Page 1 of The Boss I Can't Stand
1
SIERRA
Why had I worn polyester?
I stared longingly at the nice bolts of linen fabric on the shelf next to me and dreamed of wrapping myself up in lightweight, breathable, moisture-wicking?—
“Sierra, are you listening?”
“I’m here,” I said, pressing the phone closer to my ear as a bead of sweat leaked down my neck.Gross!
Manning the counter at In Stitches, the tiny boutique fabric store in Burbank, was usually my favorite in-between-projects job, but today it was actually trying to kill me. I would sell my favorite pair of fabric scissors for working AC.
“I’m envisioning layers,” my mother said. “And volume!”
“Volume,” I repeated, hardly paying attention. The unusually hot June day had baked the city in a horrible wet heat, and the store was sweltering.
Was it miserable? Yes. Was I sweating from places I didn’t know could sweat? Also yes. Was I counting down the minutes until my shift ended? Hell yes!
“What do you think of adding organza?”
That brought me back down to earth. “Organza?Wow…Umm?—”
“I think it’ll give me thatoomphI want.”
I winced and reached for the can of RevX sitting on the counter. Empty. Dammit, it was my last one. Being a costume designer was all well and good most of the time, but most of the time didn’t involve making a wedding dress—for free!—for my mother who had so. Many. Ideas.
Ideas that changed every five minutes. Ideas that would result in hours of labor-intensive alterations. Ideas that werehorrible.
“What do you think about strapless?”
“Strapless? Mom, a strapless gown is going to end up on the dance floor once you get two drinks in and start aggressively doing the sprinkler.”
Mom only laughed. “Oh, it’ll be fine.” Despite having me at nineteen and my dad bailing on her, Maggie Banks was a dyed-in-the-wool romantic.
Every failed romance had her doubling down on the next one, certain thatthiswould be the frog that turned into a prince. Was her fiancé Larry the one to prove her right? No idea.
As she waxed on about what she wanted for the train, I daydreamed about going home to the land of air conditioning, just as God intended, and breaking out the ice cream from the freezer while Ro and I watched bad reality television.
And once I’d had a minute to cool down, I’d finally be able to concentrate on prepping for the interview I had tomorrow. It was about a movie I was desperate to costume design. It was higher profile than I was usually able to land, but I was the right fit for it.
I leaned against the cutting table, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was close enough to quitting time. No one would fault me for locking the door a couple minutes early.
I grabbed my keys from beneath the counter, then paled as I spotted the worst possible sight on the face of the planet: a guy in an expensive suit barreling toward the door like he was trying to escape a bad date.
Oh, no. I groaned.No, no, no! I wanted my ice cream.
“Mom, gotta go. Customer.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Call me when the bridal magazines I sent turn up. I circled a bunch of gown inspo for us to discuss.”
Inspo. “I will. Love you. Bye.” There is a special place in hell for people who walk into a shop five minutes before closing.
I dabbed at the sweat along my hairline as the door flew open and Mr. Armani walked in. He made his way toward me, slightly out of breath, but still looking way too good to be standing in a fabric store. This was the kind of man who had people to stand around in fabric stores for him.
He swept his hand through his dark hair, and I swallowed hard as a flash ofsomethinghit me. It was heat and tension and thrill all coiled into one. My eyes traveled from his face—a classic square jaw, aquiline nose, hazel eyes—to his broad shoulders, filling out that suit deliciously, to his lean waist. I wouldn’t even need a tapeline to figure out his measurements: drool-inducing perfection.
For a moment, I almost forgot how sweaty and grumpy I was.Get it together, girl. He’s just a man, and he’s standing in between you and your ice cream!
