Page 4 of The Boss I Can't Stand
Was he coming back? Lord have mercy on whoever worked the day shift. “Well, unfortunately, I won’t be here.”
“I know,” he said, that smug, megawatt grin returning. “Tomorrow you’ll be coming to me.” He dropped his own business card on the counter and headed for the door.
I read it and my blood ran cold.Finn Lockhart.CEO.Hart of Gold Productions.
The same production company I was interviewing for tomorrow. My heart dropped into my stomach.
Well, shit.
2
FINN
An asshole tax!
The words beat against my skull as I stalked across the parking lot, crumpled receipt and bag in one hand, business card in the other. Leaving the stuffiness of In Stitches behind was a small mercy, but freeing myself of that woman’s company…that was the true miracle!
Who did she think she was? I ran one of the most successful production companies in the country. I wasentitledto be an asshole. No one would take me seriously any other way.
Hollywood was a pressure cooker. Producer, director, actress—it didn’t matter. One wrong move. One bad review. One misstep and that valve would blow and you’re back to knocking on doors, instead of the other way around, and no one is answering. Did this woman really not get how it worked?
Sierra Banks, Costume Designer, was living in a fantasy world.
I reached my black Ferrari, threw myself down in the driver’s seat, and slammed the door. Maybe this was fate’s way of giving me a heads-up before the interview, because no way in hell did I want thatwoman working on my movie—giving me attitude, making trouble, handing out costumes to everyone with a side of asshole tax.
Sweat pooled at the nape of my neck, and I cranked the air conditioning to max, hoping the sound would drown out the rush of blood in my ears. I’d only stopped at this damn fabric store because I hadn’t felt comfortable entrusting this task to my new assistant, Brenna, with the interviews being tomorrow.
What if she’d shown up with the wrong samples? Better to handle it myself, so I could be sure it was done right. But after the experience I’d just had, I was starting to think I would have preferred subpar samples.
Just thinking her name—Sierra Banks—sent a rush of irritation through me. I revved my engine obnoxiously, just on the off chance it would piss her off while she tidied and locked up for the night.
I glanced back through the front window of In Stitches and spotted her moving across the store with a broom. She’d pulled her auburn hair into a messy clip at the back of her head, showing off that heart-shaped face. She paused her work, her full lips puckered as she stared at something.
I drummed my hand against the steering wheel. Sierra had what this business called an old-Hollywood look. It was more subtle than today’s standard. The kind of beauty that wasn’t quick to catch your eye but that would hold it effortlessly once you took the time to really look.
Not that I cared.
Judging looks was just part of the industry. I did it out of habit, noticing the soft curves beneath the eclectic layers she wore. It didn’t mean anything. Itwouldn’tmean anything, because after tomorrow’s interview, I was never going to lay eyes on the exasperating woman again—and good riddance.
I shook those thoughts from my mind as she started digging in her pockets. She had so damn many of them. Something tightened in my chest—frustration and a strange heat—as I tore my gaze away. My phone started ringing again, and I answered it without looking at the caller. “Hello?”
“Hey,” my little brother, Connor, said on the other end of the phone.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound less irritated than I felt. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for a chat, but Connor was going through hell and a half with his divorce, so I always did my best to answer when he called. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” he said.
“Gimme the phone, Dad! I wanna talk!”
Connor huffed with amusement. “Grace has something very important she wants to tell you.”
My irritation instantly melted into curiosity as he turned the phone over to my eight-year-old niece, one of my favorite people in the world.
“Uncle Finn!” Grace bellowed so loud her voice crackled through the speaker.
“Hey, kid,” I said, leaning back in my seat. I let the car idle and pump out that sweet, sweet air conditioning.
“Guess what? Guess what?”
