Page 2 of Boss of Me
Ember, who’s three years older than me, has always been overprotective. We lost our father when we were young. After his sudden death, our mom pretty much checked out of parenting. Consumed with grief and anger, she threw herself into work with a vengeance, leaving my sister and me to fend for ourselves. Ember assumed the role of caregiver—helping me with homework, signing my permission slips, giving me boy advice when we got older. It may sound like a sappy cliché, but I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s my rock.
Even when she’s nagging the shit out of me.
She sighs again. “If the guy’s an asshole, just shoot me a text and I’ll bail you out with a fake emergency.”
I laugh. I wouldn’t actually take her up on her offer, but it never hurts to have an escape plan.
“Be safe,” she warns in her bossy lawyer voice. “And text me when you get there so I’ll have a physical description of the guy in case you go missing.”
“Really, Em?”
“Yes, really.”
I roll my eyes. “As you’ve repeatedly pointed out, he’s the son of my boss’s best friend. If anything happened to me tonight, he’d be the prime suspect. Would he really risk going to prison just to kidnap me?”
“I sure hope not. But there are a lot of sickos out there. So make sure you call me the second you get home, no matter how late it is.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a mock salute she can’t see. “Can I go now?”
“I suppose. But if I don’t hear from you?—”
I hang up on her in laughing exasperation, then take one last look at my reflection in the mirror.
Dawson and I are meeting for drinks at some hipster bar called The Jaded Zombie. I’m wearing a white linen sundress with spaghetti straps, a fitted waist and a flared skirt. As a data specialist, I usually keep my hair in a messy topknot or ponytail. But tonight I’m leaving it down. It’s long and shiny, the color of melted dark chocolate. Definitely one of my best assets.
After spritzing a little perfume on my neck and wrists, I grab my purse and hurry downstairs to meet my driver.
I fidget nervously on the way to the bar. My sister’s right. I must be crazy for agreeing to go out with some man I’ve never laid eyes on before. It’s one of the most impulsive things I’ve ever done in my life. That’s not to say that I never take risks.
After graduating college this past spring, I took a huge leap of faith and moved halfway across the country to Austin, Texas—the live music capital of the world. I’d fallen in love with the city while attending the South by Southwest festival during my junior year. I didn’t know anyone here or have any job prospects when I decided to relocate. All I knew was that Austin was where I wanted to be.
My mother and sister thought I was out of my mind, and some days I had to agree with them. But three weeks after arriving in town, my gamble paid off when I landed an entry-level job with a festival technology startup.
Austin is an amazing city, and I enjoy the work I do. But I’ve been here for two months, and other than a few outings with coworkers, I haven’t developed much of a social life. Frankly, it’s starting to bug me. Which is why I let my boss pass along my number to Dawson.
But now I’m having second thoughts. What if Dawson and I have absolutely nothing in common? What if our date is acomplete disaster? What if he badmouths me to Barbara and I get fired?
As my driver approaches Sixth Street, I’m seriously tempted to tell him to keep going. I don’t, of course. But I’m tempted.
Since the bustling downtown street is closed to traffic, he drops me off a few blocks from my destination. The July evening is warm and muggy, so I’m a little sweaty by the time I reach the trendy bar.
It’s Friday night and there’s a good crowd. The music is loud and the atmosphere is lively. I hover at the entrance, scanning the bar. Dawson told me he’d arrive early and snag a table in the back corner so we’d have some privacy.
I look toward the rear of the room. And that’s when I see him.
He’s sitting alone at a table texting on his phone.
The sight of him shoots through me like a flaming arrow, setting every one of my senses on fire.
He’s not just attractive.
He’s fucking gorgeous.
Thick straight hair the color of black licorice falls across his forehead as he bends over his phone. He has slashing black eyebrows and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. The shadow of a beard accentuates the hard angle of his jaw.
He looks like a fallen angel, too beautiful for any earthly realm.
As I send up a prayer of thanks to the patron saint of matchmaking, Dawson suddenly lifts his head and sees me standing across the bar.
