Page 2 of One Wicked Night with the Boss

“I thought you said he doesn’t take interns.”

“He doesn’t. But I’m hoping to change his mind.” It was why I signed up with the temp agency. Rumor had it he went through assistants so quickly the agency never bothered pulling down the job listing. According to the woman who ran the place, he once hired and fired three assistants in a single day. She’d leaned over her desk, her chunky blond highlights catching the sun as she murmured, “Around here we call him monster boss. Between you and me, though, I’m dying to know what kind of monster he’s got in his pants. Because word has it the man is packing heat, if you know what I mean.”

I did not, in fact, know what she meant. Jonathan Barnes could have a firehose in his boxers for all I cared. He was the best historical preservationist in the country, and I wanted—no, needed—to work for him.

Across the street, the Victorian’s double doors swung open and a doorman stepped out. He waved, then motioned for me to cross the street.

I tightened my grip on the phone. “I gotta go.”

“Okay,” Lydia said. “Break a leg!”

“Thanks.” I ended the call and stuffed my phone in my bag. Then I hefted my portfolio and crossed the street as swiftly as I could in three-inch heels—another loan from Jess. I’d spent the past seven years hunched over a computer or drafting table. If I landed an internship with Jonathan, I’d have to use my first paycheck to buy footwear that wasn’t made of canvas.

The Victorian loomed against a gray October sky, its spires and crenellations like a medieval castle. Built at the height of the Golden Age, it was a Gothic style mansion with none of the whimsical gingerbread fretwork or bright colors of other Victorian homes. Instead, it looked like someone decided to carve a house out of a boulder and then surround it with skyscrapers.

The doorman called out to me as I approached. “Are you Riley O’Sullivan?”

“Yes.” I jogged the last few steps, my heart racing from my dash across the street.

He smiled over a thick salt-and-pepper mustache as he propped the door with his shoulder. “I thought you might stand there forever. Didn’t you see the button for the crosswalk?”

I tripped and caught myself. “Excuse me?”

“The crosswalk button.” He pointed with his chin. “You have to push it to change the light.”

Ugh.As Jess would say, “cringe.” I plastered a smile on my face and forced a shrug. “Must be first day jitters.”

He sobered, the mustache drooping. “You’re right to have those. Mister Barnes is a difficult man. I’ve seen men and women alike run out of this place in tears. Nobody lasts in this job.”

“Well, I—”

“One young lady quit before her parking meter expired. Called Mister Barnes an ogre with a superiority complex. Did you know he was voted worst boss in Boston three years in a row?” The doorman chuckled. “Some local magazine gave out the honor. Mister Barnes framed it and hung it in his office. Maybe he’ll show you.”

“I—”

“Yep, he’s an impossible man to work for.”

Understandable, considering it’s impossible to get in the door.I squared my shoulders and gave him what I hoped was a sunny smile. “Maybe you could show me inside?”

“Oh, of course!” He stepped back, holding the door so I could brush past him.

As soon as I did, a sense of awe descended over me. The mansion had been meticulously restored, and stepping inside was like stepping back in time. Wood paneling covered the walls. The baseboards were as thick as my waist, and the dark hardwood was covered in oriental rugs with ornate geometric patterns. Straight ahead, a grand staircase led to the upper floors.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” The doorman asked at my shoulder. “Mister Barnes handled the restoration himself.”

“Yes, I know” I said, still gawking at the staircase.

“I suppose we should get you to the boss. The elevator is a lot faster than the stairs.”

My sense of awe evaporated, and anxiety rushed in. I was late. Not a great way to start my first day with an employer infamous for firing people. “Where is it?”

“This way.” He led me to a wood and metal contraption that was bigger than my undergrad dorm room. The outside resembled a cage with ornate bars, and the inside was lined with the same kind of paneling as the foyer.

The doorman ushered me in, then pulled a metal grate across the entrance. He locked it in place and gave the handle a pat. “They don’t make them like this anymore.” He flipped a lever on the control panel, and the floor shuddered.

I clutched my bag tighter.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He grasped a metal bar and gave it a good rattle. “This thing has been here for a hundred and forty years. Besides, it only goes four stories. Even if the cables snap, we’ll be fine.”

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