Page 61 of #Bossholes

They’re not wrong. Any surgery is a big deal, and she shouldn’t have to go through all that alone because life dealt her a shitty hand. I’m sure she would appreciate having us on hand. We could grab food, medicine, whatever they needed.

Am I really considering this?

If it weren’t for Colin, I would’ve told them to mind their own damn business, although their track record for listening to anything I have to say isn’t stellar.

Still, she’s going to be pissed. If we show up with a moving truck, she could call the police. We could be arrested for trespassing.

“Did I mention there’s absolutely no security at her place? No cameras. Nothing. She only has a flimsy lock on her front door. Anyone who wanted to could easily get to her and Colin while they slept.”

Well, fuck.

If I go to jail, at least I know a few lawyers I can call.

THIRTY-TWO

Kinsley

I’m scoopingsome ice cream in a bowl for a much needed mid-afternoon snack when there’s a knock at my door. Not sure who it could be, though. June is the only one of my friends who knows where I live, and she was already here this morning.

Maybe Colin forgot something at her place?

That has to be it.

I leave my bowl on the kitchen counter and open the front door, a smile on my face. A smile that dies the second my eyes land on my three bosses.

The fuck?

As they push their way into my apartment I’m stunned, stunned for so many reasons. They’re carrying broken down boxes. There are at least ten guys behind them carrying more boxes and packing material. And Brantley, Wyatt, and Maverick are wearing jeans.

Jeans!

I’m not sure what’s more alarming—the denim or the cardboard currently being assembled and taped together.

I think the correct answer is both.

“What do you guys think you’re doing?” I catch up to Maverick, closing the silverware drawer he just opened.

He ignores me and reopens the drawer. I close it. He reopens it and packs the contents in the box he’s holding. He doesn’t look at me. Nope. He looks over me toward the movers swarming my living room. “Don’t worry about loading that couch; it’s going straight to the dump.”

“What? No one is throwing away my couch.” I whirl around and focus on the men unmounting my television from the wall. “Put that back up there.”

They don’t.

I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but this insanity has to stop. I have no intention of going anywhere. These guys are going to feel like big jackasses when they have to put everything back where it belongs.

You know what, I’m calling into work tomorrow. I’m going to be way too busy moving back into my damn apartment. They can respond to their own emails.

“Maverick, stop packing.” I’m so close to stomping my feet on the ground and throwing a tantrum. Why? Because Mr. Hotshot doesn’t even spare me a glance.

He continues packing up my kitchen and giving directions to the other guys, completely oblivious to my existence.

Anger flows through me, boiling in my veins. Usually, I have a pretty long fuse, but I think it’s safe to say these assholes snipped it and set it on fire. They may sign my paycheck, but they have no right to come into my home and pack up my things.

And for what?

God only knows, but I sure as hell hope they don’t think Colin and I are going to move in with them.

Wyatt and Maverick may have gotten one night out of me, but that’s where I draw the line. I’m done. I should’ve taken themoney and sent them on their way. I don’t know what I was thinking.

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