The Boss Vol. 1: a Billionaire Serial Read online

  “Because I talked him through the login of his iPad.”

  He tapped his two forefingers together. “And you weren’t on the list. And still you’re sitting in my office. Why shouldn’t I call said security and have you escorted out?”

  “Because you need me.” I leaned back in my chair, mirroring his stance. Well, except for the fingers thing. Only hot guys with long fingers could pull that look off without looking like Smithers from the Simpsons.

  “Is that right?”

  “Is it your standard practice to have your reception area manned by Mr. Hollister—who is probably one of your top executives,” I prompted.

  He touched his lips with the side of his fingers. “CEO.”

  “Exactly. Your CEO is not supposed to be fielding your assistants for an interview. In fact, your CEO’s assistant should probably be handling that.”

  He dropped his hands to grip the arms of his chair. His fingers were distracting. “And what qualifications do you have? Since you aren’t with an agency, do you have a résumé?” He inclined his head. “You seem to be a stickler for the rules, and yet you’re breaking every single one.”

  My heart slammed against my sternum. I tried to pull any details I could remember about Blake Carson out of my head. Brilliant. Runaway success with his glass innovation. Took Boston by storm. That was about it. I was more of a sea town girl. I liked my little corner of the world. I was close enough to Boston to get culture when I wanted it, but for the most part, I just wanted to be in my workshop.

  His face remained impassive, but those golden hazel eyes were finally firing. The indifference had fallen away, and I knew that I had one chance to impress him. He was new money. He was still proving himself.

  Probably would be until he was fifty in this city.

  “I’ll leave you alone to be brilliant and will run this place like the billion-dollar company I know it is. I’m organized, personable where you obviously are not, and can read a person within five minutes of meeting them.”

  “So, your interview technique is to insult me?”

  I swallowed, and though I was pretty sure it was audible, I lifted my chin. “Yes. Because obviously, you’re a bear. Or you’d have an assistant sitting out there right now. And you wouldn’t have papers scattered on what is usually a pristine desk. Am I close?”

  He stood, and I prayed the jackrabbit who had taken up residence in my chest couldn’t be heard. He walked around the desk and sat on the edge in front of me. He peered down at me, and I suddenly wished for the impassive eyes again.

  Being scrutinized was not my favorite thing. I’d never acted like a typical rich kid. Evidently that was a good thing since I wasn’t anymore.

  He glanced at my hands, and I curled them into my palms. Chipped nail polish and burn scars did not say office manager. I was more comfortable with my iron frames and blow torches than I was a computer, but I could use one—and use it well.

  I’d only killed a few keyboards over the years. Not the whole computer or anything.

  “And why do you want to fix me?”

  I opened my mouth. He really hadn’t asked me that, had he? “Excuse me?”

  “If I’m such a bear, as you’ve said, why would you want to come in here and fix my office?”

  Right. Office.

  Not him.

  I thought of all the old panes of glass I worked with, the renovations I’d specialized in, the salvaged glass that I used to make my stained glass windows. “Because it’s what I do. I fix the ugly and make it beautiful. In this case…the world around you so you can do what you love.”

  He stood, and I had to fight to keep still. He was way too close. Close enough that I could smell mint and citrus with a hint of spice. And when the silk blend of his pants whispered across the side of my hand, I closed my eyes.

  What the hell was I doing?

  He walked to the door and opened it.

  Obviously, he was showing me the door. Of course he was. I was insane to think I could waltz in here to talk to him, let alone con my way into a job. And for what? A chance to show him I was worthy of my grandmother’s house?

  If I sold my entire inventory of glass, I might be able to make six months of payments on a mortgage. If I was lucky. Maybe I should just come clean and ask him.

  I scrubbed my palms down my thighs and stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Carson.” I had to pass him to get out the door. My skin prickled and nerves jittered the closer I got to him.

  Everything about my trip into Boston had been a bad idea. This was just the topper. Having him near me was like playing with my patina mix on copper—too volatile and leaving me a moment away from ruin.

  I lifted my chin and had to turn to the side to get through the door.

  The customized doorway should have been more than enough room for both of us if not for his extremely wide shoulders. I’m very tiny. Okay, not very, but compared to him I felt like a child—with not-so-childlike reactions.

  Yep. Time to go.

  I couldn’t look at him. Not now. I wasn’t sure I could deal with those arctic eyes buried under what should only be warmth. Who created anything gold and green only to end up with frostbite?

  Okay, I really needed to get a grip.

  My eye-line was level with his tie. Now that I was this close, little details came clear. The perfect knot was slightly askew as if it had been loosened in frustration. When he’d come out of the other room, he’d been a different man. Tired and almost…defeated. Then there was that alarmingly interesting flash of ink under the staid layer of businessman.

  The guy was the definition of dichotomy.

  Okay, wow, I needed sleep. Since my grandmother had died, I’d been spending endless hours in my workshop, only falling onto the old twin mattress I kept in the corner when my mind was too numb to work.

  I needed to blink out and gather my resources again. It was even more apparent now since I was having very warm feelings toward a burgundy tie and the man who had swept in and stole my house.

