Page 5 of Tempted By the Bosshole

“Mariah,” he corrects.

I know. “I don’t care.”

Out the front door, I rush down the stairs and head for my car.

He follows. “Fuck, would you just come back inside? It’s freezing.” He shivers, ignoring the side-eye from a guy walking his dog. “You can’t just leave.”

“I can. I am. I’ll get my things later.”

And the fact I’m not devastated should tell me something. Right now, I’m too mad to figure it out.

“If you get in that car and drive away, don’t expect to come back.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. You and Marina deserve each other.”

“Mariah.”

“I still don’t care.” I turn to face him. He’s stomping his foot like an agitated kid who isn’t getting his way. “Someday, I hope she cheats on you so you can see exactly how this feels.”

“Ah, come on. What she and I did…it didn’t mean anything.”

“If you think that, then you and I didn’t mean anything, either. Jen was right?—”

“That bitch fills your head with stupid ideas.”

“Well, she told me I could do better, and I should have listened sooner. Know what else she told me? To go out tonight, have fun, and let some hot stranger blow my doors off since you never have. This time, I plan to take her advice. The next back I dig my nails into won’t be yours. Buh-bye.”

It isn’t until I get in my car that I realize I forgot both my coat and my mother’s pendent, but I can’t go back now… In fact, other than to pack up, I can’t come back ever.

Where the hell will I sleep tonight? I can’t crash at that McMansion my dad listed as his address. Even if I had a key and wouldn’t have to break in again, he’s clearly shacking up with a woman. Maybe it’s her house. Maybe she doesn’t even know about me.

And maybe Dad stopped giving a shit about you.

I reach for my cell to call Jen. Then I remember she has an extra-spicy Tinder hookup tonight. Damn it. Fine. I’ll figure out where to sleep. There are plenty of hotels near the office. What’s one more charge on my overtaxed credit card? Tomorrow, I’ll find a long-term solution.

Tonight, I intend to take advantage of Force Financial’s open bar, meet some single men, and find one who will make me damn glad I’m a woman.

CHAPTER TWO

The party is in full swing by the time I arrive. During my drive, I realize two things: First, other than the luxurious apartment Eric can afford, living with him wasn’t all I hoped it would be. Second, I’m furious that he lied to me. I’m incensed that he played me and embarrassed me. I’m mad at myself for wasting so much time on him. But I’m not as upset to lose him as I feared I would be.

Honestly, if he wants Mariah—who had sex with his older brother in our bathroom during our last Fourth of July barbecue—he can have her.

I’m afraid of how suddenly my life is unraveling, but I’m leaving—and I’m not looking back. In fact, tonight I’ll celebrate being single. Maybe I’ll even take Jen’s approach and stop looking for a guy to put a ring on my finger. Instead, I’ll grab the first one who can get me off. But I absolutely refuse to sit in an impersonal hotel room and feel sorry for myself. Eric isn’t worth wasting another moment.

At the door, the fifty-something receptionist, dressed as Mrs. Claus, hands me a scrap of paper and half a pencil. “Vote for the department responsible for your favorite decorations. You’ll find snacks at every station. The bar is in the back, catered food in the break room. Tables and chairs are in Mr. Force’s office. Happy holidays!”

“Thanks,” I murmur, wandering through the double doors.

Even the dimmed lights can’t hide the fact that it looks as if Santa’s elves threw up everywhere. Besides all the tinsel hanging from the ceiling and the wrapping paper affixed to the walls, rows of cubicles have been decked out in holiday themes. A giant gingerbread house, illuminated by strings of Christmas lights, reaches the ceiling and encompasses the six desks belonging to the Overseas Markets group. It’s definitely the most creative cluster—way better than PR’s Winter Wonderland display on the other side of the floor. Classic Holiday, where the Large Cap dudes all sit, looks phoned in, proving they’re as stodgy and old-school as the sector they represent.

Turning, I search for the bar, fully intending to people-watch and drink. Instead, I feel someone’s stare fix on me. A man’s. He’s watching me. Taking me in. Sizing me up.

His attention isn’t subtle. Nor is the hot blast of his lust. It’s so thick it’s almost palpable.

Acutely aware of his gaze, I scan the party. But he’s invisible, everywhere and nowhere. Around me, people in cocktail dresses and suits drink expensive booze and eat five-star hors d’oeuvres. They chat and laugh like they don’t have a care in the world.

Suddenly, I feel like a predator has scented me and marked me as his prey. That should scare me.

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