The Boss I Can’t Stand (The Lockhart Brothers #2)

1. Sierra

SIERRA

W hy had I worn polyester?

I stared longingly at the nice bolts of linen fabric on the shelf next to me and dreamed of wrapping myself up in lightweight, breathable, moisture-wicking?—

“Sierra, are you listening?”

“I’m here,” I said, pressing the phone closer to my ear as a bead of sweat leaked down my neck. Gross !

Manning the counter at In Stitches, the tiny boutique fabric store in Burbank, was usually my favorite in-between-projects job, but today it was actually trying to kill me. I would sell my favorite pair of fabric scissors for working AC.

“I’m envisioning layers,” my mother said. “And volume!”

“Volume,” I repeated, hardly paying attention. The unusually hot June day had baked the city in a horrible wet heat, and the store was sweltering .

Was it miserable? Yes. Was I sweating from places I didn’t know could sweat? Also yes. Was I counting down the minutes until my shift ended? Hell yes!

“What do you think of adding organza?”

That brought me back down to earth. “Organza? Wow …Umm?—”

“I think it’ll give me that oomph I want.”

I winced and reached for the can of RevX sitting on the counter. Empty. Dammit, it was my last one. Being a costume designer was all well and good most of the time, but most of the time didn’t involve making a wedding dress—for free!—for my mother who had so. Many. Ideas.

Ideas that changed every five minutes. Ideas that would result in hours of labor-intensive alterations. Ideas that were horrible .

“What do you think about strapless?”

“Strapless? Mom, a strapless gown is going to end up on the dance floor once you get two drinks in and start aggressively doing the sprinkler.”

Mom only laughed. “Oh, it’ll be fine.” Despite having me at nineteen and my dad bailing on her, Maggie Banks was a dyed-in-the-wool romantic.

Every failed romance had her doubling down on the next one, certain that this would be the frog that turned into a prince. Was her fiancé Larry the one to prove her right? No idea.

As she waxed on about what she wanted for the train, I daydreamed about going home to the land of air conditioning, just as God intended, and breaking out the ice cream from the freezer while Ro and I watched bad reality television .

And once I’d had a minute to cool down, I’d finally be able to concentrate on prepping for the interview I had tomorrow. It was about a movie I was desperate to costume design. It was higher profile than I was usually able to land, but I was the right fit for it.

I leaned against the cutting table, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was close enough to quitting time. No one would fault me for locking the door a couple minutes early.

I grabbed my keys from beneath the counter, then paled as I spotted the worst possible sight on the face of the planet: a guy in an expensive suit barreling toward the door like he was trying to escape a bad date.

Oh, no . I groaned. No, no, no ! I wanted my ice cream.

“Mom, gotta go. Customer.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Call me when the bridal magazines I sent turn up. I circled a bunch of gown inspo for us to discuss.”

Inspo. “I will. Love you. Bye.” There is a special place in hell for people who walk into a shop five minutes before closing.

I dabbed at the sweat along my hairline as the door flew open and Mr. Armani walked in. He made his way toward me, slightly out of breath, but still looking way too good to be standing in a fabric store. This was the kind of man who had people to stand around in fabric stores for him.

He swept his hand through his dark hair, and I swallowed hard as a flash of something hit me.

It was heat and tension and thrill all coiled into one.

My eyes traveled from his face—a classic square jaw, aquiline nose, hazel eyes—to his broad shoulders, filling out that suit deliciously, to his lean waist. I wouldn’t even need a tapeline to figure out his measurements: drool-inducing perfection .

For a moment, I almost forgot how sweaty and grumpy I was. Get it together, girl. He’s just a man, and he’s standing in between you and your ice cream!

But then he shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it on the counter like he owned the place before he said, “It’s roasting in here. You should get that fixed.”

The spell immediately broke with his condescending tone. Thank you, Captain Obvious. I summoned the last threads of my patience and through a strained voice said, “We’re closing in five minutes. How can I?—”

He held his hand up, cutting me off, following that up with a smug, plastic, megawatt grin. “I’m just browsing.”

