Bossy: A Billionaire Boss Office Romance

Prologue

Candace

3 months ago…

I’ve watched enough TV to recognize the sinister click behind my head after closing my car door.

My body stiffens immediately—except for my hands flying up and my eyes darting to the rearview mirror where I see a man with fair skin sitting behind me holding a silver gun pointed at my head.

He’s wearing an oversized gray hoodie pulled over his head, and between that and the lush darkness of night outside, reducing visibility inside the car, I can’t really make out his features properly.

Though my eyes are trained on him, I can still see my lifted hands trembling.

Mrs. Henfield… the stranger begins almost cheerfully.

"Ms. Brown," I automatically correct him, sounding far braver than I feel.

I hadn’t taken my ex-husband’s last name, and at some point during the marriage, I realized it was useless correcting people all the time. Socially, I accepted the assumption, though my official documents remained unchanged.

These days, however, I have no patience with the incorrect address, and I correct people left and right.

Oh, good—we got a modern, independent woman on our hands. Lucky us. The man’s lips part in an oily grin revealing a bum tooth. Your husband owes us a hundred grand and we need to collect, he continues.

I almost turn to look at him like he’s crazy.

He’s not my husband, I say evenly, swallowing my rising outrage. Well, he soon won’t be anyway—the divorce will be finalized any day now. So I’m not sure how what he owes is my business?

Let me help you, the stranger replies in a falsely friendly tone. You see, you two are still technically married, so you share assets and debts. I have to hold back a bitter huff at the word ‘assets.’ And now that your husband’s…hands are tied, his responsibility to us falls on you. Got it?

I remain silent, unsure what to say next.

He taps my headrest with the pistol.

Let me make this clearer—if my boss doesn’t get his money, the two of you’ll start paying in other ways, understand? And then, who knows? Maybe we see if you have other family members who can help you pay. We noticed you have a beautiful, young sister…

"Okay, I’ve got it! I’ll…I’ll figure it out. But how am I supposed to do it now? I’m sure you guys know we lost everything; I have zero funds right now. I just had to use the library to use the internet!"

We know this, and that’s why my boss decided to be merciful and help you out with a payment plan.

But all the money I make goes to the basics. I have nothing left over!

Another tap with the weapon—this time, on my neck.

That’s not our problem, he says flatly. It’s up to you to do whatever you need to in order to come up with that hundred and fifty grand.

Wait, I thought you said a hundred?

That was just the principal—before interest and fees, you see. After the past few months of nonpayment, the amount is now one fifty. And the interest doesn’t stop—the longer you take to get squared, the more you’ll have to pay back. You know how these things work; you’re an educated girl.

I let out a breath, my mind beginning to work on the figures.

If I get another job and sell the last of my valuables, then move to an even shittier apartment to lower the cost of rent, it’ll probably still take at least a year…

You have one month to pay us, he says with finality, as if he’s about to leave.

I blink at him through the rearview mirror. I thought you said your boss came up with a payment plan?

He did. Instead of requiring the full amount within the week, you now have a generous timeframe to work with. See how merciful and kind?

I am speechless; what they’re asking for is absolutely impossible. 

Your folks are loaded, aren’t they? the stranger continues, creeping me out more with how much he seems to know about me. Maybe they can help you out. Especially since both their girls are at risk. Oh, and this goes without saying, but keep your mouth shut about all this. Breathe a word to the authorities or even your parents and you’ll be sorry. Guess you’ll have to be creative with the reason you give whoever for needing the money. In the meantime, I’ll talk to the boss and see if he can offer any other kind of leniency. But I advise you to assume he won’t; be ready to cough up the cash in four weeks.

I hear a back door open.

We’ll be in touch, he says before slipping from my car into the darkness, firmly closing the door behind him.

It’s a different guy this time waiting for me in the dark, just a few days after the first scare.

I’ve been trying not to get caught outside at night, but some of the jobs I take require night hours.

Excuse the irony, but you’re a pretty lucky girl, the guy says from behind me.

I can’t help but huff a laugh at that while keeping my hands up and visible.

How so? I ask the shadowed face.

The boss said he’d give you more time. Fourteen weeks. He even paused the interest! But you need to make weekly payments of ten thousand, starting this Sunday. Payments are due every Sunday after that. If you’re ever late for any reason, we’ll send you a reminder of the stakes. If you’re unable to pay off the final total amount due at the end of the fourteen weeks, interest kicks in again—higher.

He gives me a burner phone.

