Baby for the Bosshole Read online

  Sebastian and Nicholas say he just likes to be in charge. I’m okay with that, since Huxley doesn’t tell me what to do. He just likes to bitch about how I cheated by popping out of my mother’s womb prematurely. But it isn’t my fault I was hankering to build an empire of my own. He should blame himself for taking too long, considering he was two weeks late.

  “Thought you were working,” Grant says, pouring himself some champagne. “On that water filter project.”

  Noah raises his eyebrows. “You in the water filter business now?” His hair is sticking up like he hasn’t combed it in ages. He’s probably on some self-imposed deadline and—typically—decided to procrastinate. I don’t know why he bothers to set deadlines when he never meets any of them. He’s going to be working on his Magnum Opus for the rest of his life. He should give up on novel writing and stick to what he does best—wildlife photography.

  “Nah. Just giving money and advice.” I take an empty seat between Grant and Sebastian. Sebastian hands me a fresh flute. “I’m going into the office later to wrap up a few things.”

  “No bloodbath to come?” Nicholas jokes.

  I help myself to some food. “What bloodbath?” The only bath I want in the office is a nice, warm one with Amy naked in the tub. But I keep that to myself, since Amy might bolt and try to work for another partner. Working for Sam Andersen would be a de facto demotion, but working for Grant would be considered a lateral move. Not only that, Grant would take her on to soothe her ruffled feathers. She’s too damn good at her job. It’s that competitive spirit of hers—unyielding and unstoppable.

  So no innuendos until she and I have a discussion first. About us.

  “There are rumors of associates at GrantEm quietly dying from lack of sleep,” Nicholas says. He owns many different businesses, one being a headhunting and recruiting agency.

  “Untrue,” Grant says. “Most of them complain loudly as they expire.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “I never give more than they can handle.”

  Nicholas shakes his head. “If they were clones of you, sure. But they aren’t.”

  He says that all the time. Apparently, I’m too smart and too quick. I resent that because I work damn hard. “I’m in too good of a mood to argue, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “You? In good mood?” Huxley says. “Why?”

  Because Amy and I had super-hot sex. Not that I plan to announce that in front of my brothers.

  After a moment of consideration, he adds, “Did you already figure out what to get for Dad’s birthday?”

  Ah, shit. “It’s his birthday already?” Marjorie hasn’t said anything, so I figured I still had plenty of time to decide. Should’ve known better. She only works nine to five, and she is s-l-o-w. Plus, she hates giving me bad news, especially anything to do with my dad, so she procrastinates as long as she can.

  “Five weeks,” Grant says.

  “Ugh.” I hate buying stuff for Dad. He has everything a man could possibly want, including more money than me. He doesn’t like waiting and isn’t shy about voicing his displeasure when he gets something he doesn’t want. The phrase “it’s the thought that counts” doesn’t exist in Dad’s lexicon.

  I know of one gift he wouldn’t complain about: a stripper. But I’m not hiring a stripper for my father’s birthday bash. The idea is simply too gross.

  “Install one of those fancy filters you’re funding in his pool,” Noah says. “He’d like that.”

  “It’s not that kind of filter,” I say. Even if it were, no filter on earth can clean up what Dad does in his pool. It’s disgusting.

  “If you don’t mind, I have the perfect gift idea,” Sebastian says confidently, which scares me a little because Sebastian has a talent for choosing the perfect gift for everyone and every occasion. That’s why his mother’s side of the family plans to have him lead Sebastian Jewelry one day.

  And yes, Sebastian giving us the perfect gift idea for Dad would be great, except it would have to involve something I won’t like. Dad doesn’t do tasteful.

  “Do I want to hear this when I’m not done eating yet?” I ask.

  “Sure. It isn’t that gross. I guarantee he’ll laugh and thank us.”

  “He never laughs or thanks anyone for a present,” Nicholas says.

  “He will for this one.”

  “Are we getting him cats?” Griffin says, dread etched on his pretty face. It must’ve made a lot of girls sign up for his econometrics course, not realizing the hell they were volunteering themselves for. If they got really lucky they ended up with him in behavioral economics, but he only teaches that once in a while.

