Bossy Bully: A Sweet Billionaire Boss Romance (Sweet Bossy Millionaires Book 1) Page 7

  I head to the reception desk. “Yes, hello. Lora Marcetta, personal assistant to Jett Calder. Can you let me up, please?”

  The young woman smiles tightly at me. “I can ring him.”

  Ok, good. Maybe he’s there. Maybe he’ll answer and chase away the bad feeling I can’t shake. She picks up the phone and then shakes her head. “I’m sorry; he’s not answering.”

  “That’s the thing,” I say thickly. “We expected him at work this morning for a meeting and he never showed. He never misses work. I’d like to check and make sure he’s okay.”

  “I’m sure you’ll understand the Mr. Calder’s private elevator opens directly into the penthouse suite. I’m unable to breech his privacy that way without his direct permission. Shall I call emergency services and have them take a look?”

  I consider this for a moment. It might be overkill. Or, it might not be. What if he did have a heart attack, or that frustrating brain of his finally exploded? But what if it’s as simple as a broken cell phone and he overslept his alarm? With Jett, there’s no telling what’s going on.

  “No, I think we can wait on that. Please, is there any way you can let me up?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m very sorry.”

  Holding back my frustration, I walk away from the desk and whip out my cell. I hate to do this when she’s already stepped in to help, but I input Margaret’s cell number and send her a text.

  It’s Lora. Sorry; I know you’re in a meeting. I need the passcode to Jett’s elevator. Staff won’t let me in.

  I gave up chewing my nails in my senior year of high school, but I pop my thumb between my teeth and have at it while I wait for a response.

  One doesn’t come.

  Now what? The anxiety inside me is concerning, and frankly, surprising. This is how I felt when my dad had his heart attack—like everything was spinning out of control and all I could do was sit back and watch. And hope that all would turn out well. That nothing worse was going to happen.

  Maybe I should call 911. Maybe—

  1877642

  God, I love Margaret. I clip to the elevator not sure which one goes to the penthouse. The first two look ordinary, but then I see one at the end of a dead-end hallway. The receptionist is on the phone and she doesn’t see me as I slip into the hall and input the code. The doors open immediately and my heart jumps to my throat as I realize, when they open again, I’m going to be inside Jett’s personal space. I imagine he doesn’t allow many people inside and it’s a little uncomfortable that I’m just letting myself in. I don’t want to breech his privacy, yet, I can’t shake the feeling something is wrong.

  The car comes to a gentle stop and the doors quietly whoosh open, displaying an entryway with a glossy, black hardwood floor, white walls and straight ahead, huge windows that overlook the ocean. My pulse thrums as I step out of the elevator and into Mr. Calder’s domain. I only take two steps, and then stop.

  “Mr. Calder? It’s Lora. May I come in?”

  It smells like teakwood and musk with the soft undertone of wood polish. Everything looks bright and welcoming and I want to step into the penthouse and take it all in, but my discomfort stops me.

  “Mr. Calder? It’s Lora.”

  Maybe he’s in the shower. I listen for water running but have no idea if I’d even hear it from here. Swallowing my nerves, I walk to the end of the hall where it spills into a huge main room. My breath catches in my throat. It’s lofty and perfectly decorated with a huge L-shaped, plush white couch, polished wood coffee and side tables, a fireplace and a massive chandelier hanging from above. I shake myself and focus.

  “Mr. Calder. Are you here?”

  My voice sounds hollow and I have the sinking feeling that he’s not here. I’m invading the space of a man who isn’t even home. That’s when I notice car keys stashed on the sideboard, along with a wallet and a cellphone and a tie I don’t recognize. Either those are Jett’s… or he has a gentleman caller.

  Oh God.

  I never thought of that! I mean, this is Miami and anything goes.

  My face goes hot.

  I look closer at the cell phone. It looks like the one Jett has, but it’s a popular model. I lightly tap on it and the lock screen comes to life. His name pops up in the top left-hand corner, as does the TerraLuxe logo. It’s his. Ok… good, I won’t be walking in on a private love affair. Even though—I hitch a brow as a naughty mental image populates in my mind. I shake it off, my cheeks flaming now.

