My eyes betray me and drift to his corded arms—I’m a sucker for a guy in gray suit pants with the sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled up his forearms—and I can see Madison’s right.
He probably could bench a Volkswagen.
Damn him.
There’s a wave of palpable energy when he strolls in flanked by Rod Xavier, VP of Marketing, and a host of other suits who are either lackeys or wannabes.
I turn my back, bury myself in a beanbag chair, and slip on my headphones. Social media waits for no billionaire, and we have bok choy to sell.
That’s when I notice the message from Goth Parker. “Is it too much to offer to have his babies?”
“Sexual harassment will get you fired,” I shoot back.
“Jeez, who put insecticide in your mangoes this morning?”
My fingers hover over the keyboard, the truth threatening to spill out. Sweat is gathering in the bottom of my bra.
No one here knows I’m from Wishberry Lake, Minnesota, home of canned baloney, pineapple tater tot casserole, and the Fighting Dandelions high school football team. It’s Minnesota. Don’t judge.
Also from Wishberry Lake?
Chase Jett.
Number One Dick on my Dick List. He’s the reason I tell people I’m from Pittsburgh. I hope when they put him up at Madame Tussaud’s, they use ear wax. I hope when he goes on Naked and Afraid, they release him in the wilds of Minnesota and someone replaces his insect repellent with pig’s blood. Have you seen Minnesota mosquitoes? They’re horses with wings. It’s like being bitten by a hornless unicorn.
But back to the marketing lounge.
Rod is introducing Chase, and I don’t have to look to know that he’s preening for his adoring fans. I can smell the estrogen his presence has prompted. Half of my coworkers just spontaneously ovulated.
So the guy could buy a small country. Who cares? He’s also been known to pee in cornflakes.
Literally.
I didn’t witness it, but my brothers told me later they didn’t think I’d really eat the cereal.
Now the Dick is talking. I’d turn my headphones up, but Parker spilled her avocado mango acai berry chia energy smoothie on them last week and shorted something in the cord, which means One Direction sounds like they’re being filtered through mashed bananas.
Yes, I like boy bands, and I’m not afraid to admit it. And I do a hell of a lot more than sing along, thank you very much.
“Morning, ladies and gentlemen.” The Dick’s voice is hot chocolate with a triple shot of espresso, and I hate myself for noticing. Why couldn’t the smoothie filter that out? “Just wanted to stop in and say hi. Love what you’ve done here, and I’m excited to be a part of the Crunchy family.”
I snort.
Family.
My brothers thought Chase was family once.
A chill washes over me, making my nipples tighten against my damp bra. Stupid boob sweat. Stupid racing heart. Stupid backstabbing billionaire.
Why did he get to be the one who grew up to become a billionaire?
“O.M.G. He’s watching you.” The message from Goth Parker adds a sour taste in my mouth to my already overactive physical impairments. My boob sweat is starting to stink.
When I don’t reply, another message pops up. “You don’t look good. Do you need an energy bar? Tell me you didn’t go bar-hopping and have a one-night stand with Hottie McBillions last night. Oh, wait. Tell me you did. Then tell me everything else.”
“Ah, Sia, always working hard.” Rod raises his voice. “Sia? Sia! Tell Mr. Jett about the Choy Joy campaign.”
Mr. Jett. Rod has twenty years on Chase, but since Chase has the fat bank account, it’s Mr. Jett.
What would they call him if they knew what he did at the lake with my floaty toy that one summer? Hmm?
I pull off my headphones and mentally prepare myself for a public execution. I lever myself out of the beanbag chair—without stumbling, take that, Mr. Arms—and I turn, making myself stare straight into the pits of hell.
Or, you know, his eyes. Which are more of a Caribbean sea blue than cinder and ash. Deep-set under a prominent brow. Crackling and radiating with suppressed power. Erm, evil. Suppressed malevolence. Fire and brimstone. What’s that, Lassie? Ambrosia’s better sense fell down the well?
His eyes widen in horror before settling into a smarmy, wicked smirk that he probably practices in the mirror every night before swimming through his piles of money à la Scrooge McDuck.
Life is horrifically unfair sometimes.
But two can play the smirking game. I just happen to be saving mine for after I quit.
Or until after I convince him he’s made a terrible investment and should immediately head to the nearest underground gambling hall to shed himself of this horrific burden. Or, you know, burden me with it instead.
Ambrosia Berger, CEO and owner of Crunchy. Nice ring to it. Could’ve happened, too, if he hadn’t stolen my future from me. The bastard.
“The Choy Joy campaign is launching in three weeks across all our social media platforms,” I tell the Dick. And I keep my voice pleasant and modulated as if I don’t know he was the one responsible for what happened to my teddy bear in second grade. And lest you think all my grievances against him are from before puberty, believe me…They. Are. Not. “We’re doing for bok choy what Beyoncé did for kale.”
“Interesting.” He strokes his chin, his index finger brushing over that dimple. I wonder if the lingering bits of his conscience are dried and shriveled enough that the motion dusts them out of their little hidey hole. “Your pairing suggestions?”
I rattle off a half-dozen quick meal ideas ranging from seafood to sweet potatoes.
“And sausages,” he says.
Oh, no, he didn’t.
“Sausages!” Madison squeals. “Oh, Mr. Jett, that’s brilliant. Of course we’ll add a recipe for Choy Joy Sausages.”
Madison just said Joy Sausages in front of our new billionaire boss. Someday, I’ll laugh at that. Today, however, is not that day.
“And bratwurst,” Chase adds.
No.
He.
Did.
Not.
If I hadn’t already seen the inside of a jail cell courtesy of this man—and a bratwurst, and no, I don’t want to talk about it—I’d have my hands wrapped around his neck right now.
His smirk grows like he knows it. Damn him, that’s the same smirk he wore last year on People’s Sexiest Man of the Year cover. Which I only know because I work for a grocery store and we might be Crunchy, but People still sells, and I might’ve had that weird moment of realizing the man who took my virginity and crushed my soul was somehow the hottest rich man on the planet.
How often does that happen?
And because he’s a dick, I couldn’t even enjoy the moment.
“Definitely bratwurst.” He nods to the group. “Appeal to sports fans.”
Sports fans? Is he fucking kidding?
“We sell the best organic turkey bratwurst,” Madison says.
Chase smiles at her. “Good to know, Ms…?”
“Madison.” Her voice is breathy and her teeth are glowing like she’s been overusing vegan tooth whitener again. “Madison O’Connor. The Joy Choy campaign was my idea.”
“Was it now?” Chase’s gaze slides to me. A good boss would give credit where credit is due. “I love it. Good work. Add the bratwurst.”