3. Natalie
NATALIE
Islammed the door to my apartment way louder than I meant to, but it felt really fucking good to take out my anger on something. I felt tight as a bowstring after the interaction with Mr. Bossman, ready to send a flaming arrow in the general direction of Branson Designs.
“Yikes,” my roommate Stephanie’s voice echoed down the hallway. “I’m in the family room. With that tequila you like from Elixir.”
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!
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.”