“There isn’t really time to browse,” I said, pointing at the clock on the wall. “There’s only five?—”

“Minutes. Yeah, I got that. I can tell the time.”

Wow, rude ! I forced my best customer service smile. “Then please enjoy your time here at?—”

He’d turned away before I’d even finished my sentence, disappearing between a row of fabric bolts.

Whatever. It was fine. The customer was always right. At least until closing. I sucked in a calming breath and tried not to side-eye the clock as it counted down…four minutes…three…two…one.

Okay. This man was now standing between me and my ice cream. I started after him right as I heard his phone ring.

“No, we’re not rescheduling!” he growled at whatever poor soul had called him. “If they can’t do the interview tomorrow, they can consider themselves out of the running.”

Jerk alert .

Mr. Armani appeared from the end of the aisle, scowling, with his phone pressed to his ear. Who the hell was this guy and why did he seem familiar?

“Hey!” I called out to him, tapping my wrist like I wore a watch. “It’s closing time!” He turned toward another display. Did he just deliberately ignore me? I gaped after him. “Um, hello? We’re closing.”

Nothing. Not even a glance in my direction.

I set off after Sir Ignores-a-Lot and spotted him running his hand down a bolt of fabric. He was still on the phone.

“Tell them I’m not interested, Brenna. End of story.”

I winced at his tone. “Sir?” I called. “The store is now closed. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He walked away, leaving me standing there. I followed him as the heat of frustration surged through me.

I turned the corner. He was already halfway down the next aisle. “Hey, buddy!” I snapped. He stuffed the phone between his ear and his shoulder to examine the silk more closely. He made a face, looking displeased, then walked away. Again!

What was it going to take to get his attention? “Fire!” I yelled out. “You need to evacuate immediately.” He didn’t so much as look up.

If I was stuck here, and he wasn’t going to listen to anything I said anyway, I might as well have some fun with it.

“I think the fire came from an alien laser beam,” I announced.

“You know, from the alien spaceship out in the parking lot. Look! They landed on your car. Or did you order the flying saucer hood ornament?”

Nothing. Hmm, maybe something more off-the-wall would get his attention ?

“There’s an army of squirrels marching toward the store with peanut cannons.

They’re demanding I surrender you so they can slow-roast you over a low flame for their annual cookout.

” Really? “They say that in return, they’ll give me a lifetime supply of almonds.

Feels like I’m getting the better end of the deal—do you know how expensive almonds are these days? ”

Finally the guy hung up the phone. He whirled toward me, jaw twitching, staring me down as if I was the biggest inconvenience in the room.

“I can hear you just fine, though I don’t know why you’re hovering over me if part of the store actually is on fire.

The aliens aren’t a hood ornament, they’re a cleaning crew who’ve promised to give my car a shine that is out of this world. ” He was on a roll.

“Of course I don’t know how expensive almonds are—I have people who take care of that for me—but I still think the squirrels are lowballing you.

Never take a first offer. And, yes,” he growled, “before you ask yet again , I’m obviously looking for something, hence the fact I’m in this store in the first place. ”

My face flushed. I could feel the traitorous heat even as frustration beat at my temple. I never imagined he was paying that much attention to what I was saying.

“And yes, I understand you’re closing. You’ve said so, multiple times.”

“Correction,” I said, holding my hand up to cut him off the way he had earlier. “We’re now closed. Something you should know if you can, in fact, tell time.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is this what you consider customer service? Did you ever think perhaps I’d be out of here quicker if you weren’t wasting my time with your nagging?”

“Did you not hear what I said?” Enough was enough. The customer was no longer right. “The store is closed, which means you’re no longer my customer, so you’re not entitled to anything but my aggravation.”

“I arrived before you were closed,” he said pointedly.

“Yes, well, now we’re ten minutes past closing time. So you can either tell me what you’re looking for or you can show yourself to the door.”

Preferably option two.

