from the pressure. It took all my willpower not to call Lora in the early morning hours and demand that she come into the office to work, just to help keep my mind focused and my body going. I can’t sleep. Yet, I don’t feel as if I can function. It’s a nightmare that needs to end, but I don’t know how to make that happen.

  It doesn’t help that I’m dreading this dinner tonight. Dread is too light of a word. It’s the absolute last thing I want to do, yet, I’m obligated, and I know I’m required and expected to behave. That’s even harder for me when I’m provoked. Add in excited exhaustion and I’m a time bomb. I don’t even want to be around me.

  I didn’t call Lora. What a surprise. How I didn’t give in to impulse is a mystery. I’m not sure that she’s going to last, and that’s a shame. I like her in a visceral way. She’s solid, dependable and she’s not afraid of me. Too many people are. I know that I should feel bad about that and I suppose in my own way, I do. I just don’t register it enough to let it affect me.

  I turn and look at my bed. It’s the first time I’ve stepped foot inside my condo in a week. The housekeeper’s recently been here, and everything is picture perfect, like something from a magazine. It’s how I prefer my spaces. I could lie down on the fresh sheets and let myself drift away, but the very thought of it works me up. No, I have too much to do. As meticulous as I am about my email inbox, there are three messages waiting for me that I didn’t get to. Not to mention legal contracts for some land acquisitions that I need to review, a purchase order, and some investment statements. It’s five and I don’t have time to address any of that right now even though I’m tempted to forget about tonight and stay home and work.

  I go to the ensuite bathroom and check my appearance in the full-length mirror. My black suit is standard, but the royal blue button down and silver tie with blue threads stand out. My cufflinks are silver, my Italian leather shoes perfectly polished. I’d rather throw on jeans and a hoodie and be done with it. I
laugh at my reflection. Yeah, right. I was still in college the last time I wore a hoodie. Haven’t touched one since… that night.

  I no longer see my reflection. My brain is trying to turn in on itself, to remember. My body feels like cardboard as I turn and go back to my room, into the walk-in closet to a box high on the top shelf. Using a step stool, I grab it and take it down. It’s heavy in my hands, but it’s just an illusion. It’s not physically heavy. It’s the memory attached to this damn box that weighs so much. I want to open it, but I can’t.

  I won’t.

  I don’t need to see the bloody hoodie I was wearing the night of the accident. I know it’s in the box, where I keep it buried in my closet as a reminder. One day, I’ll throw it away. But not today.

  Slamming the box back onto the shelf, I step down and clench my eyes. What am I doing? I swear, I’m losing my mind sometimes. My phone buzzes with a notification that my driver is waiting. I take the elevator down, wishing I’d taken some time to open my windows and listen to the ocean. But, as usual, I was in a hurry and didn’t think of it until it was too late.

  We drive to Lora’s. I’d cringed when she’d given me the address. She lives miles away from the luxury of oceanfront. Her address is on the edge of ‘doing okay and in-the-poorhouse.’ My middle clenches with distaste as I survey her block. Each home is small and narrow, with little front yards contained by chain link fences. They all look the same, but surprisingly, the entire block is tidy and well kept. Lora’s address takes us to the last house on the right. It’s a pleasant light blue and the dark roof looks new. A red door stands out, with a wreath hanging in the center sporting a, ‘welcome’ sign. The yard is neat with little flowers growing in pots hanging off the windows.

  The driver parks and moves to get out of the car. “Wait,” I say. “I’ll collect her.”

  I don’t know why I’m doing it instead of him, but I slide out of the car and step onto a narrow cement walkway that’s buckled with age and has grass growing between the cracks. It’s the one thing on this tiny property that’s not tidy. The front door opens before I reach the porch and Lora is there, hurrying through the door and down the steps. I do a double take when I see her.

  She’s in a navy-blue dress with a deep V-cut and thin straps. It’s fitted around the waist and flares around her hips. She’s got a shimmery, lightweight shawl around her shoulders, and her hair pulled into a bun.

  “I know, I know, it’s not designer, but it’s the best I could do on such short notice.”

  She doesn’t even look at me as she comes down the steps and meets me on the walk, fiddling with her shawl and patting at her hair. I reach for her arm and her eyes finally snap up to mine.

  “It will do.”

  “Are you saying that I look nice?”

  I lean closer as she speaks, as if it might help me better decipher the question. I’m not sure what response she wants me to give. “Should I say that you look nice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if it’s not true?”

  Lora presses her lips together and cocks her head and I know that I’ve said the wrong thing. She clips past me and opens the squeaky gate, letting herself through as she heads to the car. I follow and hold the door for her as she slides in. She puts nearly the entire length of the bench seat between us as she works her way to the opposite door. I get in and leave the space between us.

  “You look very handsome.” She slides me a glance and then pulls it away. “I like your tie.”

  “Thank you.” I also like my tie, so it makes me feel good that she noticed. “I… enjoy the color of your hair.”

  Her smooth brow furrows even as a little smile pulls her lips. She’s put on a light pink lip gloss and it shimmers in the soft lighting. “Okay. Thank you. See, giving a compliment isn’t that hard. It makes the other person feel nice, special. Appreciated. I suppose if you’re looking to win someone over, giving out a compliment is a good way to get started.”

  “What if I don’t find anything about the person pleasing?”

