by Grey, R. S.
Coldhearted Boss
R.S. Grey
Coldhearted Boss
Copyright © 2019 R.S. Grey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published: R.S. Grey 2019
[email protected]
Editing: Editing by C. Marie
Proofreading: JaVa Editing, Red Leaf Proofing
Cover Design: R.S. Grey
Contents
Author’s Note
Coldhearted Boss
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Excerpt
Arrogant Devil
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Stay Connected
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note:
Coldhearted Boss is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve included an excerpt from my bestselling romantic comedy Arrogant Devil.
Coldhearted Boss concludes at around 90% on your device.
Happy Reading!
XO, RS Grey
Chapter 1
Taylor
I hang up my phone with an angry groan and let my forehead smack against the bar. The wood doesn’t bite as much as I want it to. I was hoping I’d blackout for a couple minutes or—even better—experience a nice bout of amnesia. Nothing too crazy, just maybe I’d forget who I am and where I live and why my life is a bleak desolate nightmare.
Angrier than ever, I clutch my cheap prepaid phone in my lap and tighten my grip, wondering how close I am to pulverizing it. Surely it’s not that hard. Just…a little…tighter. The phone stares back at me in one piece, gloating. I let out a defeated sigh just as a glass hits the bar near my head.
“These are on the house.”
I crane my neck only high enough that I’m eye level with a shot glass full of maraschino cherries. They’re nudged farther in my direction by the surly-looking bartender.
“Aren’t those always on the house?” I remark with a healthy dose of snark. I’m taking my anger out on the wrong person.
“For paying customers,” he mutters, reaching to take them back.
Shaken by the idea that he’s going to revoke his offer and steal what will likely be my only dinner, I sit up quickly and swipe the shot glass away from him, aiming a grateful smile his way. It’s been so long since I’ve felt gratitude that I don’t think I achieve the desired effect. My teeth are clenched in more of a pseudo-snarl rather than an actual smile. He shoots me an odd look and then shakes his head, moving down to the other end of the bar to unpack some new bottles of liquor.
He’s new here, a bear of a man as old as my father—or as old as my father would be if he were around. I reach for a cherry and pop it into my mouth. The sweet syrup coats my tongue and I wish the usual bartender were here. David gets it. He grew up in Oak Dale too. He would have heard my groan and seen my forehead resting on the bar and known, without having to ask, that another piece of my life had crumbled at my feet. He wouldn’t have bothered with cherries, would have offered me a glass of the hard stuff, and tonight, I might have taken him up on it.
Then, he would have gone down the list.
“How’s your mom?” he would have asked.
“Two years sober next month.”
“Sister?”
“Still getting straight As and better now that she’s on a new medication.”
“Ah, so it’s just life in general getting you down then?”
I’d have aimed a rueful smile his way. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
He would have laughed at that and then gone on to serve another customer. There are never many in here. Most locals can’t afford marked-up alcohol, which means the bar mostly caters to the travelers staying in the motel next door.
I glance over my shoulder at the group of suits that were here when I first walked in. There are four of them, as fancy as they come, definitely from out of town. These men are used to smelling rarified air, not trailer trash.
Comparing our lives would be comical.
I’ve bounced from odd job to odd job since high school. Currently, I make $7 an hour working as a maid at the motel. That’s below minimum wage, but our manager doesn’t care. He says with tips, it should all break even. It doesn’t. I can’t complain, though, because there are already five of us splitting shifts, and if I don’t like it, there’s someone else ready to take my place.
These suits probably spend $7 on a cup of coffee every morning without a second thought. They toss the spare change into the tip jar, pick up their macchiato espresso chai teas, and glide through life like it’s a fairytale.
A girl like me has no use for fairytales. They won’t keep you warm or clothed or well fed.
The guy who’s sitting in the chair facing the bar catches me watching them. When our eyes lock, my stomach clenches tight enough to give me instant abs.
He’s the best-looking one among them, the one I noticed right away.
In their fairytale, he’s the prince. There is no one on Earth more princely than him. His sharp cheekbones and square, clean-shaven jaw are set off by thick, dark brown hair. He’s tan, as if he spends his days outdoors, but that can’t be right because his suit fits his tall, muscular frame like a glove and his hair is too perfect. Which is it? Are you stuck in a boardroom all day or splitting logs in the woods?