He looked me up and down with those hazel eyes, and my stomach twisted up in knots. Tall, dark, and irritating wasn’t usually my type, but I couldn’t stop that little intake of breath.

“Fine,” he said, the words practically dripping with disdain. “You want to help me, then pay attention.”

I bristled. The absolute nerve of this man.

“I need fabric for a man’s suit. Something nineteen-twenties appropriate. Modest. For a man who’s working class and hustling. It should be practical and decent, not too flashy.” His eyes flicked over my face. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes?”

I shook my head at him. “This isn’t rocket science, Mr. Bigshot. Despite how confused you looked with the silk back there.”

He grumbled, eyes narrowing. “I also need fabric for a woman’s day dress.

Something a socialite might wear to afternoon tea or a garden party.

And last, I need fabric for an evening gown.

All period-suitable for the nineteen-twenties, autumn weight.

The women’s clothes should be Boston Brahmin levels of quality and conservatism.

All the fabrics in tones that would photograph well. ”

He smirked at me, all cocky and challenging. “Think you can handle that? ”

What an asshole!

“Why don’t you try to keep up?” I turned and led him through the store. My thoughts spun, comparing the fabric swatches I knew we had in stock. I pulled a bolt of gray wool from a shelf and shoved it into his hands. “This one for the man’s suit.”

“Why this?” he asked, looking it over critically.

“Because you’ll want a wool blend,” I said, “probably with a hint of tweed if you’re going for lower class.”

“It looks a little safe,” he said.

“This is classic nineteen twenties,” I argued.

I knew he was trying to rattle me, but the joke was on him because I was always sure about my fabrics.

“You said working class man, so no herringbone that will draw attention. Just a simple, solid weave. And you want a rougher texture, not the refined finish of high-end wool.”

I set off into a different section of the store, and tossed another bolt of fabric in his arms. Silk chiffon in pale lavender for the day dress, then black velvet for the evening gown.

Mr. Bigshot found more things to complain about, but I held firm on my sample selections.

“This is exactly what high society was wearing back in the day. Especially the old money Boston elite. Subtle. Luxurious.”

He curled his lip. “I’m not sure you understand what subtle means.”

“Maybe you’re just struggling to recognize taste,” I said, arms crossed. “Now, are you satisfied with those samples?”

His nostrils flared like he intended to be difficult, but then a small huff of frustration escaped him. “If that’s the best you can do.”

I bit my tongue. I’d done a damn good job, and we both knew it.

“I’ll ring you up at the counter.” I stalked toward it.

He followed me with the bolts. I cut his samples while he scowled at me.

When I was done, I plugged in his order at the register, adding a surcharge for my “expert consultation” because I damn well deserved it.

In fact…I went ahead and also added a fifty-dollar AT charge. That was the code the owner and I used for “asshole tax.”

He paid, and I handed him the bag with his samples and his receipt.

He took his things then snatched his jacket from the counter while I cleared away the fabric cuttings. His eyes locked on my stack of business cards. “Should I take one of these in case I need another ‘expert consultation’?” He pocketed one without waiting for my answer. “Or another AT charge?”

I swallowed my groan. He wasn’t actually meant to read the receipt. “Be my guest,” I said, trying to remain cool and collected instead of sweaty and embarrassed at being caught.

“What is that AT charge exactly?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket.

I glared at him wondering if I should have doubled the tax.

“Well?”

I was going to need the whole quart of ice cream, at least. “It’s the Asshole Tax. Something I’m sure you’re familiar with, Mr. Armani.”

He fixed his collar attempting to burn me with his glare. “Can’t wait for another one of your ‘expert’ consultations tomorrow morning.”

Was he coming back? Lord have mercy on whoever worked the day shift. “Well, unfortunately, I won’t be here.”

“I know,” he said, that smug, megawatt grin returning. “Tomorrow you’ll be coming to me.” He dropped his own business card on the counter and headed for the door .

I read it and my blood ran cold. Finn Lockhart . CEO . Hart of Gold Productions .

The same production company I was interviewing for tomorrow. My heart dropped into my stomach.

Well, shit.