Page 458 of Manhattan Bossholes

I paused. It wasn’t as if a puny lawsuit like mine would have any impact on him. The guy was a freaking billionaire, after all. A snap of his fingers and he’d set his hellhound lawyers after me. I’d be left with nothing—less than nothing, because I’d have to pay a lawyer. As much as I hated the thought of letting him get away with being such an irredeemable asshole, I was going to have to just let this go no matter how unfair and wrong it was.

I was busy gnawing on the inside of my cheek when I heard footsteps behind me. Was it Dave again, this time coming to throw me off the premises? I spun around, an explanation on my lips, then froze.

“Good morning, Miss Reynolds.”

It was him. The bosshole. And he had the actual nerve to be smiling at me!

Damn it, why did he have to look like that? I dug my nails into my palms as he scanned me from head to toe, because the man actually made me feel a little woozy, and I needed a tiny jolt of pain to restabilize myself. It wasn’t fair that he was stinking rich and stupid hot. But then again, he was both of those things, plus a gigantic dickwad, which totally canceled out the hotness.

Okay, not totally, because I wasn’t blind. But the little quiver-y feeling in my chest was merely because of my white-hot anger, not because he was close enough to me that I could detect his surprising soapy clean scent. It was so fresh that I wanted to go up on my tiptoes and inhale at the base of his neck.

Then I remembered what he’d done.

“Are you fucking kidding right now?” I stomped even closer to him. “You fired me? For singing?”

It came out as a screech but I didn’t care. I could feel my hands curling into fists. If he didn’t wipe that cocky grin off his face I’d do it for him.

“Sure, that’s it exactly, Miss Reynolds. We just instituted a strict no singing policy here at Branson Designs, and your off-key howling last night was a direct violation of it. And let’s not forget the assault with a deadly mop.”

There was that smile again. In another life I’d be mesmerized by it, because it was sexy as hell. A little crooked on one side, like he had a secret. And his bright blue eyes…they were taking me in like he was one of those carnival guys who could guess your age and weight just by looking at you.

But, of course, he probably already had that information on me. Billionaires could get whatever they wanted, right? I shuddered, imagining him gaining access to my phone and scrolling through my audiobook collection, because more than half of them were books with cover models that looked a little like him. Okay, a lot like him.

I had a thing for chiseled heroes, who didn’t?

But right now that didn’t matter, because James Branson was about to get an earful of Natalie Reynolds. Now that I was terminated, the gloves were really coming off.

“Do you have any idea how much I despise you?” I fumed at him. “First, you lie to me and make me feel unsafe at work, and then you go and fire me for sticking up for myself?”

“No, it was the singing, remember?” he replied with a smirk. “And if I want to get technical, you weren’t exactly working efficiently. Trust me, I checked the security footage. You’re incredibly slow.”

“See? That’s stalker behavior!” I let out a rage-y noise, not caring that the people passing by turned to look at me. “Oh my God, you are the literal worst! I’m glad you fired me, because there is no way I’d ever want to work for someone as annoying as you! You don’t deserve me.”

“You might be right,” he admitted, looking like it pained him to say it.

I snapped my mouth shut. “Excuse me?”

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a tattered blue spiral sketchbook.

My sketchbook. My heart dropped to my feet. Not only did it contain my pie-in-the-sky design concepts, I also used it for my to-do lists (oh my God, did he see that I needed to restock my tampon supply?), snippets of songs that inspired me, random doodles (yes, there were a few nudes), and most embarrassing, occasional journal entries. Like last night. That mess would eventually get a page or two dedicated to it, but after killing the better part of a bottle of wine with Stephanie, I hadn’t felt up to writing anything last night, so I hadn’t even noticed it was gone. Stupid, stupid. I’d been in such a rush to get out the door of the shop last night, I’d left it behind without even noticing.

“What are you doing with that?” I asked, moving closer to snatch it away from him.

James pulled it just out of reach, like he was playing with a puppy. “So it is yours.”

“Yeah, that’s everything I’ve been working on for the past year.” I held my hand out to him. “Longer, even. And it’s private. Not to mention, it’s none of your business, No-Longer-My-Bossman. Give it.”

“Careless, to leave something so precious just lying about,” he replied, flipping the cover back. “But that seems to be your M.O., yes? Careless, impulsive, reactionary, and to top it off, a mouth that doesn’t know when to remain shut.”

His eyes dropped to my lips and lingered for a second longer than necessary. I couldn’t catch my breath, because what was essentially my diary was cracked open in his massive hands. I wanted to jump out of my skin as he skimmed the first few pages. No one got to look at my sketches until I felt like they were ready, and even though these were getting close, I still felt like I needed time to perfect them. But if I was honest with myself, I never felt like they were truly ready. That not-so-little voice of doubt was always right there, telling me that I’d never be good enough. And James Branson looking at my work was the equivalent of him looking through my dirty laundry basket. I felt exposed, like his hands were sifting through my lacy thongs.

I braced myself for the insults he was about to hurl my way.

“But,” he added, his tone shifting, “I was wrong to say last night that you don’t have talent. These are good.” He paused on a sketch of a gown that happened to be my favorite, then met my gaze. “Really good. I would like to buy these designs from you.”

I cleared my throat, unable to find words for a second. How was it possible that the man who’d done nothing but insult me since I’d met him was actually saying something nice?

“Hello?” James frowned and waved his hand in front of my face. “Do you need an etiquette lesson? I just told you that I’d like to buy your work. One typically replies with something like ‘Yes, thank you.’”