Page 5 of Boss Me

2

COOPER

When I’d approved the open-plan design of the sixth floor of our building, I never anticipated needing somewhere other than my office to get my shit together.

I worked hard to make my office a place of calm, a place where I could recall the peace and safety of the island and where none of the bad memories, memories of the man who’d given me my name, could intrude.

Nevertheless, my office was where I’d just lost my shit.

Despite the ache from the cuts, my palm itched for a stress ball or a punching bag, some way to get the tension out of my muscles, to cool the anger bubbling in my veins. If I had the courage to look in a mirror, I was sure my reflection would remind me of my father’s face, scarlet with rage.

Somehow I ended up in front of Weston’s office. It made sense because from the early days when we’d taken Synergy public, he’d acted almost like a father to me, giving me the kind of advice my own father wasn’t wise or sober enough to give.

“He in?” I paused in front of Julie’s desk.

She stared at me, wide-eyed, before dropping her gaze to the bloody handkerchief wrapped around my hand.

“He’s on a call.”

“I need him.” I strode past her desk and straight into Weston’s office.

“But—”

I closed the door on her protest.

Weston glanced over his shoulder. His impeccable loafers rested on the credenza in front of the window. Unlike mine, his view of the bay was unobstructed by the neighboring building. Gray water churned under the hovering clouds.

He held up a finger and lowered his feet. “I’m going to have to call you back.” He tugged out his earphone and laid it on the desk.

His eyes fell to my handkerchief-wrapped palm. “What happened?”

I covered it with my other hand. “An accident.”

“I see.” And he did. His clear eyes saw right down to the roiling core of me. He stood and gestured at the studded leather sofa.

I perched on it. Weston’s furniture wasn’t comfortable enough to sink into. Besides, my body still vibrated with the adrenaline that roared through my blood.

He sat in the high-backed wing chair next to the sofa and crossed his legs. A few inches of plain black dress sock were visible under the hem of his wool pants.

My voice was too calm, even in my ears. “I’m going to the New England Entrepreneurs’ conference. For Jackson.”

“You volunteered to go?” His dark eyebrows winged up over eyes that matched the deep blue of his silk tie.

“Not exactly. His wife and the baby are sick. He needs to take care of them and their other kid.” It sounded perfectly reasonable when I said it. Why had I blown up on him when he told me? I gripped my cut-up hand with my other one.

“Didn’t you just get back from Asia?”

“I did. I don’t suppose you want to go to Boston?”

He chuckled. “Sorry, I’ve got Phoebe this week.”

I glanced at the photo on his desk. Weston stood next to his daughter in her riding helmet and coat, his arms around her shoulders and her small hand holding the leather reins of the chestnut horse on her other side.

“You could always cancel,” he said.

My jaw clenched. “Synergy doesn’t cancel on its commitments. Not to customers, not to our employees, not to fellow entrepreneurs. And not at the last minute.”

“They’d understand. Have Jones call them.”

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