Page 4 of Beauty and the Bosshole

"We're not."

"You already said the position is filled," she says, tipping her head back to look up at me. "Kindly move your giant freaking arm and let me out."

"You're right about the campaign."

"I know. I was a marketing major and, last I checked, I'm a plus-size woman. I'm kind of uniquely qualified to understand these things, Mr. Donovan."

"Reese."

"What?"

"My name is Reese."

"Regardless, my point remains."

"You're going to be a pain in my ass, aren't you?"

"If I worked here? Probably." She shrugs, not the least bit afraid of me or my reputation around town. She's ballsy and outspoken, but somehow cute as hell and funny at the same time. "It's slim pickings here in Porter, Reese. You get what you get."

"The job is yours."

She blinks those pretty green eyes at me. "Excuse me?"

"I said the job is yours."

"You already said the position is filled."

"I lied."

"Why?"

"Because you and I are going to be fire and ice, Ava. The last thing I need around here is another woman driving me up the wall," I mutter. "But fuck it. If you want the job, it's yours."

"Just like that, huh?"

I laugh abruptly. "No, not just like that. This was the worst interview I've ever endured."

"But you're hiring me anyway." Her brows furrow as a frown overtakes her expression. "I'm not sure who's crazier, Reese. You for hiring me… or me for accepting."

"Me. It's definitely me."

Her bright, cheery laugh has my dick throbbing like the bastard he is. "You're right. It's definitely you."

"Mother, why in God's name are you dressed like that?" I ask, staring at my mother in horror as I pop in to check on her before heading to my own place for the night.

"Reese, dear!" she cries, setting down her glass of wine to spin in a circle. "Isn't it darling?"

"No. It's atrocious."

"Reese!" She swats me on the shoulder, laughing up at me. "It's a dressing gown."

"Yes, from the 1880s." The damn thing has frills and lace and puffy sleeves. It looks like it belongs on a mannequin in a British museum, not on a sixty-five-year-old woman in modern-day America.

"Oh, pah!" She waves a hand at me. "It is not ancient. I just bought it."

"From an antique shop?"

She laughs again, ignoring the question. "Why are you here so late?"

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