Expect a text with drop-off instructions Sunday morning, he says before taking off, leaving me wondering what sort of miracle I’m supposed to make happen.

Part I

Desperate Times

1

Candace

Present Day

I’m hoping like hell no one I knew in school—either high school or college—shows up in this office building as an employee or visitor.

Even if they turn out to be a fellow candidate for this position, it would be too much—I wasn’t supposed to end up like this, on the verge of begging for an admin job.

As the daughter of two highly paid, responsible professionals, and the eldest child who got everything—from private schooling throughout my childhood and teens to an Ivy League degree—I had all the tools available to make far more of myself; there’s no excuse for not sliding into an upper-middle-class life easily on my own.

Don’t get me wrong—I did; I was just unable to maintain it because of a series of horrible decisions. Getting involved with the wrong guy can really screw you over.

I know that keeping my eyes down while I sit here, waiting to be called in for my eleven o’clock interview, doesn’t make me invisible, but it makes me feel that way, at least, and I’ll take what I can get.

I keep trying to distract myself from my fear of being noticed in this shameful position because the more I think about it, the more likely my fear will manifest; I believe my aunt now about all that law of attraction stuff: where you focus your energy is where you fertilize the ground—good or bad.

I work on being positive, concentrating good vibes on getting this job which will help me slowly work my way out of my current mess. Relying on temping and a bunch of random gigs won’t keep me going; a steady job is necessary, one I plan to supplement with evening jobs.

This job, if I get it, runs 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., giving me lots of time to work in the evenings, and it pays more than usual for this type of work.

Though I don’t actually have all the skills listed for the position, I figured it was best to just show up; lots of things can be learned quickly on the job. Say yes, learn later has been working out well for me so far.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, stretching it out as long as possible to help stay calm.

I have about ten minutes before my official interview time, so I continue to concentrate on the act of relaxing.

When my brain moves me to a warm, sunny day on a beach as if I’m fifteen again and on vacation with my parents in the Virgin Islands, I know I’ve succeeded.

I slowly open my eyes in relief, my lips tugged into a small, satisfied smile.

I’m calm and confident now, suddenly sure I’ll be hired and that I have nothing to worry about. 

I consider how to kill the rest of the time left to stave off another anxiety takeover; I need to maintain my peaceful state until the interview.

I decide to use my e-reader app, and I’m digging through my bag for my cell phone when an overwhelming masculine aroma hits me, making my nose practically twitch with the stimulation of the heavy—and heavenly—scent.

I search for the source and barely realize that my phone has slipped from my hands as my eyes lock with a pair of familiar blue ones that render everything else invisible, silent, insignificant.

Jaxson? I think I say out loud, the word clear in my mind, but I’m not sure it made it past my lips beyond a pitiful whisper.

I must still be in the daydream I conjured up earlier, but that beautiful vacation scene has morphed into a daymare.

Jaxson Pace is the last person I’d want to see right now—my cruel mind is playing tricks on me, showing me my worst fear after making me think I’d gotten past it.

The insanely sexy, masculine mirage doesn’t respond to my stunned squeak—not surprisingly.

The spell is broken when Jaxson’s gaze leaves my face and his eyes briefly flicker to my fallen phone, alerting me to what had happened and giving me the sense I’m not actually daydreaming.

I quickly scoop up the phone, despairing at the cracked screen.

By the time I look back up, Jaxson has breezed past me, and I see only the back of his crisp, expensive-looking dark suit.

Christ, this can’t be real.

I pinch myself hard and suppress an ow, accepting I’ve managed to walk right into the most humbling, embarrassing scenario possible.

In the brief moment I saw him—though the few seconds seemed to stretch out much longer—Jaxson looked the same yet very different.

I’ve never seen him in a suit, and the way he fills it out has stirred up things in me I haven’t felt in... it’s embarrassing how long, actually, and I’m squirming in my seat for different reasons than before.

His shoulders are broader, his chest wider, his face, even more handsome than when I last saw it almost ten years ago.

The boyish, good-natured beauty I remember is gone; the chiseled face of this older man in his place has a harshness to it, yet instead of taking away from his devastating looks, it only adds to it.

I can’t believe this! The man I thought I’d marry when I was sixteen years old—my old best friend and first lover—has gone from a sweet, clear-eyed dream to a smoldering, mysterious vision.

I feel like I’m about to hyperventilate, so I focus on my breathing again before I embarrass myself more—I already klutzed it up with my mobile phone, and I’ll worry