  Taking a breath, I make quick work of walking through the house. The kitchen is beautiful, but empty. The storage room, also beautiful and perfectly organized, but empty. The den, empty. No sound of running water. No sound of anything. I find two bedrooms, both empty. And then a surprise staircase in another short hallway that leads to a closed door above.

  “Mr. Calder?” Hesitantly, I go up, hanging onto the polished wood railing. At the top, I knock on the door with no response from inside.

  I grasp the brass handle and crack the door. Brilliant sunlight shoots out at me as I open it wide enough to see inside. It’s a private alcove room, larger than my living room, tucked up high with a wall of windows overlooking the water. The entire room is white, in the middle a huge platform bed with gray duvet and a lump beneath it.

  “Mr. Calder?” My voice breaks as I recognize the dark mess of his hair peeking out from the pristine linens. He doesn’t stir and I watch his body beneath that blanket for several seconds, trying to determine if he’s breathing.

  There is a soft rise and fall, rise and fall, and tears of relief sting my eyes. I don’t know if I should wake him. Creeping to the other side of the bed so I can see his face, I find him completely passed out. All the hard lines of his face are gone, and he’s so youthful and beautiful in this relaxed state that it takes my breath away. Still, I need to know if he’s okay.

  I touch his shoulder. He’s warm and soft and firm beneath my fingers. “Jett, it’s Lora. Jett?” I give him a little wiggle, but he doesn’t respond. There’s a chair next to the bed. I slide it over and sit, shaking him harder this time. Nothing. If not for the rise and fall of his breathing, I’d think something is terribly wrong. He’s warm, but not feverish. His color is good. He doesn’t look as if he’s in any distress. I’m not a medical person by any means, but I’ve watched enough medical dramas to know he’s not in immediate danger.

  I hope.

  I sit there for a minute, just taking him in. I could never have imagined such a soft, peaceful side to such an abrupt, tortured man. He’s not much older than me, but I feel as if he is. Right now, though, he’s got his youth back and he’s the most perfect version of Jett Calder that I could have ever imagined.

  I touch his shoulder again, give a shake, the cup my palm over his forehead and wiggle his head a little. Nothing. My hand stays there, and I find it sliding back, smoothing over his soft, thick hair. I don’t know why I feel as if he needs to be comforted, but I do. It’s creepy that I’m touching him, though, so I sit back in the chair. And I watch him.

  Taking out my phone, I send Margaret a text that Jett is here and that he’s safe.

  He stirs a little, his eyelids opening as he looks straight at me. I startle and call his name. “I’m so sorry to show up like this, but you—”

  He closes his eyes again and rolls onto his back as if he hadn’t processed that I was even there. Something isn’t right, yet I don’t get the sense that he’s in any danger. He’s just… tired.

  Deeply, completely tired. His face has been lined with exhaustion since the day I came in for my first interview and as the days went on, the fatigue seemed to worsen. He powered through, never missing a beat. Maybe his body finally caught up with him.

  “Lora?”

  I recognize Margaret’s voice and I meet her at the top of the bedroom stairs. She hurries up on the toes of her heels, her cheeks flushed.

  “Margaret, thank goodness! He’s been sleeping since I got here. He won’t wake up.”

 
She goes around the bed to where I had just been, a sad sound coming from her throat as she bends to kiss his cheek. “My poor Jett. He was overdue for this, I’m afraid. As hard as he pushes himself, and as much as he doesn’t take care of his needs, it was only a matter of time.”

  She sits in the chair and smooths back his hair in that way mothers have. My throat goes tight to see it, remembering the soothing strength of my own Mama’s hands. She croons a little and fiddles with the sheets to be sure he’s tucked in. I should leave; this is an intimate moment, but I’m compelled to stay.

  “What’s happening to him?”

  She doesn’t look at me, just keeps soothing his hair back.