  The heat coming off of him was obviously melting my brain.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.” His voice followed me out the door.

  I stopped and turned on my heel. “Pardon?”

  “Probationary. I’ll have a packet on your desk by morning with your salary and benefits. If that works for you, then we’ll see how it goes.”

  “You’re hiring me?” Was that a squeak in my voice? And did he say benefits?

  “Yes, Ms. Copeland. You’re the only applicant that was the least bit interesting. Let’s see if you continue to be after an hour.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I slammed my molars together. Shoot.

  But he didn’t say anything more. And the door shut in my face.

  Three

  It was a very good thing that I’d already been prepared to beg, because I suddenly wanted to smash the window of his door with my heel. Of course, I hadn’t been exactly the most professional of interview candidates.

  And yet, I still had the job.

  As assistant for one of the most infamous billionaires in Boston.

  Holy shit.

  Jack Hollister stood and came around the desk. His tie was off and dripping out of his pants pocket, and his cuffs were rolled back on a rather nice set of forearms. No ink for him. Was it wrong that it disappointed me? Hmm.

  I’d always appreciated ink, but rarely did it turn my sensors on high. To be honest, little had rated on my male-o-meter in the last few years. I wasn’t a nun, but I definitely hadn’t been interested in more than an occasional dinner date in too many months to count.

  Or was it a year?

  Oy.

  The fact that I didn’t know should have made me re-evaluate my dating life, but I was just too tired. Between my grandmother’s sudden death and my last gallery showing, men had been the very last thing on my mind.

  Ten minutes with Blake Carson had dissolved that like an acid etching.

  And now I had to be there at sev
en in the morning and try to pretend I was prime assistant material. Evidently, I need to brush up on my spreadsheet knowledge. Luckily, I was used to playing with invoices at Lady’s Cove Gallery. I’d whipped the Stanwick family gallery into shape. I could do the same with Blake Carson.

  I hoped.

  “I was just about to go in there and check on you. Most women come out crying within five minutes.”

  “He wasn’t that bad. And that’s very sexist, Mr. Hollister.”

  Jack snorted and leaned his hip against the desk. “Maybe a little, but he’s my best friend. I know exactly how he is.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why, but I managed to keep that one to myself. A six pack of faux pas a day was more than enough. Yet, there must have been something about my interview that he liked.

  That gave me a little more time to figure out a way to get onto his good side. “I got the job. So, it wasn’t all bad.”

  “Good, because I’m sick of playing secretary.”

  “You’re the CEO, right?”

  “That’s what the etching on the door says.”

  I couldn’t help but smile that time. “Don’t you have an assistant?”

  “I do. He just happens to be on vacation. He just got married, and his wife made me promise I’d leave him alone for ten days.” Jack folded his arms. “I’ve only picked up the phone eleven times to call him.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Two days.” He tipped back his head and blew out a long, slow breath. “Two very long days.”

  “And Mr. Carson’s last assistant?”

  He met my gaze again. “We’ve just lost the contract with the last temp agency in the city. You’re our only hope.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “So that’s why he hired me.”

  He stood up. “Well, no. I’m sure it was your qualifications.”

  I held up a hand. “Unlikely.”

  Jack’s eyebrow winged up. “It’s going to be an interesting few days in here.”

  I could do the eyebrow thing too. “I’ve dealt with the art world for half my life. Blake Carson doesn’t scare me.”

  “Good. Because he scares me. Just make sure he has lots of strong black coffee, and your life will be infinitely easier.”

  “This isn’t Mad Men. I’m not going to be bringing him coffee like a good little secretary.”

  Jack clapped. “Oh, yeah. This is going to be fun to watch.”

  “I’m his assistant. I’ll have this place running like a clock within three days.”

  “I admire a woman with a good sense of humor.”

  I swallowed and slapped a confident smile on my face. “You’ll see.”

  Jack walked back around the desk and snapped his laptop closed. “I’ll make sure your favorite coffee is stocked.” He picked up the phone on the desk. “What is it?”

  “I don’t drink it.”

  He peered through his messy shag of blond hair. “Pardon?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Yeah, I think you just said you don’t drink coffee, but I’m not quite sure.”

  “No coffee. I limit myself to one Pepsi Max a day if I need a boost. Otherwise, I drink water.”

  Jack picked up his iPad and tapped something on his screen, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. We’ll see about that.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m sure you are.” He gave me an indulgent smile. “I promise I won’t say ‘I told you so’ tomorrow, Gracie.”

  “Grace,” I corrected.

  He laughed. “We’ll start with two cases of Pepsi Max.”

  “Honestly, Mr. Hollister—”

  “Jack.”

  My teeth clicked together. “Jack.”

  He gave me a little salute and walked down a hallway, whistling the entire way. “Good night, Gracie.”

  “I won’t need it,” I called out.

  He just waved at me and kept walking. I glanced over my shoulder at Mr. Carson’s door and stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. I absently played with my slim card holder, the only purse I needed most days, and crossed to the elevator.

