Page 457 of Manhattan Bossholes

I’d called her with a quick rundown on my way home and warned her that I was a hot mess, and she’d promised to calm me down with bottomless margaritas.

I kicked off my shoes and groaned in relief. They were comfortable enough, but after twelve hours on my feet, I wanted to toss them in a bonfire. I padded down the narrow hall, trying to ignore the way James Branson kept invading my brain.

Because I didn’t like the way my stomach fluttered every time it happened.

“Here,” Stephanie said, holding out an overfilled glass. “Tell me everything about how you sang your way out of a job.”

The lights were dim in our small family room, which made my tension headache ratchet down a few notches. Our combined decorating aesthetic was yard sale chic, with mismatched furniture and walls filled with cast-off art from thrift shops, but we made it work. Stephanie patted the couch and gave me an encouraging smile.

My roommate was in full cozy mode, wearing leggings and a tank top, with her dark pixie cut sticking out in different directions. She still looked gorgeous without a smidge of makeup, but naturally beautiful personal trainers tended to have that annoying ability. No doubt my SOS text had dragged her out of bed, but she looked totally willing to sit beside me, drinking margaritas and commiserating for as long as I needed. That’s the type of friendship we had. We’d always looked out for each other. After a childhood like mine, I treasured my found family.

I let out a strangled groan of frustration as I threw myself on the couch next to her. “He’s the worst! Beyond pompous. A first-class asshole!”

Stephanie’s mouth went into an exaggerated frown. “Seriously? Like, abusive?”

I took a gulp of my margarita as I considered the question. “No. Not like that. He didn’t touch me, and he didn’t really raise his voice. He was just so condescending. Ugh, it was disgusting. And he’s very ‘my way or the highway.’”

“Well, he is the big boss,” Stephanie offered in a quiet voice, like she knew she was on thin ice by even suggesting that James had a right to be a jackass. “And you can be a little, uh, direct when you don’t like someone. Maybe he’s not used to an employee calling him out like that.”

“It was his fault, though!” I scowled, staring at my glass. “He could’ve avoided all the drama if he’d told me who he was right off the bat and politely asked me to turn down my music. Instead, he lied and insulted me.”

“Okay, okay, fair point,” Stephanie said with a nod. “What does he look like? I’m guessing old money country club vibes, right?”

I thought about the man I’d just met and realized that there was no way to describe him without coming out and admitting that James Branson was sex on a stick.

I rolled my eyes. “Tall, light brown hair, and handsome. Like, the kind of good-looking that’s an insult to any other guys in the general vicinity. Perfect body, a mix of linebacker and swimmer, so he’s got those shoulders.” I gestured to help her envision how absolutely distracting the man’s physique was. “Bone structure of the gods. Picture one of those marble statues and that’s him. And he’s got this way of staring that is so distracting. It felt like he was scrutinizing me the whole time!”

Stephanie gave me a naughty grin over the lip of her wineglass. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” I demanded, frowning at her.

She paused, still smiling like she knew a secret. “Sounds like someone’s down for a hate-fuck.”

I wondered if my neighbors could hear her laughing and begging for mercy as I battered her with a throw pillow for even thinking it.

Back at the scene of the crime at the crack of dawn. I clutched my thin vintage army jacket across my chest, cursing the fact that March was feeling much more “lion” than “lamb” this morning.

I dodged the early morning crowds on the Manhattan sidewalk on the way to the front door of Branson Designs with my head held high, because Stephanie and I had come to the conclusion that since he hadn’t said the words, I hadn’t actually been fired. If I could just keep my head down and keep doing my job, maybe the whole thing would blow over. It wasn’t like I did anything that bad, anyway.

Okay, maybe I was a tiny bit sassy with the boss man. And then there was the mop-to-the-face stuff. But still. He was the one who started the whole thing by not coming clean about his true identity and being an absolute jackass to me. If anyone had an HR issue, it was probably me. Wasn’t faking an identity a crime?

I fished my key card out of my purse under the light of a streetlamp. I was used to being the first one there. I liked the time alone to collect myself, so I could work on my designs for school when I could catch a spare minute. I’d always struggled to try to scrape together the money for classes, and now that I was deep in the middle of my BFA, I wasn’t about to give up. No one would ever call me a quitter.

For now, my life was all daydreams and hustle, and the hope that one day they’d both come together and I’d get a lucky break.

Because I sure as hell needed one.

I stifled a yawn as I touched the key card to the pad by the door. The little yellow dot went off, signaling that I hadn’t held it in place for long enough. Typical. I was always in a rush to get inside. I held the plastic card against the pad for a few seconds longer.

Yellow light again?

I rubbed the key card off on the front of my blouse, assuming that something in my purse had spilled and was obscuring the sensor, then touched it to the pad for a third time.

Whoa. Hold on. A red light?!

Then it hit me. Branson had actually gone and done it. The asshole had fired me! That was the only explanation for why my card wasn’t working. He probably called HR right after I’d left the night before! Maybe the threat of bodily harm with a stinky mop really had been a bit too much?

I threw the card on the ground and paced in a circle, feeling my face go hot with anger. How dare he? What right did he have to fire me for something so insignificant? Maybe I could sue him? Yeah, I could hit him in the wallet for wrongful termination!