Page 6 of Heartless Boss
N: B there in 20.
Me: Ok.
I set my phone on my desk, kick up my loafers, and wait.
Chapter Three
Gia
After lunch, I take my sweet time getting back to the office. I stopped by Patsy’s on Fifty-Sixth Street, my favorite Italian restaurant, and filled my stomach with spaghetti and meatballs, then I stopped by Staples and bought colored pens on his credit card. I feel guilty for spending his money.
I hang his dry cleaning on the hook on the door in his spacious bathroom. Shaking my head, I set Gunner’s Rolex, worth more than my yearly salary, and his credit card on the glass desk and park my butt on the velvet couch pushed against the glass wall.
“Fix this mess, Mason. I don’t care how you do it.” Gunner speaks through the Bluetooth and a vein pops hard from his neck. He leans forward in his executive chair, stabbing the glass desk with his thick index finger.
Gunner is the type of man who, if he wants something, he doesn’t ask—he takes. Working for him taught me one thing, he likes control and power. He rips shareholders’ heads off in meetings like it’s his favorite cheap thrill. God forbid, if he thinks you’re a threat to his company, he’ll swallow you whole and spit you out.
Craig, the owner of Spencer Banking, a swanky man and a nose-picker with white patches decorating his face (the guy was as creepy as the Crypt-Keeper), thought it would be a good idea to mess with Gunner.
Gunner leaked to the media that Craig was screwing over shareholders, stealing money from his board members and employees. The news spread faster than a wildfire. Like the wolf Gunner is, he left Craig so broke he went from living in a million-dollar mansion to living in a studio apartment with his mom who suffered from dementia. To put the nail in the coffin for ruining the poor guy’s life, Gunner screwed his wife. Once you’re on Gunner’s hit list it’s a wrap, he’s going for blood.
In the banking world, Underwood Banking is his territory, and if you’re pissing on it prepare to get devoured like prey.
Gunner is the wolf of banks.
“Get Frank on the fucking phone. We need to clear this matter right now. Or I’m pulling my goddamn ten million off the table.”
He stands up from the desk, his black Italian loafers slapping against the black carpet, and he thrusts his thick fingers through his damp hair.
Why is his hair wet?
He’s changed from his gray suit he was wearing earlier to a black Armani without a tie. When I inhale a lungful of air, it smells weird—like expensive perfume that isn’t mine, and booty? Maybe?
What is that godawful smell? I wave my hand in front of my face.
I stare at Gunner’s face like the answer is written on it.
He has flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and messy hair. (Though his hair is always messy so that doesn’t count.)
Then it hits me like a ton of bricks.
On this couch. Just no. Eww.
He’s so gross.
I jump from the couch like my butt is on fire and sit in the black plastic chair in front of his desk. Gunner cocks his bushy eyebrow.
“All right. I better have a full report by five o’clock.”
Exhaling, he plucks the Bluetooth piece from his ear and sets it on the desk, and mumbles, “Fuck,” under his breath. That little word causes my stomach to clench.
“You had sex in here!” I say incredulously.
“What?” Guilt slices through his face.
“That’s why you gave me a buttload of errands to run, you got some booty.”
He sits on the edge of his desk looking like sex in a suit. Men wearing suits were never my jam—I always had a libido for guys from the blue-collar crowd—but the way the suit hugs his biceps is making my vagina jump for joy, and the way his ironed black slacks look around his waist with a leather belt makes me want to melt in a puddle.
