Page 22 of #Bossholes

Preferably with you, Mr. Doorman, so I can get the hell out of here.My brother is waiting for me to cook dinner and I need to see if Brian’s dumbass is going to pick up the guitar he left at my place before I donate it to Goodwill.

“Miss Rhodes, I’ve been expecting you. I’m Josh, the afternoon concierge. I expect we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.”

God, I hope not. The last thing I want to do is make this a regular Friday evening occurrence. No, thank you. I have much better things to do with my time.

“It’s nice to meet you, Josh.”

He’s all smiles as he holds up a set of keys, jangling them in the air. He seems nice. Too nice.

I can’t help but wonder how well he knows my bosses.

Looking at the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the streaks of gray through his dark hair, I’d put him somewhere in his mid-forties. Either he’s new to the building or has some kind of superpower. He looks like he actually likes them. Odd. And here I was thinking there was no way they could have any friends. “Here are their keys. Each one is labeled with theirapartment number, and here’s a Post-It with the elevator code to the penthouses. If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you; I will,” I murmur, taking the offered keys and the bright pink Post-It.

I’m about halfway to the elevator when Josh appears at my side, and I jump, nearly dropping half the suits.

“I almost forgot. Mr. Wallace requested the suits be hung up in their respective bedroom closets.”

Because of course these guys would assume I automatically know which apartment belongs to which boss. Just like on Wednesday when Wyatt demanded his morning coffee without telling me how he likes it. Not only was it my second day with them, but my first morning. How the hell was I supposed to know he likes it with a dash of cream and two sugars?

See what I mean?

They’re impossible with a capital I.

I have half a mind to go to the first apartment and toss everything over the back of the couch. They’ll figure it out. Except then I’d be subject to another lecture from Brantley, explaining exactly how important every minute detail is.

At least, I’ll get to see where he sleeps. I’m ninety-nine percent sure Brantley drinks the blood of his enemies and then lays down for a little nap in his velvet-lined coffin.

“Got it. Thanks again.”

I’m in the elevator, code punched in, and heading to the penthouse when my phone dings from the depths of my purse. And then dings again. At this point there must be a dozen missed messages, all of which I’ve been ignoring for the past couple hours.

Why?

Because I’m a damn chicken.

Like a moron, I had a few free minutes and thought it would be a good time to search for some virgin auctions. There were a few book recommendations, a Wikipedia page, and a few listings down was an actual auction site. I was about to click on it when Brantley snuck in my office like a damn ninja. I must have jumped five feet in the air and threw my phone in my purse like it was on fire. Haven’t looked at it since.

And I won’t. Not until I’m sure I’m alone.

Turns out there are exactly three penthouses on the top floor. That’s it. I couldn’t imagine seeing these guys at work all day and then coming home where, surprise, they’re still there. I’d murder someone. Probably Brantley.

Can you imagine Wyatt knocking on Maverick’s door to borrow a cup of sugar? Or trading recipes for pot roast?

Ridiculous.

I reach the first door, find the corresponding key, and head in, hoping they’ll all still be at the office for the foreseeable future. Especially since I have to wander around and try to figure out whose freaking place I’m in.

The apartment is huge, not that I expected anything different, and is decorated with neutrals and bold pops of color. There’s no way this is Brantley’s place and seems a little too cluttered for Wyatt. There’s dirty dishes in the sink, and I passed a couple pairs of shoes by the front door.

That leaves Maverick.

I’m tempted to snoop around, see if there are any skeletons lurking around in his closets, but I don’t want to be here all night. Nor do I want to be caught staring at his rumpled king-sized bed like I’m imagining the two of us rolling around in it. So, I hightail it through his room, find his closet, hang up everything with his name on it, and take off to the next apartment.

This one is easy. The large leather furniture, accented with dark wood, and the faint smell of clove give it away.

Brantley. His layout is similar, and I find his bedroom with ease. Sadly, there’s no coffin, just a perfectly made bed with white sheets and a matching fluffy duvet. It looks comfortable as heck and as much as I hate myself for thinking it, I’d love to curl up underneath that thing with my Kindle.

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