  “Depression, PTSD, high IQ and low emotional quotient. It means that for as brilliant as my son is, he’s prone to breaking. Right now, he’s very, very broken.”

  Chapter Nine: Lora

  Margaret flits around the penthouse, miraculously finding things to tidy up, though I can’t imagine what. The entire place is as perfect as the man still asleep upstairs.

  I can’t say I’m shocked by what Margaret revealed about Jett. I don’t know much about any of those conditions, but I do know that sometimes, highly intelligent people have the hardest time recognizing and responding to the emotions of others.

  The scent of coffee wafts through the living room and Margaret appears with a cup in each hand. I could have left an hour ago, but it didn’t feel right to just leave him like this. She hands me a cup and gestures that I sit. I’m reluctant to do so because plush white fabric and coffee don’t mix, but I do, holding the mug away from the couch.

  “How long will he sleep?” I take a small sip and the delicious flavor is bold on my tongue.

  “This has happened twice before. He slept for six days the first time and twelve the next.”

  I chock on my coffee. “Twelve days?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She takes a sip and looks ahead. “However, he’d been involved in a terrible tragedy just a few days before, so his doctors weren’t surprised that he was out that long. Trauma, extreme stress and long periods of hyper-focus push him into shutting down.”

  The mug wobbles in my hand and I hastily set it on the side table. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  It’s a base response but I don’t dare say more or I’ll find myself spilling everything about that night. I know exactly the tragedy she’s talking about; it put me in therapy. Jett had suffered so much worse, and sleep had been his mind’s way of coping. The fortunate thing for us both, is that not much was said about the accident after the initial sting of it went away. I never told my therapist that I’d fled the scene after saving Jett’s life. That I never told anyone about that part because I was too ashamed that I’d let fear propel me to leave before the police showed up.

  Margaret swirls her cup, the liquid edging the rim as it goes around and around. She doesn’t seem afraid of staining the couch. “Jett’s father dropped TerraLuxe onto him like a hot coal, just out of the blue. It was either Jett take over, or his father was going to sell his shares and walk away. That’s a lot of responsibility for a twenty-five-year-old who struggles daily with the weight of his own mind. But, as usual, Jett stepped up the plate knowing full well that his own brilliance was going to be an obstacle. He took over and he’s done a damn fine job. But it hasn’t been without rough patches and misunderstandings, and frankly, chaos sometimes.”

  “So, he’s always had trouble relating to people?”

  “Oh, yes.” Margaret give a humorless laugh. “Around age three, we noticed he was more comfortable being alone. Playdates gave him meltdowns. Preschool was torture for him. The other children steered clear and he never seemed to mind. As he grew, it only got worse. Yet, every test he took in school was a cakewalk, every advanced class, too easy. He could solve problems at the snap of his fingers, work out complicated details and then look at the rest of us like we were the dumbest of idiots.”

  I smile as I imagine little Jett with a headful of curly black hair laughing at a roomful of professors.

  “He was seventeen, believe it or not, before someone suggested that he was on the high functioning autism spectrum. It made sense with his high intelligence and low emotional quotient. He can figure out calculus in his head, but he can’t tell by looking at someone if they’re angry or upset, or even happy.” She drinks her coffee and makes a face as if she’s said too much. I hope she doesn’t stop talking because I want to know more about this man. “It’s the PTSD after the accident that caused the highs and lows to get much worse. Everything about him got worse. He had a fair amount of depression in his teenage years, which they think triggered some of his emotional turmoil. It went downhill after that.”

  My throat aches as I nearly tell her that I was there that night. That I pulled her son from the wreckage and cleared glass from his mouth so he could breathe. The only person who knows about that night are my therapist, and Justin. I’d confided in him one night after sex and beer, and I’d always regretted telling him, like it was a sword he could later use against me.

  “Please,” I say quietly. “Tell me what I can do to help. I don’t know how to help him.”

  “Oh, you’re sweet.” She sets down her mug. “But this isn’t something you want to deal with, Lora. He needs… cares. Personal cares while he’s resting.”