He doesn’t smile with interest like most guys would when he notices my unabashed perusal. Instead, he raises one dark brow as if to say, Almost done? and I realize I was wrong before. This one’s not the prince in the fairytale.
He’s the dragon.
I turn back around, too overwhelmed by my current predicament to feel any sort of embarrassment. So what if he’s beautiful? When your car is falling to pieces and you’re stuck in a dead-end job and the best you can hope for at the end of the day is a crappy couch shoved inside a too-small trailer, beauty of any kind loses its luster.
My phone rings on my lap and I answer it quickly.
“Mom?”
“Hey, why aren’t you home yet?”
“I’m waiting for Jeremy to come pick me up.”
“I thought you were getting the car back today?”
I’m careful with
my sigh, not wanting her to hear it. “I was, until the mechanic called this morning and told me there’s more to it than just the busted engine. It needs a ton of work. He spent the day getting a quote together.”
“How much?”
I pinch my eyes closed. “Over $400 just for the parts.”
Her heavy sigh breaks my heart, and I’m glad I didn’t tell her the real number.
“I’m going to figure it out though,” I insist, sounding sure of myself. “I’ve already started thinking of how we can get the money.”
“Did you ask Mr. Harris for an advance?”
She and I discussed that possibility last night.
“Yes.”
“And?”
My stomach twists as I recall my encounter with my boss at the motel this afternoon, his too-tight shirt stretched over his pot belly, his leftover tuna sandwich stinking up his dingy office. When I told him why I needed the small advance, explaining how much my family and I depend on our car—it’s how McKenna gets to school, how I get to work, and how my mom gets to Livingston on the weekends to take classes so she can finally become a certified aesthetician—he leaned back in his chair, digging between his teeth with a toothpick. Really working at the tuna fish stuck between them.
“So it’s a few extra bucks you want?” he asked, leering at my chest.
My uniform—a drab khaki dress—would have been formfitting if I hadn’t sized up on my first day at the job. I did that to prevent this very thing: Mr. Harris looking at me like I’m an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“How badly do you need it?” he continued as his eyes dragged lower. His meaty hands clenched tight. He wanted to squash me like a butterfly.
Our conversation didn’t continue after that.
“He can’t give me one,” I report to my mom, shivering at the remnants of that memory. “But there are other ways—”
“I’ll pick up some shifts at Lonny’s,” she suggests, sounding like she hates the words even as they leave her mouth.
I sit up straighter and press the phone closer to my mouth. “No, Mom. No.” I’m angry now, angry that we’ve been put in this position. “We’ll figure out another option.”
Lonny’s always been my mom’s worst vice. He’s the one who got her into drinking so heavily in the first place, a guy who’d trade his soul for a bottle of tequila. The day she kicked him to the curb was one of the best days of my life. I won’t let us slide backward, not when we’re so close to getting our feet under us for good. My mom will graduate from her program this summer and then she can start her own salon and be able to support herself and McKenna without my help. I’ll be free. Finally.
“All right. I just don’t want you to feel like this is all on your shoulders.”
I pick at a speck of dirt on my jeans, the pair I bring to work every day so I can rip that khaki dress off as soon as my shift ends. The day I quit, I’ll burn it in a dumpster.
“It’s fine. Really.”
“When’s your cousin supposed to pick you up anyway? It’s already 8:30.”
“He had a late shift.”
“All right. Call me if he doesn’t show up and I’ll see if Nancy can come grab you.”
The last half of her sentence fades as one of the suits comes up to the bar to order another round. I don’t have to glance over to realize it’s him. He’s two stools down from me—far enough away that it isn’t presumptuous, but close enough to send a message.
“Okay, I gotta go,” I say, already pulling the phone away from my ear.
“Love you,” she says, just before I hang up.
I drop my phone on the bar as the suit finally speaks.
“Can I get two Dos Equis with lime and two Bud Lights?”
His voice sends a warm shiver down my spine. It’s smooth and refined, no hint of a twang.
The bartender grunts and starts reaching for beers so he can pop the tops.
I glance to my left just enough to see that the suit is checking out my shot glass full of cherries with narrowed eyes. It dawns on me that he probably thinks I’m underage.
“I’ll take a Dos Equis too,” I blurt out suddenly, without thought. Apparently, my pride is worth the five bucks the beer will cost me, though that’s nearly an hour’s wage. An hour of scrubbing toilets and making beds and trying to avoid weird stains left by weird people, all gone because of a childish impulse.