  I’d come here looking for a miracle, and I was walking away with a job. Not exactly how I’d imagined this day going. In fact, I didn’t remember the drive out to Boston—I’d been livid and shell-shocked, not to mention emotional.

  I was running on exasperation at this point and hoped that it would at least get me home. Somehow I’d make this work. I wasn’t entirely sure how, but I’d think of something. When the elevator doors opened to the lobby, I caught George’s gaze.

  He smiled. “No tears. That’s great!”

  I couldn’t help but smile back at him. “No tears.” I’d cried enough for a year. I wasn’t going to let Blake Carson squeeze another tear out of my overused tear ducts. My heels clicked across the slate. “In fact, I guess I’m going to need a badge for tomorrow morning.”

  His wispy eyebrows shot up. “Well, all right. That’s wonderful.” At the computer, his fingers were far more nimble. He had a temporary badge printed out for me and instructions for the next day. Once I was entered into the system, I’d get a photo taken, as well as be microchipped.

  Like a dog?

  I frowned.

  “It’s to be able to get in and out of the building. Mr. Carson takes security very seriously. Today was definitely an anomaly.”

  “Good to know.”

  “The building goes into lockdown at 2 a.m. every night.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

  George smiled. “You say that now, but Mr. Carson doesn’t exactly work on the nine-to-five kind of schedule. He has clients all over the world.”

  Another surprise. “I’ll remember that.” I backed away from the desk and turned to the wide expanse of windows. Boston was in full bloom. Carson Covenant Inc. was right in the middle of the busiest part of the harbor. “Will I see you tomorrow, George?”

  “Afraid not. Angie will be back tomorrow.”

  “Well, then nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise, Ms. Copeland.”

  I pushed open the doors to the vestibule. It was even more impressive on the exit. The glass artist in me was fascinated by the framework and the quality while the bitchy part of me wanted to leave a big ole palm print.

  Too bad it was so fascinatingly resistant.

  Again, I’d kill to have that kind of glass in my workshop. The glass would be quite amazing if it were done in a beveled style if the dome overhead was any indication.

  I sighed and opened the door, and the life and heat of Boston slapped at me. It was October, but as usual, there were a few days that the mild weather near the water turned to an oppressive heat.

  They were usually followed by a storm. My favorite kind of day.

  I pulled my phone out and realized I had twenty minutes to kill before I could take the T back to where I’d parked. I wandered down the street and took the access street to the Harbor Walk. The street side access to his building was overwhelming, but the water side was breathtaking.

  I tipped my head back to take it all in. The framework was almost non-existent in the late afternoon sun. Impressive didn’t even cover it. Finally, I turned and followed the older cobblestones by the water up to the smoother, updated path. The ferries were coming and going, and a fleet of personal boats bobbed in their docks. The briny scent of the harbor calmed me like nothing else.

  Dealing with the cool and dispassionate Blake Carson had jangled more than my nerves.

  I’d had one goal when I left Marblehead, and now I didn’t know what to do. All I wanted to do was get my house back. Nothing had gone according to plan since I woke that morning.

  I wandered along the water until the breeze kicked up. By the time I looked at my phone, I’d missed two more pickups from the subway. I’d walked so long that I ended up near the aquarium. I followed the after work crush of people onto the Blue Line and wedged myself in the corner.

  This
part of Boston I could do without. I’d gone to school here, so I knew my way around, but I definitely preferred Marblehead.

  Lady’s Cove was one of the waterways that ran along the main highway, and it had been my home for a long time. I knew the families, went to the parties, understood the politics. Now I was the poor relation. With the small town feel of Marblehead came the same Massachusetts gossip. I hated how my grandmother had been reduced to old money, minus the money.

  Annabelle Stuart had been a proud woman—so proud that she hadn’t told me just how much trouble she was in. She’d loved that house. I wasn’t going to let it go to some suit who didn’t know how to smile, let alone enjoy the ocean.

  No way, no how.

  Four

  The thunder shook the house at 4 a.m., driving me from my bed to the front porch. I’d been tossing and turning for hours anyway. The heat had followed me out of Boston, and I’d felt the storm brewing all night. Lightning speared across the night sky, and the flashbulb brightness gave me a snapshot of boats bobbing and struggling against their anchors in the distance.

  I moved closer to the windows, pressing my hand to the damp screen. I wanted to be outside on the beach, but the lightning was too close to a fireworks show. When the thunder rolled off the water, the house shook. This was what living by the ocean brought.

  Wonder, and a little touch of magnificent fury in the face of beauty.

  These were my favorite days to work in my little space on the side of the house. What used to be the maid’s quarters had become my studio right after college. That should have been my first clue to the financial strain.

  My grandmother had a caretaker for as long as I could remember. Mrs. Stephens had been getting older, and I’d just assumed she’d retired.

  A lot of things had gone over my head in the last few years. I couldn’t even use the flighty artist excuse. I was driven and always on the lookout for new work to keep me busy. That was my sin. Working too much.

  How many days had I lost with my grandmother because I’d locked myself away in my workshop?

  I rested my forehead against the screen. The spray off the water soaked into my skin and the faded cotton tank I wore to bed.