Page 4 of Dear Grumpy Boss

Tricky:She was in public wearing this. Who’s going to tell her anyway? Not you.

My eyes flicked to Brandon. “What’s JT stand for?”

He grimaced.

Lani slapped his knee. “Just tell her. She’s going to find out anyway.”

Brandon wrapped his hand around mine. “It’s really stupid, Lise. Frat boy humor at its finest.”

Lani slapped him again. “Tell her!”

He huffed. “It stands for jiggle tits.”

I couldn’t even force myself to blink. My boyfriend, the one I trusted with my body, my sexuality, my everything, had turned me into a joke. He’d taken all my insecurities and GIF-ified them for his buddies’ amusement.

I took the iPad out of Brandon’s hands. I had to see this with my own eyes.

Chance was the one who took a clip from the video, slowed it down, and turned it into a GIF. Me bouncing, my tits, thighs, tummy jiggling in slow-mo. What I’d thought looked sexy now seemed utterly laughable.

The guys used the GIF for things like the stock market going down, news of a plane crash, Chance’s bad date, Tyler’s car getting sideswiped, to punctuate how hilarious a joke was.

They used it all the time.

They never called me by my name. It was JT or nothing.

I squeezed my eyes shut. It was like I was back in high school again. All the self-esteem I’d built, the love for my body, the confidence I’d gained over the years, deflated like a sad little balloon.

Love at first sight?

I huffed to myself.

The sight of me was a joke to him.

“Are you going to call him?” Lani asked carefully.

“No.” I opened my eyes. “I don’t want to look at him.”

Lani gently slid the iPad out of my hands and placed it on the coffee table. “I don’t blame you. If I saw him right now, I’d carve out his balls with a rusty spoon.”

“Nice,” Brandon scoffed. “That’s helpful.”

“I’m expressing my anger,” Lani said primly. “It isn’t good to hold it in.”

Brandon patted my knee. “What do you want to do?”

“I think…” I sucked in a breath, “I want to get really, really drunk tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll deal.”

Lani, my dear sweet friend, held up the vodka. “That can absolutely be arranged.”

Twelve hours later, I was dealing.

I’d never been one to sit around feeling sorry for myself. At least, not for long.

I called my brother.

“Elliot.”

“What’s wrong?” It was seven a.m. in Denver, but Elliot was immediately alert. From the sounds in the background—voices, low music, metal on metal—knowing my brother, he was at the gym.

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