I don’t want a beer, but now I have no choice because the bartender’s already popping the top and reaching for limes.
Country music plays softly, filling the silence that stretches between me and the suit. If he’s going to make a move, this is his time to do it.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to turn fully toward me and say something charming. I’ve heard a lot of opening lines from a lot of men in this town, nearly all of them unwelcome. It’s got me curious to see what this guy has to offer. Surely he’d be better. Surely he knows how to make a woman forget about her troubles, even if just for the night.
I peer over at him from beneath my lashes. He’s taken off his suit jacket, and his white collared shirt is rolled up to reveal his muscled forearms. His shiny silver watch winks at me under the hazy bar lights. Its dark brown leather strap is a good disguise, but I still recognize its value—likely more than the car I’m trying desperately to fix or even the trailer my mom inherited from her father that we’ve lived in my whole life.
That damn watch is a sucker punch to my gut after the day I’ve had, a visual representation of how different life is for some people.
Five beers clink on the bar top, and before the suit walks away with four of them, he tells the bartender to add my beer to his tab. Just that. Not a word in my direction. He just assumes I want him paying for my beer.
Arrogant bastard.
If I could afford to do it, I would refuse. Instead, I say nothing.
As he walks back to rejoin his friends, I dissect every possible motive he might have had for buying my drink. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he took one look at my thrift-store jeans and white t-shirt and felt a sense of pity. Sure, there’s a little hole in the armpit, but it’s still a decent shirt!
Whatever he was thinking, that beer tastes like piss as I down the first sip.
I want to leave it there on the bar, untouched, but I have nothing better to do than drink it as I sit and wait for Jeremy to come pick me up. He’s late and not answering his phone. I try his number again and the call goes unanswered. I’m half convinced he won’t show up at all.
I stifle a groan at the idea of having to find another way home. There’s a ten-mile stretch of highway between our trailer and this bar, ten miles I’d have to walk in the dead of night. I’ve done it before, a few times, but I’d rather not do it today. I don’t think I have it in me. I’d be better off heading to that booth in the corner and tucking myself in for the night.
When a round of laughter comes from the men behind me, I resist the urge to turn around. Another sip of beer warms my belly, and I realize it’s starting to go to my head. I’m a lightweight. I don’t drink often, and especially not on an empty stomach. The world gets fuzzy and my problems come into sharp focus.
I lied to my mom on the phone. When I told her we could figure out another option, I sounded hopeful, but what hope is there? What options are there in a town as small as Oak Dale? The truth is we’re at rock bottom. We’ve been surviving down here so long, I’m not quite sure what life would feel like otherwise.
When I’m done with my beer, I push it away and polish off my cherries. I can practically hear my stomach groaning in protest: Please, please put some kind of leafy green inside me before you die.
Chairs screech across the floor as the suits stand to leave. One of them comes up to the bar to close out their tab, but it’s not the one I’m interested in, so what do I care?
There’s a sense of loss as I realize he’s going with them, exiting the bar and leaving me behind.
As they walk out, I strain my ears, t
rying to listen for him, but they’re all chatting at once and I can’t distinguish one voice from another. The bar’s door swings open and road noise from the highway rushes in, cars zooming past our small neck of the woods on their way to someplace better.
I pick at the label on my beer as the door swings shut again, leaving me alone with two regulars down at the end of the bar and the bartender who’s still harboring ill will toward me about the cherries. I know because he keeps grumbling “ungrateful brat” under his breath. Altogether, we’d make a well-rounded cast for an antidepressant commercial, and I know I must be feeling down because even that thought doesn’t make me smile.
“You need anything?” the bartender asks, speaking to the area of the room where the suits were sitting a few minutes ago, and my head whips over my shoulder so fast I nearly fall off my stool.
He’s still there.
Alone.
Sitting at the table and telling the bartender he’s all set. He doesn’t want another drink…so then why is he still here? There’s no game on the TV over the bar—it’s been busted for years. There’s no one around to offer up witty conversation unless you count the belching pair in the far corner. (I don’t.)
Then his gaze finds mine and I get it.
He’s here for me.
My heart lurches to a stop, misses a beat, and then starts to thump wildly.
He’s not the answer to my problems. He’d be nothing more than a distraction, a short reprieve from the weight of life’s boot on my neck.
