Romance: The Boss Read online

  Romance:

  The Boss

  Lara West

  Romance: The Boss

  Lara West

  Copyright © 2015

  Published by Run Free Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Also by Lara West:

  Stepbrother Passion

  The Boss

  Lara West

  Chapter One

  You can do this, Lauren.

  You can totally do this.

  They’re just high heels, not stilts. Steady breaths, chin up, strong legs, and show some determination.

  I step out of the cab into the brisk New York air only to become caught in an awkward balancing act of stiletto versus sidewalk.

  Damn, walking in these is hard work.

  It doesn’t help that I’m already rattled from the ride over here. I’m tempted to not even pay the cabbie. I mean, who flies through two red lights and over a pedestrian crossing with people still on it?

  A maniac, that’s who.

  “That bar you’re after is in there,” the cab driver twangs in his thick accent, pointing across the road. Although he hasn’t been the most pleasant example to draw from, I actually love the way New Yorkers talk.

  I follow his gaze over to the eighteen-story hotel rising over Central Park. Brooke had never mentioned that the bar was in a hotel… an incredibly stylish hotel that looks like a renaissance revival from the 1930s.

  “Thanks,” I stammer, reluctantly handing him some cash.

  “And if you’d mentioned earlier that you were a gold digger, I would’ve drawn you a map. There are plenty of better bars in the city where you’ll find a rich prick.”

  I stare at him mouth agape, rather in shock.

  What did he just say?

  I go to step closer to the cab to yell in my defense but one of my ankles buckle, causing my legs to also give out under me.

  Well…there goes that glamorous first impression I wanted to make in New York.

  Just as the ground seems to be coming closer by the second, a strong arm reaches out towards me. Instinctively I grab for it, its steadiness preventing me from kissing the pavement.

  The saving arm is like rock, solid and steady, holding my falling body from going any further.

  “Oh… um… thank you,” I mumble, trying to regain my balance.

  Then I look up.

  Oh.

  My.

  My eyes cast upon a tall, elegant New Yorker dressed in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit.

  Wow, I think I’m really going to like this city.

  “Careful now,” he says in a silky smooth voice that sends a shiver up my spine. “You won’t be able to do much gold digging with a sprained ankle or busted knee.”

  “Um…” I stammer, the smell of his delicious cologne momentarily causing me to lose focus. “Pardon?”

  “The cab driver seemed to think that you were going gold digging tonight,” he repeats comically.

  “Oh no, that’s not true at all,” I reply weakly, an upsurge of embarrassment washing over me. “I’m really just meeting up with a friend.”

  “I’m sure,” he smirks. “That’s what all the girls say.”

  I wish I could say something more convincing.

  Like how I have only just arrived in New York and literally only know one person here, my life-long best friend who is inside, waiting for me at the bar.

  I wish I could say how I’m just a normal girl – not some prettied-up gold digger looking for a sugar daddy.

  But I can’t.

  I can’t say anything.

  This stranger has taken my breath away.

  He shoots me another smile before he strolls back away, like he’s found the whole situation rather amusing.

  Damn.

  I watch his incredibly cute butt, wide shoulders and strong frame disappear into the distance.

  “Welcome to New York Lauren,” I whisper to myself.

  Chapter Two

  It takes a few moments, but I resume my composure.

  Gold digger? Bars where I will find a rich prick? What does everyone in New York think I look like? I know I’m twenty-six and single, but man, can’t a girl go to a nice bar and have a drink?

  Ok, so maybe some remote part of me wouldn’t mind meeting a man tonight… but rich doesn’t figure in my equation. He just has to be handsome, charming, well dressed, intelligent, and with great eyes, nice skin, strong body, wide shoulders, deep voice and a nice smile. Not a long list at all.

  I take a deep breath and decide that one rude cabbie doesn’t represent all New Yorkers, or all cab drivers for that matter. I’m not going to let my first taste of New York be ruined by some ass that doesn’t know me - Screw him.

  I quickly make my way over to the hotel—well, as quickly as these death shoes will permit me to. I know I should’ve worn shorter heels. I haven’t worn stilettos since I was eighteen, and my balance back then wasn’t very good either.

  I hate to admit it, but I’ve always been clumsy. Even as a child I always came home bruised and bloody from falls in the playground, or from running down a hill too fast so that my feet tripped near the bottom. It’s just a fact about myself that I’ve gradually been forced to accept.

  As well as the sound of my stilettos beating the sidewalk, I can also hear the wind swirling behind me. I brace my slender frame against each rushing gust, trying to shield the fresh curls in my hair that I know are already falling away.

  Great, that’s an hour in front of the mirror I’ll never get back.

  Although it’s the start of summer, the temperature is cool, barely sixty degrees. This is not exactly the New York welcome I’d been expecting.

  “Good evening, madam,” the concierge says warmly when I reach the top of the hotel’s steps, a long stretch of white concrete fanning up to its entrance.

