1. James
1
JAMES
I considered myself a patient man. Truly.
But even patient men had limits—especially when that patience was tested by an after-hours banshee.
“Excuse me? Hello ?”
Arms folded over my chest, I looked at the screeching creature who had taken over my store. She twirled around the floor, the mop in her hands doubling as a microphone stand, and completely ignored me. But then again, how could she hear me given how damn loud she had the music? I wasn’t exactly up to date on pop trends, but there was no doubt that this American Idol reject was doing her best Beyonce impersonation. Which was, in fact, really bad.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to suppress the growing headache that had settled between my eyes.
“Hey, listen up! I need you to turn?—”
She threw her head back dramatically. “WHO RUNS THE WORLD?”
Well , me . I do, but she clearly didn’t know that yet.
As annoyed as I was with the stranger, I couldn’t stop staring at her, waiting to get a full view of her face. Her shoulder-length brown hair actually gleamed as she whipped it around, like she was a model in a shampoo ad. And her body? Let’s just say that my mind wandered as she shimmied up and down the mop pole. She couldn’t sing, but the girl had some impressive moves. Stripper-adjacent, body rolling, ass-displaying raunch that I actually found myself enjoying, despite the accompanying vocals—and the mountain of work that should have my focus instead of…whatever this was.
I finally glanced at my watch.
It was after ten, which meant she was one of the cleaning ladies, a tardy store assistant, or the worst robber in history. Whatever way, I didn’t really care. The only thing that mattered to me was getting back to my fucking spreadsheets, and this stranger was making it impossible.
When I was able to tear my eyes off of her, everything else in the retail showroom was a reminder of how much was at stake and why I was still working late into the evening. This business, this legacy , was mine to sink or swim. The company was heading in the wrong direction—with dwindling sales, negative reviews of our newest lines, and diminished cachet for our public brand—and if I didn’t find a way to turn things around, we could end up in serious trouble. Every employee’s fate was in my hands, including the shockingly bad singer shaking her ass when she should’ve been working.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, crossing the length of the store with wide strides. I closed up on the woman—a store assistant, judging by the charcoal button-up shirt—and tapped her on the shoulder. Or tried to, anyway.
I caught up to her mid-chorus, and the lunatic was halfway through a twirl when I reached out. The handle of her mop caught my arm, whacking it down. Not how I had planned to draw her attention, but it did the trick. She jumped backwards and screamed in shock.
“I want that music off,” I said simply, trying to hide my shock at how fucking intense her eyes were. Deep blue and ringed in dark lashes, she had a fairy-tale princess vibe despite the look of horror on her face.
“Back away,” she snapped, blue eyes widening with fear. She pointed the wet end of her make-believe microphone at my chest. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’ll let you know that I can handle myself.”
“Oh?” I pushed the mop away from my chest, but she flicked it right back, the water puddling between us on the floor. “Better than you can sing, I hope.”
“I… Well, you…” She finally lowered the mop and fished her phone out from her jeans. One tap of her finger and the sweetest of silences—at last—filled the store. She pursed her lips and looked back at me. “I thought I was alone.”
“Clearly.”
“But that’s not the real issue here!” she shot back, trying to take command of the conversation again. “Who are you and what are you doing here? The store is closed, and everyone’s gone home.” She shifted her grip on the mop handle, and I had to stifle a laugh. Even though I had no intention of attacking her, did she seriously think that she could take me on?
“Maybe I should be the one asking you that,” I threw back.
“Not that I owe you an explanation, but I have loads to do here, all right?” she snapped, now using the mophead to point an imaginary arrow across the store. “The samples for the new line got here after-hours and we had to get everything prepped before morning, and Lucy needed to get home, so I said, ‘no problem’ because I need the hours, and then—” She cleared her throat as if to stop her mouth from outpacing her brain. “Well, never mind that. I’m here because I have to be here. What are you doing here?”
“I was going through the books,” I explained, hoping that would be the end of it. “And, if you don’t mind, now that I’ve gotten you to stop howling, I’m done here.”
I turned, ready to get back to those damned spreadsheets, hoping my headache would magically disappear on the walk back to my office. Looking over diminishing profits was never fun, but it was certainly better than?—
SPLAT .
A mophead—a drenched mophead—landed on my shoulder. Tendrils of freezing, dirty water spread across my back and chest. I’d paid six hundred dollars for my shirt, and this banshee was treating it like a rag. I’d been patient, I’d been polite, and this was what I got for it? My headache spiked, and I could barely keep from growling in frustration.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I muttered, doing everything to keep my fury in check.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the woman ordered from behind me. “Don’t you move!”
I looked back and there she was, fingers tight around the handle of her mop. She stood her ground, mophead still on my shoulder, and threw me a defiant stare. She looked like a challenge—and by that, I mean the kind of challenge you can’t help but want to tackle. A fun , wicked challenge. You know, the worst kind. The kind I absolutely did not need right now.
