(Not) The Boss of Me
Copyright 2020 by Kenzie Reed
This book is intended for readers 18 and older only, due to adult content. It is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are products of the imagination of the author.
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Considerate. Loves dogs. Walks old ladies across the street. Loves me no matter what I look like.
We all have a list of our dream man’s ideal qualities – even if it’s just in our head.
And okay, mine might be written in swirly script, laminated, and used as a bookmark for my favorite Jane Austen novel.
You know what’s NOT on my list? Arrogant. Impatient. Distractingly sexy. In other words, mega-successful department store magnate Blake Hudson is everything I’m not looking for.
Unfortunately, I may have ruined his life a little bit when I got creative on my first day as a personal shopper. And unless I want to see my new career go up in flames, I’m stuck with the world’s smuggest billionaire until I fix everything I’ve broken.
Find the hottest toy of the season for an overindulged niece? On it. Pose as his date at his company’s annual gala, to fool his obsessed ex – and let him fake-flirt with me all night long? Uh-oh, this could be trouble.
Let Blake see me safely home – and then let him make me see stars? Wait, that wasn’t on my list…
Doesn’t matter. Moving on. I will not let Blake Handsome – I mean Blake Hudson – defeat me with his Ridiculous To-Do List of Impossibility, or his pillow-soft lips, or his rock-hard abs, or the swell of his biceps, or…oops. I seem to have forgotten where I was going with this, but if I can’t remember, I’m shopping for nothing but heartbreak.
Not The Boss of Me
Chapter One
Winona
There’s a little-known law in New York City that says you can’t hold a person responsible for their actions if they’ve had less than four hours of sleep.
Okay, that’s a lie, but there should be such a law. It would justify me standing on the sidewalk in rainbow unicorn pajamas, bunny slippers, and curlers. At the butt crack of dawn. In Hell’s Kitchen.
Of course, I don’t remember what I look like until after I’ve rushed out the front door of my apartment building and it’s slammed shut behind me, locking me out.
I tip my head back and stare up at the six-story red-brick edifice. It stares blankly back at me with shuttered windows and no hope of re-entry. Mother of pearl! This is the kind of day where I should just crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and stay there. Unfortunately, even if I could get into my building, I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. A group of construction workers have attacked the empty lot next to my building with their jackhammers. It’s 6 a.m. Legally they can’t start until 7 a.m., and I’ve come out here to have a polite word. Or tear a strip off their hides. Whatever gets it done.
As I pull on the lobby handle, I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass door, and grimace.
My red hair is neatly rolled into big pink curlers – a habit I brought with me from Peach Pit, Georgia, where the mantra is “the higher the hair, the closer to God”. My face is a pale oval of exhaustion, with faint blue circles under my eyes. I worked at one of my part-time gigs last night, bartending at a bachelorette party that stretched hours past when my shift was supposed to end.
And I’ve just realized my rainbow unicorn pajama top (don’t ask – present from parents who refuse to admit that at twenty-five I’m way past my Lisa Frank phase) is buttoned unevenly. By two entire buttons.
If I want the construction crew to take me seriously, I need to change into something a little less “insane asylum escapee” before I go storming over there.
“Not today, Universe. Pretty please with sugar on top?” I give one last futile tug on the handle.
This can’t be happening. I have a job interview at noon, and it is the dream job. I’m interviewing for a position as personal shopper at Hudson’s. Yes, that Hudson’s – the enormous shop that takes up most of a block on Fifth Avenue. The swankiest department store with the most gorgeous, outrageous, innovative displays in the entire U. S. of A.
It’s the whole reason I came to New York – to pursue a career in fashion.
Unfortunately, there’s not much out there for a girl who had to drop out of college in her sophomore year. For two years, I’ve applied for job after job, my reservoir of buoyant optimism fading a little more with each polite rejection email. The closest I’ve come to a job in the fashion industry has been writing about upcycling for an online neighborhood blog. I get paid in coffee.
But finally I have a shot at a real job. A shot at paying down my credit card bills and filling my cupboards with something that’s not Ramen. A shot at feeding my foster dog fancy kibble instead of the cheap stuff. And I foolishly told my parents about it, which means they’ll have told everyone in Peach Pit, and worse, they’ll make it sound like I’ve already been hired. Their faith in me is endless, touching, and very misplaced.
I can practically hear the gossips tittering under the helmet hairdryers at Betty’s Kut & Kurl – with my Aunt Loretta leading the chorus of snickers. “Weird Winona suckered someone into hiring her.”
But I don’t have the job yet. It’s a very competitive position, and I need to knock their socks off, not yawn in their faces.
Which means these jack-holes need to turn off their jackhammers so I can grab a little more sleep.
Oh, the heck with it. I’m already outside. I’ll just suck it up, march over there, and say my piece. On the bright side, today will be the first time I’ve ever walked by a bunch of construction workers without being catcalled.
I square my shoulders and hurry over to the scene of the noise-crime. A chill April wind blows concrete dust through the air, making me sneeze, and I shiver and hug myself.
The construction workers are hunched over their teeth-rattling noise blasters, but there’s a man in a suit standing at the edge of the lot. He’s got his back to me, and he’s talking to a man in a hardhat. He’s a very tall man in a very nice suit. I can tell even from behind; I’ve got an eye for it.
Somehow, he’s got the air of a man in charge, so I tap him on the shoulder. He doesn't even turn around to look at me. He just holds up one hand in a “wait” kind of motion, and keeps talking.
Seriously. This guy. I’m about to go all crazy Southern girl on his admittedly sexy bee-hind. Not that I was looking.
I tap him again, but this time it’s more of a finger-jab, like my mama used to do if I talked in church. He tries to ignore me; I keep jabbing. Finally he turns around to face me, eyes narrowing in annoyance.
And for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
Lungs. It involves sucking air into the lungs, right?