Page 1 of Stuck with the Hot Boss
Chapter One
‘Stupid crappy padlock!Uselesstiny key!’
Evie tried to pull the heart-shaped padlock off the bridge railing, but it wouldn’t budge. Now, she was trying to scratch her ex’s name off, but the key was too small and flimsy to make a mark. Ironic that this cheap piece of crap would last longer than her relationship. Or maybe not. With the benefit of hindsight and rage, she could see that the signs had been there from the start.
She and her ex, aka Shithead Shaun, had bought the padlock at some tacky souvenir shop near the bridge. For twice the cost, it also did engraving. After fastening it to the metal railings, she and Shithead had each taken one of the little keys that came with it. Evie had strung hers on a fine silver chain and hung it around her neck – close to her heart. Shithead had added his to his key chain, along with the key to his 1985 Toyota Corolla coupe, CrossFit gym access fob, and a miniature plastic licence plate that said M1NG1N.
Yes, the signs had been there, all pointing to the fact that Shithead was not a keeper. And all ignored by her in the face of his tousled blond handsomeness and, to be fair, his unfailing good humour, and generosity in bed. They’d been together justover a year, long enough and happily enough for Evie to assume the relationship would go longer. But two weeks ago, Tuesday morning, after giving her several orgasms, Shaun announced he was leaving her. He was out the door before she could form a clear thought.
Evie supposed it was like the old saying: easy come, easy go.
‘How can I make jokes when I’m heartbroken?!’ she demanded out loud of the universe.
‘Was it a good joke?’
If the universe had a voice, it would probably sound like this one. Calm, and with a richness that made Evie think of a high-class chocolate cake with one of those fiendishly tricky mirror-gloss finishes. Part of her didn’t want to turn and see who the voice really belonged to. Right now, a little bit of magic would be very welcome.
The man she encountered seemed friendly. Face pleasantly ordinary apart from a striking pair of greeny-gold eyes. He was wearing what looked like council-worker overalls, and in his hand was some kind of tool with long handles.
‘Joke was passable,’ Evie said. ‘Not my best work, but I’m not in my best mood.’
The council worker’s gaze took in the tiny useless key that Evie was still clutching in one hand, and the piece of crap padlock that remained unscratched.
‘Would this help?’
He lifted up the long-handled tool, and Evie saw it was a bolt cutter. It was mid-morning Saturday, and the bridge was crowded with pedestrians, so Evie was fairly confident she was not about to be assaulted with a deadly weapon. But still–
‘Why are you carrying a bolt cutter around?’
‘It’s my job.’
The-hopefully-not-a-serial-killer leaned in and with one firm snip, severed the padlock from the railing. He offered the broken piece of crap to Evie.
‘I assume you don’t want it?’
‘You assume correctly.’
The now-confirmed council worker tossed the padlock into a plastic wheeled bin behind them that Evie had so far failed to notice. She stepped closer and peered in. It was half-full. Of padlocks.
‘This is your job?’ Evie asked. ‘Cutting padlocks off bridges?’
‘Do you know how much they weigh combined?’
Evie did not, but she had once correctly guessed the number of jellybeans in a jar at her local pub and won the lot. She didn’t even like jellybeans, but that wasn’t the point.
‘Ninety-three thousand pounds?’
‘Good guess.’ The council worker looked impressed. ‘Heavy enough to cause damage. A few years back, a bridge in Paris lost a whole railing. Collapsed into the Seine.’
Evie assessed the suspension bridge they were standing on. When the first lot of people had walked on London’s Millennium Bridge, it began to sway alarmingly, so the officials hustled everyone off and added extra strengthening. But obviously not enough to bear the weight of over forty tons of padlocks. Below them was the Thames, a venerable, almost mythical river, but not one you’d want to plunge into unless you’d enjoy a week-long bout of gastroenteritis.
‘How do you choose which padlocks to remove?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to guess I wanted this one chucked in the bin, but it seems a bit unfair to couples who’re actually making a go of it.’
The council worker stared at her, as if puzzled by the question.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
Evie smiled politely. He was messing with her, had to be. Even the most cursory glance showed that none of the padlocks looked special. Whether they were heart-shaped, round or square, shiny and new or rusted and pitted, to Evie, every padlock gave off the same tacky vibe. Of course, she hadn’t thought so when she and Shithead had fastened theirs. Then, she’d seen the gesture as the height of romance, and a guarantee of her happy ever after.