“You’re making a mistake,” I said slowly. “A big one.”
“No, you are,” she countered. “I don’t trust you. You look like trouble.” She narrowed those arresting eyes at me. In any other scenario I’d be a goner for them, but in this moment, I was starting to get seriously annoyed.
I was trouble? I was the one holding this business together—practically with my bare hands as I tried to find a way to put us back on top where we used to be. I was the one logging eighteen-hour days, pouring everything I had into keeping Branson Designs from slipping totally off the map. Which meant that I was, incidentally, the one responsible for this shrew having a job in the first place. And this was the attitude I got in return? I didn’t care how gorgeous she was—I wasn’t going to let this stand.
Plus, where the hell did she get off glaring at me like I was some kind of thug who’d tried to snatch her purse? Did she really have no idea who she was dealing with?
“When you profile potential attackers, do you always include men in custom-made suits?” I snapped back at her, gesturing down my body, and watched her eyes follow. “Because you’re probably terrified when you’re out on Fifth Avenue. And the Financial District must have you cowering .”
“That’s not what I meant,” she sputtered angrily. “Doesn’t matter how expensive your outfit is or how good looking you are. Ted Bundy was handsome and look what he did.”
In spite of my aggravation, I admittedly felt a little pleased at her inadvertent compliment. “So you’re saying I’m handsome, huh? Thanks, I think.” I pretended to adjust invisible cuff links.
She let out a frustrated yelp. “ No , that’s not the point!” She took one hand off the mop and tapped the badge hanging around her neck. “I don’t see a badge, which means you’re not an employee. And Bryan’s the accountant, not you. You’re just the guy who was creeping around here spying on me like some kind of weird stalker.”
Stalker ? “Are you for real?” She clearly didn’t know that I, of all people, didn’t need to wear a badge. Was this woman clinically insane? “I’m done with you. Now get the hell out of my way.”
“I don’t take orders from you. No.”
“No?”
“No.” She tapped her badge again. “No one’s allowed here off hours without a badge, and that badge has to be on your person at all times. Company?—”
“—policy,” I finished for her. “Trust me, I know all about company policy.”
“You might know it, but you clearly don’t follow it,” she grumbled. “Which means you don’t belong here.”
I’d had enough of the vexing stranger. My patience was way past exhausted—and so was I, for that matter. It was time to shut this down once and for all.
“If there’s anyone who doesn’t belong here, it’s you,” I said, shoving the mop off my shoulder and making her jump away in shock. “I was trying to work, and your screeching was making it impossible. I’ve had about enough of your bullshit. Music off and get back to doing your actual job, got it? Or is that too much to ask of you? Are you really not capable of doing anything more than wasting my time? You may have gotten stuck on this shift because you lack the brains or talent for anything more rigorous than mopping a floor—when you’re not using the mop to pole dance on, that is—but I have serious work to do.”
Her eyes went round before they narrowed in fury. I turned away to leave and started for the door, only to have the mop handle smack me across my midsection.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“You’re really doing this?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even. “Because I think you’re going to regret?—"
“Oh, I’m not going to be the one with regrets.” She gave me a Cheshire Cat grin, two barely noticeable dimples dancing on the corners of her lips. Cute—if cute can be used to describe the most annoying person I’ve ever had. “I just called security.” She lifted the hem of her shirt triumphantly to reveal a company walkie-talkie; the red switch on the corner, the one connecting directly to the security desk, had been toggled.
“Fantastic,” I shot back at her. “Maybe Dave can educate you since you don’t seem to want to listen to me.”
The fury on her face slipped away for a moment when I mentioned our head of security by name. For just a beat, she looked uncertain…but she quickly found her scowl again. Not that frowning made her any less alluring.
“So you profiled the company’s About Us page and you can name drop. Congrats.” She sneered at me.
“Yes, and maybe you should do the same,” I demanded, taking a few steps closer to her, in the hopes that the sole overhead light might illuminate my face enough to make me more recognizable. At some point the woman would have to get a clue and realize who she was messing with. Did she not read any gossip sites? “Might help in a situation like this, because I’m not an accountant. I’m the goddamn?—”
Her expression was blank, as if she’d tuned me out completely. I watched as she shifted her arm backwards like she was about to throw a javelin—and then she launched the mop straight for my face. I was too shocked to move until the last second, leaning to the side so that it missed my nose by an inch.
I straightened up and glared at her. The nerve of this woman! I was about to roar that I ran the damn company she worked for—I was Branson number one, grandson of the founder and current CEO—but I was actually too furious to say anything.
“We’ll let security sort out who you are, got it?” she said, glancing down at the mop like she was ready to grab it and re-arm herself.
I crossed my arms and watched her, expecting her to be jittery without her weapon, but she stared right back with fury in her eyes. I’d never encountered anyone like this annoying, ridiculous, and yes, absolutely gorgeous woman.
At least I was going to have the last laugh once she figured out who she was messing with.