Page 7 of Broken Boss

“Is he still a complete asshole?” Orla asks, passing me the bag. “Is Marty still lording over everyone? Do they still have those stupid remote control shades on the doors and walls?—”

“Hey, those window blinds saved my life.”

I chew and swallow a handful of popcorn, take a deep breath, and tell her all about my run-in with Chris Sharpe.

Orla was my “in” at Sharpe Law when I applied two months ago. The hiring process was a long and rigorous one, which wasn’t surprising. When Orla started law school a decade ago, she ended up interning at the firm for two years. But she never graduated, deciding instead to drop out and run her own business. She’s now a decently successful tailor and seamstress, which is great for me since I regularly rip pants, skirts, and blouses with my thick curves.

She also fully supports my revenge plot of bringing Sharpe down from the inside out. In fact, sometimes I think she’s a little too zealous. The day of my first interview, she suggested I just poison his coffee.

“I’m sorry—what?”

She’s staring at me blankly as I continue to munch on popcorn, musing over my feelings about the past week.

The thing is…I didn’t hate the way Chris Sharpe looked at me.

But that’s not something I can ever admit out loud, especially to my close friend and accomplice.

“He didn’t try anything, though.”

Orla snorts. “Yeah, not yet. Trust me, Autumn, he’s a dog, like all men. One of the worst. I’m not kidding when I say he’s never actually dated.”

What she means is, Chris Sharpe has never been in a relationship. At least, not as far as the media has reported. He’s taken dates to work and public events, sure, but that’s it—the women are mysteriously only ever seen on one outing.

Although, I have to hand it to him, he’s a man of varied taste, which you don’t often see these days. Most men want to be seen out and about with chic models who are never photographed putting food in their mouths. If they’re into women like me—the inspiration for the saying thick thighs save lives—they keep that on the down-low.

“Well, I’m not exactly planning on being half naked in front of him again.”

Orla leans back, her eyes narrowing as she scratches Frank’s big head. He’s snuffling away at the crumbs on my comforter. I have to do laundry tonight, anyway.

“Or…”

“Or what? I don’t like that look in your eyes, Orla.”

“Or what if this is your in.”

“I’m already in! Remember, you coached me through the entire interview process? You had to bribe that guy in HR who slept with your mom at your brother’s wedding?”

She nods sharply, but that scheming look doesn’t go away.

“I thought when you told me he was a womanizer it was a warning against things like this.” My spine is stiff and my hands clutch the bag. I’m remembering Chris’s dark eyes moving over my pink-clad curves.

When was the last time a man looked at me like that?

Too long, says the little voice in my head. Pushing down the urges I’ve been ignoring for months, if not years, I add, “I don’t like the idea of using sex for anything, Orla. And we both know he cuts women loose as soon as they’re out of his bed.”

“True,” she agrees. “But…he’s never met you.”

I scrunch up my nose and laugh. “I’m not that special.”

“Hmm. That’s your problem.” Orla’s gaze goes from devious to empathetic. It makes something inside of me curl up and hide away; I hate the feeling of being pitied. “I get why you don’t trust men, babe, and I’m not saying you need to trust him. But if he saw you in those scrappy pieces of lace you call underwear, trust me, the last thing he’ll be thinking about is cutting you loose.”

She stands, gives Frank one more rub on the head, and leaves me alone to my moping. I curl my knees up to my chest. Frank huffs and puts his chin on his paws in a mirror image.

“Don’t give me that look.”

If Frank knew what Orla was suggesting, he’d be as disgusted as I am.

It isn’t just the thought of sleeping with Chris Sharpe, the man who’s been my enemy since day one.

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