  Huxley snorts. “Pussies, maybe.”

  I’m skeptical, too. Nicholas is right; Dad basically appreciates nothing. When I got accepted to Stanford, he merely nodded and said, “Tell Joey how much you need for tuition and fees. He’ll cut you a check and get you a Maserati. You can pick the color.”

  It wasn’t personal, though. He did that to all of us. When we graduated, he didn’t come to graduation for any of us. Said it’d be unfair to go to one and not the others. He booked first-class tickets for our mothers to attend the ceremonies and sent each of us a Lamborghini to replace the Maserati from four years earlier. And then he went and partied in the Bahamas with his harem.

  It’s just the way he is. And, viewed in a certain light, it’s practical. What would I do with some praise from Dad? After a while, I’d probably just forget whatever he said. But his paying for college and giving me brand-new cars have a lasting impact. No student loans to worry about. And some sleek, sexy transportation I could rely on.

  Of course, I don’t have his Lamborghini anymore. I’m too old to drive Daddy’s Lambo. I got myself a new one.

  Sebastian leans forward. “Okay. Imagine your ideal type.”

  “Of what?” Noah says.

  “Of woman, obviously.”

  I gaze beyond my brothers and let my mind wander. It doesn’t take long to settle on my ideal type.

  Long, soft golden hair I wanted to run my fingers through the moment I laid eyes on her. A lush red mouth that curves into a smile or purses when she thinks. Bright, intelligent blue eyes that never fail to jack up my pulse every time I look into them. A slim body with small, rounded breasts and long legs encased in monochromatic business outfits that beg to be ripped off her. Such sensuality shouldn’t be hidden.

  She can talk Excel and capitalization for hours without her eyes glazing over. A terrible taste in men, but nobody’s perfect. I can overlook that little flaw. Even fix it.

  “Now, imagine hiring somebody like that, seven different women, and putting them all into a fake cake,” Sebastian says.

  Amy in a cake. She should put on something sexy. A red dress. Maybe a bikini. Actually, forget that. Just a red ribbon around her neck.

  “Afterward, we have the staff bring it out—"

  Mmm, that’s hot.

  “—right before everyone sings ‘Happy Birthday’ and have the girls jump out at the end—”

  I would kill to have Amy pop out of a cake and wish me happy birthday…

  “—and give Dad a kiss on his cheek.”

  Record scratch!

  “That’s a terrible idea,” I state flatly. I can just imagine the scene: Dad trying to sleep with all of them—at the same time. Or they with him. And drama. Lots and lots of drama because there will be other women at the party who want to bang him for reasons that have nothing to do with his personality.

  “Oh, I agree it’s totally inappropriate. But he’ll love it, which means we’ll have another year of peace,” Sebastian says.

  Grant nods. So does Griffin.

  “Come on, Emmett,” Sebastian says. “If he hates our gifts, he’ll have a Christmas party and find some way to force us to attend.”

  I shudder. Dad’s Christmas parties are a punishment. We’ve had to attend three of them so far. That’s where we discovered a whole new meaning to Santa’s little helper at the tender age of ten, and that’s the least of what we learned.

  “But giving him strippers in a cake is so…vulgar,” Huxley says.

  “Got a better idea? I’m open because I don’t want to do strippers either, to be honest. Grandpa’s going to be pissed if he sees it in the gossip rags.” Sebastian’s maternal grandparents are super traditional. I’m pretty sure that his mother getting pregnant—out of wedlock—by a marriage-hating serial womanizer is the reason she was disowned.

  “He doesn’t deserve all those girls,” Griffin says morosely. “I wish he’d break something before the party, so none of us would have to go.”

  I’m not particularly religious, but I’d light a candle or two to make that come true. Unfortunately, Dad’s healthy as a horse and he’s never broken a bone in his life. The man’s like Wolverine.

  Huxley looks around the table. “I have a different idea. Might make things more palatable, and he won’t complain too much, either.”

