Page 58 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

I dipped my chin. “No problem.”

“Do it. Send me new storyboards by the time we’re back in the city.” He snapped his fingers and turned to his husband. “The clothing. We can leak the new collection in some of the shots.”

“Build momentum on your next ready-to-wear collection,” the other man said, eyes sparkling.

Garcia laughed again, then grabbed Nikki by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her cheek. He turned to me and said, “Never let her go.”

Then he was away, and I curled my fingers through Nikki’s. She glanced up at me through her lashes, trying to gauge my reaction.

I squeezed her hand. “Maybe we need to expand your job description,” I told her quietly.

Her lips split into a smile. “I don’t come cheap,” she warned.

I laughed. “I’m aware, Jordan.”

Eyes sparkling, she grinned at me like a mischievous sprite, all dark hair and dark eyes and dangerous enchantments. And she’d already snared me.

TWENTY-TWO

NIKKI

After the cocktail hour,we were led to a dining room where a delicious four-course meal was served. There were twenty-two guests invited to Garcia’s home for the weekend, and all of them were there to have a good time. I laughed more during that meal than I had in all the other events combined.

By the time we got back to our room, I’d had two glasses of champagne and a glass of red, way too much food, and I was still riding the high from blurting out my idea for the perfume campaign.

Which reminded me—I wanted to double-check that Rome was okay with me doing that. He’d seemed to respond positively when we were downstairs, but he could just as easily think I overstepped my job description.

I tended to get overambitious when I had ideas. I liked working, I liked doing a good job, and I loved collaborative projects. But I knew that sometimes, people in positions of power responded badly to my enthusiasm.

It had happened before. When I worked at the vintage clothing store, I started scouring thrift stores and estate sales to buy for it and then eventually went to my boss with ideas for ways to change the store itself. I’d mocked up a design for an online store and pitched him the idea of expanding into country-wide sales. He told me he’d consider my idea but fired me a month later. Sometimes, when I was particularly bitter about it, I thought he goaded me into spending money on that business degree just to spite me.

So now, as I unhooked my earrings and dropped them onto a mirrored tray on the vanity, I peeked sideways to see if I could broach the topic with Rome.

But he had his back to me and his phone to his ear. I finished removing my jewelry and crept closer, my thoughts beginning to whirl. I’d tell him that it was a one-time thing. I’d explain that the idea just popped into my head, and I had to get it out. I would cross my fingers and toes and hope he understood.

Then I heard what he was saying to the person on the other side of the phone call.

“Yeah, new direction. I want a full new storyboard by Monday. We’re smashing the bottles. Divine feminine energy, but make it angry. Take it to the design department and see if they can link up with Garcia’s people. Good.”

He hung up the phone and turned, freezing when he saw me staring at him wide-eyed. “Everything okay?”

“You’re not mad?”

Rome frowned. “About what?”

“About me blurting out my idea like that.”

His lips tilted into a wry smile. “Babe, anytime you get an idea that saves me millions of dollars in delays and missed launch deadlines, you blurt it out whenever you like.”

I bit my lip as my lungs crowded out my chest. “Okay,” I whispered.

He held my gaze until I looked away and angled for the bathroom. When I closed the door behind me, I let out a long breath.

Maybe I could carve a role for myself that wasn’t just a placeholder. Maybe I could find someone who valued me for my ideas, for my thoughts, for myself.

By the time I re-emerged from the bathroom, my emotions had subsided, and I felt calmer. Until I saw Rome reclining on the bed, one arm curled behind his head, the other holding his phone as he read something on the screen. He wore black-framed glasses, and the sight of him slightly undone on a bed made heat twist in the pit of my stomach.

He lifted his eyes, then let his gaze roam over my nightie and down to my bare legs. When I’d packed for the trip, I mistakenly assumed I’d have my own room. In retrospect, that was a silly mistake—but it meant that I was now standing in a luxurious bedroom wearing a pale pink satin nightie trimmed in white lace. The alternative was sleeping in regular clothes—none of which would be comfortable or appropriate for bed.

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