Page 27 of Boss Me

As usual, I woke up with an eyepopping headache, a mouth that tasted like the bottom of a dumpster, and a hole in the center of my chest.

Nothing I could do about the hole, but I could take care of the other two.

I cracked open an eye, and there, on the bedside table, was a tall glass of water and a couple of aspirin. Had I been sober enough last night to put that there? I tried to remember, but thinking made me want to claw my own eye out of its socket, so I gulped down the pills, drained the glass, and slowly sat up.

When my head stopped spinning, I stood and made my way into the bathroom. After I emptied my bladder and brushed my teeth, I made the mistake of looking into the mirror. Puffy, bloodshot eyes. Pasty skin. Whiskers that were starting to look more like a beard than stylish scruff. And was that a gray streak right next to my mouth? Holy fuck, was I glad no one on the island cared what I looked like. Or my professional image. My sweater and pants were beyond wrinkled after sleeping in them. And this was my last set of clean clothes.

I rubbed my chest where it ached. It didn’t matter. This was my life now. Hanging out in paradise where I didn’t have to do anything but drink until I forgot what I’d done in the office and what that meant I’d become.

At least here, there was no one I loved enough to hurt.

I took the glass from the bedside table and headed down the hall toward the liquor cabinet. Might as well start now.

The glass doors were open, the sheer curtains blowing in the warm breeze. Jesus Christ. No one would fuck with me on the island, but did I really have to tempt fate by leaving the doors open all night?

Bypassing the kitchen, I went straight to the liquor cabinet.

And froze.

The bottles were missing from where I’d left them on top of the low cabinet. Only a pitcher of water sat there.

I ripped open the cabinet doors. All empty.

Shit. Someone had stolen all the booze. Ironic, since I’d apparently been too drunk to lock the doors.

They’d replaced the booze with water. And were those orange slices floating on top? What. The. Fuck?

Gripping my hair to counteract the pounding inside my skull, I whirled to face the back deck and spotted a figure sitting on the outdoor sectional. The blowing curtains partially obscured him, but if I were anywhere else other than an out-of-the-way, minor island in the middle of the Caribbean, three thousand miles from where I’d left him, I’d say that slight figure and those dark curls belonged to Ben Levy-Walters.

I should know. I’d been staring at him every chance I got for the past six months.

I strode out through the curtains into the blinding sun on the deck. Slapping a hand over my eyes, I waited for the stabbing pain behind my eyeballs to ease. Finally, I separated two fingers enough to peer through the gap.

“Ben? What the fuck are you doing here?” I’d done everything I could think of to ensure he wouldn’t find me—the note suggesting he take a few days off, turning off the tracking on my phone. Because if there was one thing I’d learned about my assistant, it was that he was as persistent as I was.

“Good morning—um—afternoon.” He stood, his hands fluttering from his shorts pockets to his hips. The bright tropical sun glinted on his hair. Sunglasses concealed his eyes, but I knew they sparkled like single-malt whiskey under bar lights. He’d grown a day or two’s worth of scruff, and I liked it. Wanted to run my fingers over it.

No, I didn’t!

I couldn’t.

I fisted my hands at my sides and kept my gaze on his sunglasses, not daring to tempt myself with the sight of my assistant’s legs in shorts.

He looked out toward the beach for a second like he’d read my thoughts and wanted to run away. “How about some coffee?” He pointed at an insulated carafe on the coffee table next to a plate of sandwiches.

My stomach flipped over, anticipating what the coffee’s acid would do to my already abused stomach lining. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question,” I growled. “Why are you here?”

“Let’s get some food into you before we talk about that.”

“Fuck food. Where’s the whiskey?” I snarled. I couldn’t let him see what he’d done to me, how glad I was to see him.

“Fine.” He folded his arms over his chest. “It’s gone. And we need to talk.”

“Talk?” I hit him with my full glare, the one that made negotiation opponents cower and slacking junior staffers avoid me in the halls.

He took a half-step back and bumped into the sofa. After windmilling his arms for a second, he straightened and squared his jaw. “Yes, talk. About Synergy.”

I scrubbed my face. All my angry energy drained out through my feet. He was just a lackey, loyal to someone else now that I’d been gone over a week. I’d hoped for more from Ben. I thought we understood each other. That he understood me.

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