Page 19 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

“If you’ll turn to pages six and seven,” Arthur continued, in his element now, “you can review the compensation for the position. I trust you’ll agree it’s more than generous.”

Eyes prickling, I tried to look at page numbers while my fingers trembled and struggled to grip the sheets. When I flipped to page six, my brain just—shut down.

The number written beside “Total Compensation” was five times what I’d been making at the vintage clothing store. Listed under “Benefits” was health insurance, dental, and a fat 401k match. I read the page three times, just to make sure the letters hadn’t magically rearranged themselves to show something that wasn’t there.

My breathing was shallow, my voice completely gone.

Then I flipped the page, and it took all my self-control to keep my face blank. The final benefit that Blakely was offering me was a clothing and beauty budget of onethousand dollars…per month!

My voice finally returned, and I pointed to the number. “Is this…” I cleared the croak from my voice and tried again. “Is this the correct number of zeroes? Per month?”

There was a tense silence. I looked up to see Rome Blakely’s eyes full of darkness as they glared at me from across the table. The muscles in his neck were stark. His hands fisted then relaxed, and he held my gaze while he angled his head toward Arthur and gave him an infinitesimal nod.

Arthur let out a huff before nodding to one of the younger women sitting at the end of the table. She tapped on the laptop in front of her, then pressed a button. No one spoke while she stepped out of the room. I focused on remembering how to breathe and hoped my heart would survive this encounter.

I had no idea what the hell was going on.

Why was he offering me a job? Why was he offering methisjob?

A thousand dollars a month on clothes and beauty! But—that had obviously been a mistake. They were reviewing the contract, and a more reasonable amount would be offered. Still, a hundred bucks a month would cover nails, at least! Or I could get a blowout or makeup done before events. It would make it possible to look presentable, at least. I had a closet full of vintage clothes that could hold their own at a variety of events. I only had a handful of designer pieces, but I could do this.

If I wanted to. Which I didn’t.

The young lawyer reappeared in the doorway. She handed both me and Phil a fresh Page Seven, still warm from the printer.

And I almost keeled over.

They hadn’t taken a zero away. They’d added another one.

Ten thousand dollars per month to spend on beauty and clothes stared up at me from the warm sheet of paper, right there in black and white.

In that moment, I considered whether the giant perfume penis had in fact hit me in the head and I was now lying in a hospital bed in a coma. Maybe none of this was real. I’d wake up any minute with an even bigger hospital bill than the one coming to me, still jobless, still nearly homeless. There would be no handsome, wealthy weirdo picking me up from the hospital parking lot. There’d be no fancy lawyer, and no job offer.

I shifted my uninjured hand under the table and pinched the side of my leg. The dart of pain assured me what was happening was real.

Which meant that the stuffy suits across from me were now offering me a hundred and twenty grand per year to spend onclothing. And hair. And beauty.

I would get laser hair removaleverywhere. The pesky hairs that had started sprouting on my chin when the clock struck thirty would be the first to get the zap. I would buy so many bags I could stitch them all together and live in them, and I wouldn’t need to find a new home. I would go on a shopping spree to end all shopping sprees, and I would buy every fabulous dress I’d ever salivated over.

This couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t.

I realized I’d been sitting there, completely still, fantasizing about raiding every designer store I could find while a room full of rich people and their minions stared at me.

I looked up. Rome Blakely looked like he was carved from stone, his expression hard as he watched me like he could read every thought written on my face. He was the one to break the silence. “Is that more to your liking, Ms. Jordan?” He bit off my name like it was an insult.

Heart hammering, I clenched my uninjured hand in my lap to hide the tremors in my finger. I lifted my other hand and pointed at the number with the end of the splint still holding my broken finger immobile. “This number…is higher than the one that was written before,” I pointed out, because I felt the need to clarify things, and my brain wasn’t exactly operating at full capacity.

It had to be a mistake. I was an honest person; I didn’t want to sign the contract under false pretenses.

And, actually, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to sign the contract at all.

But—purses! Clothing! Hair! Nails!

While my inner Julia Roberts basked in her very ownPretty Womanmoment, Rome Blakely gritted his teeth at me. His eyes darkened as he watched me, then he let out a violent gust of breath and jerked his chin down at his team of lawyers again, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles at the side bulged.

The same little dance happened once more. The old man lawyer nodded at the younger woman. She tapped on her laptop, scurried out, and scurried back in.

The tension was unbearable. I felt like a huge weight was sitting on my chest, and all I wanted to do was run away from here, but I was stuck.

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