Page 472 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Who’s that?”

“Oh, you don’t know? James’s older brother Christopher used to run creative. Everyone adored him. And he was so talented. But something happened with him, and everything went downhill so fast. It was heartbreaking to watch, but we were all powerless.”

I was surprised to learn about a beloved Branson. He had to be the sunshine to James’s storm clouds. “What went wrong? What happened to him?”

Rhea wrung her hands and glanced around the room. “I wish I knew, because then maybe I could do something to help him. He just…changed. Christopher went from this friendly, charming guy to…a shadow. No-showing for important meetings. Missing deadlines. It didn’t make sense because Christopher was the quintessential perfectionist. Then one day, we came to work to find an email saying that he was taking an indefinite leave of absence. The Bransons circled their wagons around him and never told any of us a thing. Clint had been his second in command, so he was the natural choice to step up and take over. He wasn’t that bad before—not great, mind you, but not bad. But it was like once he got a taste of power…”

“It turned him into a tyrant?” I offered with a half-smile.

“Exactly. Everything went sour after that. But now…I feel hopeful for the first time in a long time. And James isn’t that bad at all. He seems to genuinely care about the company, and us. I’ve only heard rumors about him, and it turns out they were greatly exaggerated.”

I laughed. “I’m not so sure about that.”

Rhea grinned at me. “He seems to really like you.”

“Please! He can barely tolerate me.” I fiddled with my tablet, a blush tickling my temples.

“Hm.” Rhea pursed her lips. “That’s not how it looked to me. But what do I know? I’m just a crazy old lady.”

She gave me a mischievous wink and headed back into the throng of designers, leaving me to wonder if she might be right about the man in charge.

8

JAMES

I’d skipped dinner again.

I glanced at the clock on my laptop. How was it already close to ten? I’d promised myself that I was going to head out on time—or as close to “on time” as was possible for me—and then stop by to see Christopher on my way home. But doing two jobs meant triple the work.

Not that I minded. Getting lost in my work was safe. I could control those little columns in the spreadsheets. And God knows I liked staying in control.

My stomach grumbled, but I still had a little more to do, and I wasn’t one to leave a task half-finished. Given our prime location, there were a dozen five-star restaurants just blocks from the front door, or I could have something delivered, but I didn’t have the inclination to invest the time to do either. Maybe a snack from the cafeteria would hold me over? One of those tiny bags of trail mix or salted almonds that Lorraine insisted everyone enjoyed?

I strode towards the elevator, relishing in the fact that the space was empty. I liked the peace. The times I had to venture down to creative left me feeling jangly. How did those people work in such an upside-down environment?

Those people. The elevator doors slid shut and, like always, I was reminded of the shirtless spitfire I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about—and not just because of her incredible ideas. The truth was, the woman had also been invading my dreams lately, sometimes brandishing a mop at me. In the most recent one she was swaying seductively in just a skirt and bra, her eyes locked on mine. When she reached behind her back to unclasp the bra, I’d woken up with a start, only to find myself dealing with a rock-hard cock, like I was a horny teenager again.

Even just thinking of her now as the elevator sped down was enough to feel the telltale pull between my legs. I hoped I’d been discreet the time I’d caught her without her shirt, because all I’d wanted to do was stare at her perfect tits. I’d noticed that she didn’t exactly cower in the corner during our elevator ride, which suggested to me that she didn’t completely mind the fact that I’d caught her topless. And there was that one moment when she straightened her back and seemed to invite me to stare.

I glanced down. Fuck. I hoped my hardness would calm by the time the doors opened.

Enough.

Thankfully, there was no one to witness me adjusting my pants when the elevator doors opened. I forced myself to think about projections as I rounded the corner to the kitchen, but screeched to a stop when I realized that I wasn’t alone.

I absolutely could not escape the woman. What the hell was Natalie still doing here?

She had her back to the entryway and was bent over something on the table, wearing gigantic headphones that blocked out the world, so I could tell she had no clue I was behind her. As usual, Natalie was wearing an outfit that defied explanation but was also somehow totally her. Tonight, she was in a cropped jean jacket covered in miliary-inspired patches with a very short sheer black shirtdress under it, and combat boots. The woman transformed every day, sometimes looking like she’d stepped out of CBGBs in the ’80s, and others like she worked in a hippie food co-op. I walked over, half-expecting her to turn around to face me like she could feel my presence, but she was so immersed in whatever she was doing in her sketchbook that I managed to walk right up to her without her sensing that I was there.

I peered over her shoulder and discovered her sketching swimwear, one of the few categories Branson didn’t carry. There were three versions of the same print on the page, from a tiny bikini, to a more modest tankini, to a full coverage swim dress. All were rendered on size-appropriate bodies, which I appreciated. One of my biggest pet peeves was how some design houses showed their plus-sized garments on non-plus-sized bodies. It not only did a disservice to an important part of the client base by making them feel invisible, it also didn’t realistically depict how the garment would look on a woman in the size category.

The music in Natalie’s headphones must’ve shifted, because she started swinging her ass like a stripper. I took a half-step backwards, but it was too late, she’d gone into a full tilt grind and my crotch was the accidental beneficiary. The moment we touched, we jumped apart for totally different reasons.

Natalie screamed and whipped around to face me.

“WHAT THE HELL?” she yelled as she ripped her headphones off. “Stalker!”

“Sorry.” I held my hands up to placate her. “I apologize, that was my fault.”