Page 1 of Foreplay with the Boss

CHAPTER 1

Kat

Since it was of vital importance that I not be late today, I’d woken up extra early, scrambled around my makeshift home away from home, had a fight with the too-smart-for-its-own-good coffee maker, and now I was…well, under-caffeinated and running late. Naturally. I had the kind of hair that sensed fear, and since I was afraid of everything I was going to face today, the auburn strands refused to cooperate, half curly, half straight, one hundred percent mess. The extra humidity factor in Boston definitely didn’t help.

Is bed-head in style? I certainly hope so, because this is as good as it’s going to get.

You know what else sensed fear? Eyeliner. Why I’d decided to pick today of all days to attempt the cat-eye look was beyond me. I thought I’d try to make a good impression with my new employer, even though that boat had most likely sailed already, considering my father had made a call to get me the job. Nothing says I’m fully in control of my life and adulting my ass off like having your daddy call in a favor.

All because he thought I wasn’t ready to run the company.

To be fair, I wasn’t. I’d started working at the office with him the second the ink on my business degree was dry, but I wasn’t sure I had a boss-type personality. My whole life I’d been on the timid side of the scale, and I’d gotten walked over plenty because of it. Each time I picked myself up and brushed myself off, I promised that the next time I’d be stronger. But when the next situation arose, all my shiny pep-talks went kamikaze on me, not even taking out the enemy, just dive-bombing the ground around my feet, rocking me in the process. My face would get too hot, and my heart would pound too hard and fast, and my flight response kicked in—I was pretty sure I was missing the fight one.

Apparently, that’s no way to run a company or even a depart- ment. If JT Stone, CEO of Craze Advertising and Marketing, couldn’t train me to be as ruthless and scary of a boss as he was rumored to be, my dad would have “no choice” but to hand over the company that’d been in our family for three generations to a guy who specialized in beardscaping and mansplaining.

I can’t let that happen. I can’t let my dad down like that.

Using a Q-tip, I turned my failed cat-eye into a smoky eye. It was more evening glam than first-day-at-a-new-job—and possibly even made it look like I was trying too hard—but I didn’t have enough time to start over, so it’d have to do.

As I rushed back to the bedroom, I tripped over the sneakers I’d left out after last night’s muppet-flail run on the treadmill that’d come with the place. (Getting in shape was also on my list of things I needed to fix about myself.) Kicking the neon shoes aside, I pulled a sheer purple blouse over my black tank-top, smoothed a hand down my black pencil skirt and, after a longing glance at my five-inch black stilettos, slipped on sensible pumps in the same color. I had a weakness for shoes, even though they were also tempting fate with how often I managed to trip over nothing.

I felt more in control when I had them on. The extra height and fact that they could double as a weapon made me feel like I could face anything, but I was told they only reminded the men in the office I was a woman, and I needed to be more serious. Evidently serious women wore blocky three-inch pumps with sole support.

I might as well put on a pair of Crocs. I shuddered at the thought. In my one act of rebellion for the day (my hair shouldn’t have all the insubordination fun), I kicked off the sensible shoes and grabbed the stilettos. The rest of me might not make much of an impression, but my shoes sure as hell would.

I caught sight of the time, swore, and rushed toward the door. I grabbed my purse and ran my hand along the bottom. Where are my keys, where are my keys, where are my keys…? Man, I really need to clean out this purse.

The jingle told me I was close, and I finally unearthed them. I got into my car, drove to the station for the commuter rail, and then sprinted, afraid I was going to miss my train. And okay, maybe regretting that I hadn’t stuck with the sturdy pumps.

Embarrassing loud gasps came from me as I kicked it up a notch and I couldn’t believe I was already winded—I seriously had the stamina of an overweight cat who could hardly make it to his next resting place for another nap.

I stepped onto the train behind a group of dudes, who were talking and laughing and in no hurry to make it up the stairs.

“Excuse me,” I tried, but my words were drowned out by theirs.

The doors closed and I felt a tug. The strap of my purse hadn’t quite made it into the train, and now the doors had hold of it. I didn’t even have room to give it a good yank. Why didn’t these guys want to move onto the train and take a cushy seat? Were they going to stand here and talk for the thirty minutes it took to get to the office building downtown? That was going to be fun, standing here, getting jostled at every stop and then praying the opening of the doors wouldn’t spill me onto the tracks.

I cleared my throat, and when they didn’t get that hint, I gave words another shot. “Pardon me…”

They only talked louder.

I tugged on my purse. Almost… It came free, slipped right out of my grip, and landed in the middle of the aisle. Half the contents spilled out because that was the kind of day I was already having.

The group of men glanced at me, brows furrowed, like I was the annoying one for daring to accidentally throw my purse past them.

“What’s wrong with you? Stop standing there like idiots and move out of her fucking way.” The deep voice came from the other side of them, and they scattered like cockroaches after the light’s been turned on.

My gaze dropped to my purse, and I reached for it, trying to scoop up everything before it got kicked around the floor and I ended up crawling on my hands and knees to retrieve it.

Other hands joined mine, and I caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out of a suit sleeve. I glanced up to thank him—I was sure he was the owner of the rich, deep voice that’d made those guys finally move. Then I froze, a deer in headlights of sexiness, and dropped everything I’d just gathered.

The guy couldn’t possibly be real. Dark hair, perfectly styled, blue eyes so clear you could practically see yourself swimming in them, and one of those dimples in the chin that made you want to run your tongue over it.

Whoa. What?

My brain had obviously short-circuited, but I couldn’t stop staring. He was rugged and yet refined, chivalrous with an air of dangerousness, and while I’d experienced attraction before, this was on a whole new level. It was consuming and edged with more infatuation than was proper to have for a perfect stranger.

I didn’t consider myself an improper kind of gal, but one hot look from this guy and I was pretty sure everyone attracted to the male species would have indecent thoughts.

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