Page 55 of The Wrong Boss

Ted was walking out of the resort, dressed in tan slacks and a pale blue golf shirt. He had a wide-brimmed hat on, and the glint of a gold chain sparked from beneath his collar. His eyes slid to me. “You golf?”

“I’m not exactly on the PGA tour,” I said, “but I used to play with my old boss nearly every Wednesday.”

Chuck’s gaze landed on me, incisive and dark. I stood up a little straighter, and I understood in a flash how he’d managed to build his company to such great heights. He was sharp and observant. “Who’s your old boss?”

“I don’t think you’d know him,” I said. “Arthur Wentworth. He’s an accountant?—”

“You played with Art!” Chuck barked a laugh and slapped me on the back. I rocked onto my toes and caught myself on thecar to save myself from falling flat on my face from the impact. Cole stepped forward like he was going to catch me, which was nice of him, all things considered. But I’d rather he didn’t touch me. His hands on my body made me want things I had no business wanting.

Chuck seemed oblivious to the face-plant I’d narrowly avoided after his whacking my back. He grinned at me. “We used to play together years ago. Good man. Great accountant. Could’ve been massive if he had a head for business, but the man likes a quiet life. He still hook it to the left every time he gets frustrated?”

Despite myself, I laughed. “Yep. But his short game makes up for it.”

“The man can putt,” Ted agreed. “Playing against him is hell.”

I snorted. “You think you’re winning and he’ll pot one from forty feet.”

The two older men guffawed. I glanced up and managed to catch Cole looking at me like I’d just sprouted another head. I shrugged. Old dudes and golf—they were nothing if not predictable. Wentworth used to love this kind of shop talk. I had to learn how to shoot the shit with him, golf-wise, if I wanted him to respond to any of the various messages he ignored on a regular basis.

“It’s settled,” Chuck said. “You’ll play with us.”

His words took a second to sink in. And when they did, I nearly choked on my own spit.

Play with them? Golf? Play golf with my boss’s dad? The chairman of the board of the company I worked for?

My daughter’s grandfather?

“I, um…” I scrambled to come up with an excuse. My panicked gaze crashed into Cole’s bewildered one.

“We’ll play best ball,” Ted suggested. “Old geezers against you two young ones.”

“Whaddya say, kid?” Chuck asked, clamping a big meaty hand on his son’s shoulder, who glowered at him. “Want to compete against your old man to get the week started?”

Cole’s eyes darted to mine. He must have read the panic in my face and decided to play the hero again, because he said, “I’m sure Carrie has work to do…”

I definitely did. And I definitely should have been doing it. Golf was great and all, but being able to talk like I was a sixty-five-year-old man with a golf bag full of premium clubs didn’t mean anything when I messed up the catering for the most important company event of the year.

And if I messed up at the retreat right before broaching the topic of Evie with Cole, I could guarantee thatthatparticular conversation would go disastrously. Waiting for the perfect time—after my daughter’s spelling bee, when I’d had time to get my ducks in a row and prepare myself for a tough conversation—would have been a complete waste of several weeks.

“Work can wait,” Chuck said. “Don’t tell the boss I said that,” he added, winking at me.

I gave him the most genuine laugh I could, which sounded pretty hollow to my ears. He was the real boss. And wasn’t that a nice way of reminding us all of where we stood?

I glanced at Cole. His lips were stretched into a grim line. We weren’t getting out of this.

I’d worked for men like Ted and Chuck for the entirety of my career as an executive assistant. Mr. Wentworth had been a great boss, but he’d been just like them. There was no use talking back or trying to change their minds. They’d decided that the best course of action was for the four of us to play golf together. Their word was gospel. They were used to being at the top of the food chain—used to being listened to.

And this was golf. Mr. Wentworth had been just as fanatic as they were about the sport. I knew, down to my marrow, that turning down the “opportunity” to make a fool of myself on the golf course would forever mar my reputation in their minds.

The panic inside me settled into a hard kind of determination. This was happening. Refusing would be worse.

In the years since my breakup with Derek, I’d honed my ability to Do The Hard Thing. Part of it was motherhood, which made it necessary to Do The Hard Thing on a daily basis. But part of it was my sheer stubbornness, and my desire to never again be at the mercy of someone else.

Apparently I struggled to Do TheReallyHard Thing, because I still hadn’t told Cole about Evie, but still. I never claimed to be perfect, only that I’d gotten better.

I painted a wide, confident smile on my face. “I don’t mind,” I said. “I have a meeting with the caterers in a few hours, but I was just going to familiarize myself with the resort and catch up on emails until then.”

“We’ll give you a tour,” Ted announced. “You’ll see the whole place when we drive over to the course.”

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