Page 7 of The Boss I Can't Stand
“It’s just…different from your usual stuff,” Connor said. “That’s all. Don’t get huffy.”
“No one said that to Liam when he veered away from his usual brand forEnd in Fire,” I grumbled. Our older brother’s streaming platform had been built on reality TV shows.End in Firewas his first scripted series, and it had been a massive hit on every level—huge viewership numbersandlots of critical acclaim.
“That’s true,” Connor agreed. “I guess period films just sound boring in my head. Won’t it be less fun making that type of film?”
“A period piece can be more exciting than you’re imagining,” I said. “Think lessLittle Womenand more gangs and prohibition.”
“I guess,” Connor said. I could hear Grace calling for him in the background. “Talk to you later?”
“Yeah, bye.” I hung up, and my gaze drifted to the bag of fabric samples sitting on the passenger seat. Sierra’s face resurfaced in my mind, her dark blue eyes somehow fiery up close.Shecertainly hadn’t thought period costuming sounded boring.
I remembered how passionate she’d been rambling about the fabrics, how determined she’d been to show me up, howinfuriating. I had tostop thinking about her because this project required my full attention, and the way I responded to her was a distraction I definitely didn’t need.
I scowled as I threw the Ferrari in reverse, already dreading having to see her again when she turned up for the interview tomorrow.
3
SIERRA
“Ouch, dang it!” I said as I accidentally jabbed myself with the sewing needle. I stuck my thumb in my mouth, careful not to bleed on the pristine white silk. That would just be the cherry on top after yesterday’s horrific face-to-face experience with Finn Lockhart at In Stitches.
I checked my thumb. No red. Crisis averted! I got back to work, carefully selecting shiny pearl beads from the box in front of me. I was usually far less clumsy, but I’d had weird stress nightmares all night where I was trying to catch an unwinding bolt of fabric. Finally giving up on getting any real rest, I had dragged myself out of bed at dawn to finish the latest iteration of my mother’s wedding dress. She’d been insistent that she wanted beads. Lots of beads!
I selected another pearl, threading it over the end of my needle. Beading was the kind of finicky work I loved for taking my mind off things. And right now, I was trying not to think of all the ways I’d mortally offended the CEO of Hart of Gold Productions.
The man who was executive producingEvery Day Is Sunday.
I hated the fact that he was making this movie. And I hated myself even more for still desperately wanting to work on this movie, in spite of him.
Gah! Why did he have to turn out to be such an asshole?
I lifted the bodice piece I was working on, squinting as I inspected it. There wasn’t enough light here, so I moved from my spot on the couch to the tiny dining room table that served as a flat junk drawer.
“That’s better,” I said, sitting in front of the large kitchen window pouring in natural light. I lined up my needle with the fabric again, frowning when I noticed my hand trembling. I shouldn’t have had so much dang coffee but I was out of my favorite energy drink.
“Mornin’!” a voice croaked.
I looked up to see Ro shuffle across the living room and into the kitchen, wearing an oversized housecoat with some random woman’s name embroidered on the front and a pair of puffy Homer Simpson slippers. Her thrift store finds were always…interesting, to say the least. Just when I thought I’d seen the strangest of it, she came up with something even worse. She stopped at the counter, poured herself a cup of coffee, then turned to face me, cradling the mug.
“You know, you scare me when you crouch in the corner of the kitchen like a little sewing goblin,” she said. “But I’m too exhausted to stress about it right now.”
I straightened up in my chair and laughed. Rose “Ro” Gilmore had been my best friend since she’d moved to Garnett, Kansas, in first grade. We’d moved out to LA together almost ten years ago to chase our dreams, sharing an apartment while I hunted down costume design work and she worked as an intimacy coordinator, doing small indie directing gigs on the side while waiting for her big, mainstream directing break.
“Did you end up seeing that guy last night?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” she said, closing her eyes as if to savor the memory.
“And?” I asked, a smile curling my lips.
“One and done,” she said. “But God, he knew what he was doing.”
I hummed. “Would a second date be so inconceivable?”
Ro wrinkled her nose. “Don’t start talking crazy.”
She refused second dates, saying she needed to stay laser-focused on her career. Nothing came before the directing grind. Especially not love. And yet, she still insisted that love was out there.
I didn’t know how she ever expected tofindit given the way she operated, but who was I to judge? I’d been ghosted by the last guy I’d dated. Ro sipped her coffee, made a noise like she’d been possessed by a demon, and whirled around to do a spit-take in the sink.