  “Then, you lie.”

  She says this with such conviction, and it surprises me. Does she lie often? Is this a skill she’s good at? It makes me realize how little I know about her.

  She turns toward me a little. “What I mean is, there’s nothing wrong with giving a basic compliment to someone to make them feel good. Of all the things people tell white lies about, a compliment is pretty minor, don’t you think?”

  Lying doesn’t come easily to me. In fact, it’s very difficult for me to say things that I don’t mean. As messed up as my brain is, I can’t string together a believable lie without hours of thinking it through. Certainly, lying on the spot isn’t something that I’m capable of. I’m wired to tell the truth. My therapist said it’s one good thing about my condition: honesty is a knee-jerk reaction.

  “I am not proficient in lying. It’s remarkably easy for some people, but not for me.”

  She turns more fully toward me. “Oh, come on. You’ve never told a little white lie?”

  “Not without great effort.”

  She makes a little sound and shrugs. “Well, who knew.”

  The car makes a left and we get on the highway, headed back toward the waterfront. “Tell me about your home. How long have you lived there?”

  She pulls the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “My parents bought it when they moved here in ’72.”

  “And, you live with your parents?”

  “Father. My mother passed away. He’s been ill, so I choose to remain at home with him. It works for us.”

  Her tone is defensive as if she’s expecting me to scoff at her about something. I think about what she just said. There’s a lot in there that I think I should respond to. Lora’s watching me, waiting. Yesterday, I’d told her this evening was a test to see how well she could guide me socially, but I feel as if I’m the one being tested right now.

  “I’m sorry.” Two words, most often spoken when someone shares personal information of a disappointing or heartbreaking nature.

  “You’re sorry that I live with my father?”

  “Of course not. I think it’s cliché, college grad living at home in their parent’s basement instead of becoming an independent, self-sufficient adult. I’m mildly disappointed; not sorry.”

  Lora shakes her head and digs a small book out of her purse. I can’t see the title, but the spine looks well cracked and some of the pages are dog-eared. She whips it open and starts wildly thumbing through it. A low groan comes from her throat, or maybe it was a growl, as she flips the pages.

  I lean in to look at the book. “What is that?”

  Her eyes are blazing when she holds up the cover for me to see. Modern Etiquette for the Socially Awkward. “I bought this years ago to help myself through some social stuff, but I’m pretty sure nothing in here, or anywhere, is going to be helpful to you.” She sets the book in her lap and takes a deep breath. “Look, Jett. You don’t have to agree with people, or find them attractive, or even like them to be pleasant. Socially acceptable manners apply to everyone. Smile. Give a small compliment. Act as if you’re listening when they speak, even if you’re not. Say a word or two to keep conversation. Don’t insult people. That’s it. That’s all you have to do.”

  I’ve heard a similar lecture before, many, many times. “I don’t intend to be insulting. I told you that I am truthful and sometimes the truth is misconstrued as an insult. As Margaret says so often, I have no filter and no reservations.”

  The car slows as we pull up to the front of the restaurant. I don’t realize that we’re staring at each other until I do, and an odd warmth rises in my chest. The corners of her mouth are pulled slightly down, but not in an angry or sad way. It’s the look people give me when they feel sorry for me. The driver opens the door for her, and I take a deep breath after she’s gotten out. The brief solitude seeps into me and I’m reminded that I’m tired. So tired.

  I get out and meet her on the walkway bene
ath a canopy of string lights. I could have her take my arm, but this is business and we are not a couple, so I don’t. We walk in side-by-side and are shown to a private room in the back. Lora is gaping at the décor and it takes her a second to realize we’ve arrived at our table.

  Margaret gives a little screech as she bursts from her chair, startling Lora, who quickly recovers with a warm smile. I don’t roll my eyes. I don’t frown, even though I want to.

  “Lora. So nice that you could join us. Everyone, this is Lora Marcetta, Jett’s new assistant.”

  Three men in suits rise politely from their chairs, a woman in a glittery gold dress nods her greeting. My mother pats a seat next to her for Lora, and I sit to Lora’s left.

  “Jett, Lora, please meet Don, Gabriel and Alastair McHuen from Glestar Investments, and Marybeth, Alastair’s wife. The others will be joining us soon.”

  I nod, but don’t say anything. Lora compliments Marybeth’s dress. The waiter pours us wine and I leave mine untouched. I feel like I might come out of my skin. My body is suddenly tight, my suit constricting. My eyes feel as if there’s sand in them and pressure is starting behind my temples. I discouraged my mother from having this meeting, told her point-blank that I wasn’t interested. But she never listens.

  She stands again as two more men join us and embraces them both.

  My cousins. And my competitors.

  “These handsome boys are Marcus and Colby Bindy, Jett’s cousins.”

  Lora looks at me with her eyebrows raised. “Your cousins? This is a family dinner and you didn’t want to come?” Her voice is low, meant only for me.

  “I didn’t want to come.”

  More wine is poured, and I order for Lora and I. Chatter starts around the table. I follow along, but I don’t contribute. It’s better that way. Lora smiles and nods, answers in short sentences when she’s asked something, sips her wine with ease. She seems a little uncomfortable, but she’s handling it better than I am. I don’t miss her little glances, as if she’s constantly assessing me and anticipating what I might say.