  I down the rest of my champagne, wishing I had something stronger. “Let’s hear it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Amy

  After I’m done with my shower and am pouring myself a cup of coffee, Sasha comes out of her room, yawning. She’s in nothing but a nightshirt, which shows off her long legs and arms. She walks like a ballerina, the result of taking ballet lessons from kindergarten to college.

  She runs her fingers through messy hair, then blinks at me. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to Lake Tahoe?”

  “Rick and I broke up.” I feel kind of flat about it. More important things from last night are occupying my mind at the moment.

  Her jaw drops. “No way!”

  “Way. And it happened over text, too.” I give her my mug of coffee and pour myself another.

  “Thanks.” She wraps her slim fingers around the mug and takes the stool next to me. “So what happened?” she asks, obviously wanting to know everything she can about the breakup so she can lend me the moral support I deserve.

  I tell her. She listens, her eyes gradually going feral as the story spins out and the caffeine starts to hit her system.

  “Oh my God! What an asshole!”

  “Exactly,” I say, and sip my coffee.

  “Who does he think he is? Elon Musk?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Elon Musk is your type?” I wonder if Gage looks like the ultra-rich billionaire.

  “No. But multibillion bucks is.” Sasha lifts her chin with the haughtiness of a prima ballerina. “A man’s gotta be that rich before he gets to say, ‘Me or the job.’ But even that amount of cash wouldn’t guarantee I’d pick him.”

  I laugh. “I can always count on you to make me feel better.”

  “Girlfriend, some men are junk bonds. Just not worth the investment.” Sasha evaluates men like a rating agency. If they aren’t investment grade, she won’t even look at them. “We didn’t put in all those hours and work at Goldman and Wharton to be somebody’s girlfriend for a while. We’re here to go to places. And get ourselves some triple-A guys.”

  I grin, pleased with her support, until a small part of me remembers what else I did last night—showing Emmett what being a cheap sex object feels like. Shit. That’s what I really need advice and support on, more than the breakup with Rick.

  I don’t want to tell her everything straight, though. It’s embarrassingly awkward. Plus, although she mainly works with Grant, she does see Emmett around the office. And that could make her feel weird. I certainly wouldn’t want to know about Grant’s penis or his bedroom—office?—performance.

  All right. Time to keep this smooth. And share just enough details to get some guidance. “Hey, I got a question for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “There’s this girl I know…”

  “Uh-huh.” She takes a sip of her coffee.

  “She kissed her boss.” I say it in my most nonchalant voice.

  Sasha blinks slowly. “Like a peck kiss? Or a kiss kiss with tongue action?”

  “Tongue to tonsils. According to the girl.”

  Her eyes grow wide with curiosity. Sasha loves a good story, although she can be discreet when the situation calls for it. You have to know how to keep a secret to work in finance. People who can’t keep their mouths shut ruin their reps or end up in jail. Sometimes both. “Is he hot?”

  I recall how Emmett looks. An urge to lick my lips overwhelms me, so I drink my coffee instead. “Yeah. Uh, apparently.”

  “Did he object to the kiss?”

  I think back on the encounter. A lot of it is sort of foggy from the lack of sleep and too much caffeine and low blood sugar, but Emmett did definitely put his tongue in my mouth. That isn’t what someone does when they want to quit kissing. “I don’t think so.” Besides, we did a hell of a lot more than just kiss.

  Sasha’s dark eyes twinkle. “Does she want to sleep with him?”

  Kind of a moot question now! But I pretend to give it some consideration. “No. I don’t think so.” A depressing and annoying thought pops into my head. “When a female subordinate sleeps with her boss, people assume she boinked her way up the corporate ladder, regardless of the truth.” My résumé is freakin’ awesome, and I don’t want that kind of stain on my work history. Damn it.

  “See, that’s what’s wrong with our culture.” Sasha shakes her head. “People are narrow-minded. Nobody ever thinks that the boss could be paying her with sex, in addition to whatever salary, to stay at the company and continue to work for him. Bosses with benefits.”