  “Oh. Ooooh.”

  “Right. You need to try and get him to the restroom. Wash him. Get him to drink. The doctors said not to worry too much about nutrition, but to keep him hydrated. Last time, he did rouse enough to eat crackers and oatmeal, but the very act of chewing exhausted him, so he’d fall right back to sleep. It can be a very tedious process.”

  I don’t want to leave him.

  The thought is poignant and strong. I don’t know where it’s coming from, or why I should feel that way, but the idea of leaving Jett is impossible. I can watch over him, get him sips of water, help him to the bathroom. I’m good at looking the other way when the need arises.

  “Here’s a thought.” I tap my finger against my lips. “You’re an expert at TerraLuxe and what needs to be done to keep it running. I most certainly am not. Why don’t I stay with Jett, while you check in with the company and then take over here when you feel able?”

  I’m not really thinking this through, considering I have a Papa and a dog to look after in the evenings. How am I going to juggle all that? I can’t really backtrack now. Margaret regards me as if she’s considering it.

  “I am his personal assistant,” I continue. “And I can’t really do anything at the office without him anyway.”

  “That’s a thought. You’re on to something there. I can work something out with Curtis so I only need to be there a few hours in the morning and can come and relieve you here.”

  “Okay.”

  She cocks her head. “Why would you do this for him?”

  Because, I’ve already shoved my fingers in his throat and pulled glass from his airway. I’ve already been covered in his blood and cried in relief when I realized he was breathing.

  I saved him once. And if he needs me again, I’ll do it.

  “I don’t know. Probably because underneath it all, I know who Mr. Calder really is.”

  “Do you?”

  “I think so.” I nod, because I do think so. He’s a human under that hard layer, a man with insecurities, and flaws he didn’t ask for.

  My flaws? I did those to myself. I wasn’t born that way. I wasn’t raised to lie on my resume. I wasn’t born with brain chemistry that urged me to deceive people or ignore another’s feelings while I lead them on for my own benefit. God, I suck. I really, really suck. Jett was born with the brain he was given, and while I’m sure he can work on some things, others he simply can’t.

  Margaret gets up and pulls at the hem of her suit coat. “Will you stay while I run home and get an overnight bag? It won’t take me long.”

  “Of course. I don’t mind.”

  “Very good. I’ll let the desk know
to expect people coming in and out of the penthouse for a while, so they don’t sound any alarms. I’ll be back soon.”

  I rise and follow her to the door, feeling like it’s the proper thing to do. She turns as she reaches the door, and to my surprise, pulls me in for a warm hug and whispers in my ear, “Thank you.”

  I clean up our coffee mugs, then rinse out the coffee pot and put everything away. Going back upstairs, I find the room more shadowed now as afternoon sets in. Jett has turned his back to the windows, his breathing still long and deep. I take up residence in the chair again and flip through social media on my phone for something to do, but my eyes keep straying back to the man on the bed. He’s a little sweaty. The sides of his hair are damp, and his skin looks a bit flushed. Probably from the sun beating in through the windows all day. I should have pulled the shades. Thinking of it now, I find the small remote that controls the shades and lower them halfway.

  Just then my phone vibrates. It’s Justin. I haven’t spoken to him since he no showed on me. I answer and whisper into the phone. “Hello?”

  “Are you done with work?”

  Done? I pull the phone away from my ear and check the time on the screen. It’s five already. “Not quite.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Oh, I just… my throat is a little scratchy, that’s all.” I clear my throat to make the point but I don’t increase the volume of my tone. “What’s up?”

  There’s a pause and I roll my eyes. Here we go, right back to the ‘say nothing’ portion of our phone call. He’ll create all the white space and expect me to fill it. But then he sighs and it’s an apologetic sound that gets my full attention.

  “About last night. Lora, it was childish of me not to show up.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. I wasn’t expecting this. “Well, it certainly wasn’t very nice of you.”

  The sheets rustle as Jett moves. I look up to find him turning onto his back, one arm going over his forehead.