  “Hi.” I squint, a few wisps of hair still flying across my face. “I’m looking for the Red Peacock Bar?”

  He bows his head instantly, lips pressing together in a solid smile. I wonder how many times he’s had to do that today?

  “Certainly, madam. It’s just through the foyer and on the first right.”

  “Thanks.” I smile back and step through the entrance with a big sigh of relief. Thank God I’m in the right place. The thought of having to get in another cab or go back out into that weather is almost unbearable—unless I have a stiff drink first, or ten.

  Walking through the hotel’s foyer is like stepping into a mansion with high, cream scalloped ceilings, floating crystal chandeliers, and a long, old-fashioned mahogany staircase curving up to what I imagine are the extravagant rooms above.

  I wonder how much it would cost to stay here for a night, five hundred? Six? More?

  I bet they even have executive spa suites where you can sit in a Jacuzzi overlooking the majestic glowing lights of the Manhattan skyline, the sweet combination of champagne and strawberries fizzing in your mouth…

  Oh Lauren, keep dreaming, why don’t you?

  I find the Red Peacock Bar on the first right just like the concierge had said, two open doors marking the entry with a podium for a maître d’. I can’t say I’ve ever been to a bar that has needed a maître d’ before. This place is classier than I thought, and I’m about to walk into it looking like I’ve just ridden a roller coaster with my hair out.

  How delightful.

  Just before I make it to the podium, a man in a tuxedo pops out, a rehearsed smile already
spreading across his face.

  “Good evening, madam. How are you this evening?” he asks, a posh tone tethered to his voice.

  “Good, thank you,” I utter, brushing away the last surviving curls from my eyes.

  “Excellent. Are you here for the drinks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Certainly. May I ask your party’s name? We are a reservation-only establishment.”

  I stare at him blankly.

  Party name?

  Reservation only?

  For a bar?

  Brooke hadn’t mentioned any of that. I hope she made a booking or this is going to be embarrassing yet again. “Um, I’m not sure.”

  The maître d’ gives a soft chuckle and opens the thin, black book lying in the groove of the podium. “That’s perfectly all right, madam. May I then ask the name of whom you are meeting?” he queries again, looking at the short list of reservations written in cursive on the page.

  “Her name is Brooke… Brooke Sawyer.”

  He shuts the book instantly with a loud pop. “Ah, yes.” He nods and steps to the side of the podium. “Miss Sawyer is one of our finest patrons. Please, do follow me this way.”

  I beam curtly but am inwardly sighing with relief again. For a casual first night out in New York, this is certainly becoming memorable.

  I try to act like I’m accustomed to the silver service, keeping my chin up as the maître d’ leads me across the room. It’s hard to imagine Brooke being a “fine” patron at a “rich prick” bar.

  But then again, she always did go for the jocks in high school, rich kids whose trust funds could carry them throughout their whole lives if need be.

  I stay a few steps behind to survey the room, blushing faintly when I catch the eyes of the glamorous people at their tables.

  They are spread in a sweeping sea of Armani suits and Versace dresses, cocktails and glasses of fine wine in hand, thousands of dollars exuding from every table. I can’t help but already feel like I don’t belong here and that my department-store little black dress is standing out like the cheap piece of fabric that it is.

  Why the hell didn’t Brooke warn me about this?

  I could’ve at least worn some of my mom’s heirlooms to add some class to my outfit.

  “Here we are,” the maître d’ suddenly announces, stopping at the most elegant black-and-gold-swirled marble bar that I’ve ever seen. He steps aside to reveal a lavish-looking Brooke, a sizzling red dress with a split up the side revealing her exquisitely toned calf.

  Wow.

  New York has certainly agreed with her.

  “Thank you, Paulo,” she says, grinning up at us from the barstool. “As attentive as ever.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Sawyer,” he replies warmly with a trace of flirtation.

  As I watch Paulo walk back to the podium, I notice a few Grace Kelly faces still looking me up and down. I find their sneers of refined judgment beyond intimidating.

  It reminds me of prom night, and how the popular girls had gawked at me when I showed up with Emmett Butler. Emmett had asked me to go to prom only a few weeks earlier, much to the horror of head cheerleader, Britney Andrews, who’d almost had a meltdown when she’d found out.

  Emmett and I had been standing by our lockers, which had been assigned near each other’s ever since the ninth grade. We were getting ready for third period, English with Miss Petrie, when Emmett had turned—to my complete surprise—and said, “Lauren, when did you get so pretty?”

  At first I’d thought he was joking. This was, after all, Emmett Butler, star quarterback and captain of the football team.

  Although I was never a nerd or outcast in high school, I didn’t hang out with the popular kids either.

  I was more of a social butterfly, never really fitting in any specific group but with friends in almost all of them.

  Emmett and I had barely spoken to each other before. We’d teamed up for a class assignment once and he’d picked up a pen for me that I’d dropped outside the science lab, but that was really the extent of our interactions.