  I almost spew my coffee. “That’s not a thing.”

  “It should be. Harvard Business Review should do a case study on it. Women aren’t the only ones who can use their bodies to get what they want.” Sasha shrugs. Her attitude stuns me at times, but then, she was raised in France and she’s very open about sexuality.

  “Men don’t offer sex as payment because women don’t generally go for it,” I point out, thinking about most men I know in my life, including all my ex-boyfriends. “I sure wouldn’t.”

  “Obviously. We’re more practical than men, and have higher standards. But if Chris Evans said, ‘Hey, babe, I want to pay you with sex,’ would you say no?”

  “I actually prefer Thor.” And she should know. Superhero flicks get only one viewing out of me—at most—but the Thor movies all got two despite my hellish schedule.

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Chris Hemsworth.”

  I imagine the scenario, except it isn’t Chris Hemsworth saying the line, but Emmett. He’s sporting that sexy grin, his eyes sparkling silver-blue like moonlight off a river. His mouth is slightly red and wet from a hot-as-hell kiss we just shared. While I’m trying to catch my breath, he says, “Hey, babe, I want to pay you with sex.”

  My cold, logical side says the only correct answer is “Hell no,” but the other side—which currently makes up ninety percent—says I should pretend to give it some serious thought and then slowly say yes, so he knows it wasn’t an easy yes. Men appreciate what they have to work for.

  Oh, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with me? I slap a hand over my eyes. Given what happened last night, I’ll be lucky if Emmett doesn’t fire me. Or subject me to whatever his devious mind decides is a suitable punishment. On top of that, I need to see him later today, so I’d better get my head out of the gutter.

  Next time I face him, I’m going to be on my best behavior. The perfectly professional Amy Sand, second-year associate at GrantEm Capital with only the purest financial thoughts in her brain.

  “Well?” Sasha asks, her eyes glinting with determination. She won’t back off until I give her an answer.

  “I’d be flattered, but I don’t know,” I say finally, trying to hide my unsteady heartbeat, while my hormones scream, Just say yes to Emmett! He can do you good!

  She sighs. “That’s depressingly repressed. I’d totally do Thor.”

  “What about Gage?” I quip.

  “He can watch.” She laughs lightly, then sobers. “Look, I know you and Emmett have this weird chemistry.” Her expression says I’m not fooling anybody.

  “What?” My laughter is shaky, but I pray it just sounds light and dismissive to Sasha. “Girl, what are you talking about? Emmett and I aren’t… You’re being ridiculous. I was asking for somebody I know, not me. Geez, Sasha.”

  She gives me a look. “Come on. Everyone at the firm knows. There’s a betting pool on when you guys are going to start going out.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me. It’s been going on for over a year now.”

  “Over a year?”

  She spreads her hands. “It started about two or three months after we started. I thought you knew.”

  “I had no idea! Oh my God! I can barely stand the man!” I didn’t, by chance, shoot him a come-hither look without meaning to…did I? Do people think I’m getting ahead by flirting with my boss? Being sexually suggestive? A betting pool means people think Emmett and I haven’t slept together, but that doesn’t mean they won’t speculate. Is that why Marion asked one too many questions about Emmett during the interview? Does he suspect—

  “Uh-huh,” Sasha says. “All that palpable love-hate. It’s hard to hate a man with a face like that, so I understand. We all do.”

  Obviously, since every time I look at Emmett I’m struck by how hot he is, even while I want to strangle him for torpedoing another of my evenings. Especially when I haven’t had much sleep for a while. God must’ve realized when He created Emmett to be such an asshole, He’d need to give the man something else to ensure his survival. I just wish God had chosen respect for his underlings’ private time and need for sleep as the survival-enabling feature. Awe-inspiring male beauty is a problem.

  Don’t forget his magic orgasm penis, my mind whispers.

  Shut the hell up!

  Sasha puts a steadying hand out, like I’m a rabid dog frothing at the mouth. “Don’t worry. Nobody thinks you’re sleeping with him or anything. I mean, yet.”