Page 1 of Heartless Boss
Chapter One
Gia
“Where’s my goddamn coffee, Rainbow?” Gunner’s voice is deep as an ocean.
If he weren’t my boss, I would toss my bottle of water at his head. Jeez, he’s a pain in the butt. Why must he turn into a raging lunatic if he doesn’t get his coffee?
As I spin the black leather chair around to face him, his azure eyes burn holes into my whiskey-colored ones like I started World War Three.
Glare back.
Glare back.
Don’t let the wolf intimidate you.
My heart beats wildly and freely like a horse running loose in the woods.
I tear my eyes from his and look at his thick, auburn hair that sticks up. His slightly crooked nose, sharp-as-glass jaw, and defiantly pouted mouth remind me of a Vincent van Gogh painting—beautiful yet sad and depressed.
He leans against the doorway; his body is lean like a runner. His sculpted arms are folded across his chest, wrinkling his crisp white shirt, and the custom-made gray vest hugs his torso. Everything he wears screams designer from head to toe.
PSA: My boss uses women for sex, then ghosts them and has enough charm to enchant a venomous snake.
Stay away from the wolf in the Tom Ford suit.
I met Gunner when I was a sophomore in college, working at the library on the NYU campus, and he was a senior. He and his friends used to cause a ruckus by talking, sticking books on the wrong shelves, and making my job ten times harder. When he wanted to check out a book, he stared me down like a wolf sizing up his meal while I acted as if I were unaffected by his stares, as if my heart didn’t want to jump out of my chest and into his hands.
When he spoke, I melted like butter back then.
“I’d like to check out a book, Rainbow.”
“Are you hungry? I’ll take you out to eat.”
“Why don’t you speak, Rainbow? Are you mute?”
“I love the rainbow socks, Rainbow.”
It was my taste for bright colors for my clothing that earned me the nickname he gave me. When I did my homework in the study hall, he’d sit next to me and babble about his day. Sometimes, I’d smile when he said something funny. And other days, he’d do his homework in silence.
I wasn’t allowed to talk, look, or act like he existed—or any man for that matter. My ex was a narcissistic prick and verbally abused me when I didn’t follow his tightrope of unrealistic rules. I paid the price by getting shoved, slapped, and—when he had a really bad day—punched. I have the battle scars on my stomach and back to prove it. It was hard leaving him because he gaslighted me constantly and told me it was my fault he pounded on me until I believed him.
Gunner’s presence tugs at the strings of my stitched-together heart.
I hate him for making me feel a burning candle.
I hate myself for wanting him because my brain knows logically we wouldn’t work.
“Get the lead out of your ass and get my coffee.”
I want to flip him the bird and tell him to shove his attitude up his butthole, but instead, I stand from my oak desk shaped like an L, clutch my pink floral purse I bought at the thrift store, and leave the tiny room. Our two offices are the only ones on the top floor, which I enjoy since I don’t want to listen to gossip or deal with people wanting to talk to me.
I rush to the private elevators, step inside, and tap the first-floor button. Classical music booms through the speakers, and I tap my feet on the carpet as the elevator descends.
I flatten out my black pencil skirt that’s held together by safety pins at the side of my hips. My crimson pumps are borrowed from Izzy’s—my bestie’s—fabulous and expensive wardrobe. I couldn’t help but throw a little color into this suit-and-tie world. If I could, I would have chosen a bubblegum-pink dress with rainbow knee-high socks, but in the corporate world, bright colors are banned like wearing white after Labor Day. My clothes come from Goodwill, and when I want to splurge, I shop at Family Dollar. It doesn’t bother me that I live in a shoebox apartment in the dumps of the Lower East Side, and I don’t care about money in the way the greedy world does. I just want enough to be able to get what I need, which isn’t a lot.
Finally, the metal doors ding open, I step out, and chatter overloads my ears. I rush past the receptionist and empty security desk. My heels click against the black-and-white tiles with the letterUcarved in the middle of the floor. People are heading out the revolving doors as if the building is on fire.
As I open the thick glass door that’s connected to a café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and ground beans assaults my nostrils hard enough to choke the living crap out of me. Laughter bounces off the eggshell-colored walls, and people in business suits relax at high, brown tables as they focus on their tablets and laptops. The pink chalk on the blackboard that reads “Buy one smoothie and get one free” is the only color that brightens this shop.