  “Excuse me?” I’d replied sheepishly, my cheeks already red.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he’d continued with a matter-of-fact look on his face. “You’ve always been cute. But now you’re hot. Like that swan in that book or play… or whatever.”

  Literature was never Emmett’s strong point. “Do you mean ‘The Ugly Duckling’?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one!”

  I’ll always remember that giant puppy-dog grin of his that had come afterward, lighting up his whole face. If I could describe Emmett by any breed of dog it would be a Golden Retriever, hands down. And everyone loves a Golden Retriever.

  “Thanks,” I’d whispered, dreamily staring after him as he’d walked away only to then watch, like it was all in slow motion, him swing back around and shout, right in the middle of the hallway, “Lauren! Will you go to prom with me?”

  I’ve always wondered what possessed Emmett in that moment to do that. To sing out in front of everyone that I was the one he wanted to take to prom. After all, I was nobody special, just a shy but pretty girl going through the motions of high school like any other day.

  But prom will always be a treasured memory because of Emmett, and yes, I’d slept with him later that night. But not because he pressured me, or because I felt like he deserved it for asking me to prom in the first place: I did it because I knew he’d be gentle, the way a girl’s first time should be.

  And I was eighteen.

  I was heading to college in the fall and I certainly didn’t plan on going there with my virginity intact.

  Prom was also awesome because I’d finally been able to stick it to those stuck-up, flawless-skinned, size-zero bitches.

  But that was eight years ago.

  Tonight, unfortunately, I see way too many Britney Andrews in this bar to contend with. Even if I want to, there is zero chance of meeting a guy here tonight…

  Chapter Three

  “Hey, girl!” Brooke exclaims, pulling me into a bear hug and making it blatantly noticeable that she’s had a few drinks already. “It’s about time you got here! How amazing is this bar, huh?”

  “Yeah…it’s something else. Very swanky,” I say, holding off on the ‘and-it’s-full-of-rich-bitches’ part.

  I sit down next to her and take another look around.

  The setup appears like something straight out of the Moulin Rouge, with mock tasseled curtains decorating the walls, authentic red velvet lounges, and antique-styled tables lit up by candlelight.

  The atmosphere oozes seduction at a most prestigious level.

  I think I’m almost in love with it.

  “Not just anyone can get in, either—it’s strictly patron reservations only,” Brooke states proudly, obviously wanting to boast about how she managed to get us here. “Only big fish can swim in this pond.”

  “Which brings me to my first question,” I say, turning back to her. “How the hell did you get us in here? I mean when you came to New York, you were a bank teller. No offense.”

  “Teller, then business assistant, then business manager and then promoted to bank manager after four excruciatingly long years of hard work, thank you very much!” she jeers, elbowing me playfully in the side. “My most important clients come here. I often have business meetings at the hotel; I kind of get membership by default.”

  “Membership?” I laugh.

  “Oh yes,” she smiles.

  “You need a membership to drink in here?” I repeat in surprise.

  “Or be invited by a member. So I’m your golden ticket tonight, my friend!” She gives another wide smile and raises her head regally to the bartender. “Two peacock dew droplets. Thanks, Mike,” she says before quickly glancing back at me. “You like gin, right?”

  “Why not?” I shrug.

  In all honesty the last time I had gin was over five summers ago, when the mom of an old boyfriend made it with the traditional lemon and tonic.


  From memory, though, it was actually quite nice.

  For the next hour, Brooke and I reminisce about old times in our hometown of Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

  We’ve been best friends since we were six, the deep bond formed when both of our moms enrolled us in the same daycare.

  It was called Steamboat’s Little Learners, and I remember it vividly.

  Brooke and I would get up to so much mischief there. I remember one time when we thought it’d be a good idea to pour tubs of paint over our heads and then roll them in flour. It’d taken several washes to get out and also meant we had to spend thirty minutes in the naughty corner, but it had been totally worth it.

  My mom told me when I was little that friends come and go, but a few close ones stay in contact.

  At the time, I thought my mom was the wisest person in the world and that it was a secret piece of advice that only I was allowed to know.

  It wasn’t until I was older that I discovered it was actually a well-known saying.

  But Mom was still just as wise—I’ll always remember that about her.

  “You must miss her, huh?” Brooke asks, a frown setting in her face.

  My mom died of breast cancer just after I turned nineteen.

  She lived three years longer than her prognosis and fought it hard, positive she’d beat it until the very end.

  But even the best of us have limits.

  “Of course, I have my moments,” I say quietly, a tear forming in the corner of my eye.

  I blink it away determinedly—I will not be one of those girls who cry when they drink.

  “She was such a cool lady. My mom still talks about her; she misses her a lot too.”

  I nod and give Brooke’s hand a squeeze. “My mom loved you and Susan. I called in to see your parents before I left—they’re still renovating the kitchen.”

  “Oh, don’t remind me. They wanted me to head back this summer and help them with it. Naturally I lied and said I had to work. I feel bad, but can you really see me in overalls and a paintbrush?”