The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

35. A Good Fucking Day

Sophie

I’m exhausted, but happy. Jared dropped me off at home a while ago, but not before walking me to the front entrance of the building and kissing the hell out of me before jogging back to his car. And he was whistling.

If anyone had told me last week that my grumpy, stern boss ever whistled, I’d have called them a liar.

But here we are, having fun together both in and out of the bedroom, and I’m loving every second of it. Jared has a whole hidden side, one I’m sure most people don’t know even exists. I saw it when he was driving the bulldozer. His smile was downright boyish, his joy unable to be suppressed.

And that infectious joy carried through the rest of the day. His whoops of excitement as he soared through the air over Fremont Street are still ringing in my ears, and my cheeks hurt like hell from smiling so much.

It was a good fucking day.

My phone rings, and I smile even wider, sure it’s Jared calling. I pick the device up from where it rests on my bedside table, my grin immediately dropping when I see the name flashing on the screen.

Stephen Hatfield.

What in the actual fuck does he want?

“Hello?” I say carefully after tapping the screen to answer the call.

“Sophie.” He says my name almost joyfully, and my hackles rise even further. “How are you, my dear?”

“I’m fine,” I say slowly. Carefully. “How are you, Mr. Hatfield?”

“I’m doing well. Thanks for asking.” He barely pauses for a breath before adding, “Heard you were seen around town with Jared Hart today.”

What the…

“Okay,” I say slowly, wondering what the point of all this is.

“Tell me the truth, Sophie. Are you getting close to him to try and get your hands on the Pollock?”

“Excuse me?” I blurt.

“I know he’s the person who won it at the auction. And if you are working him to get it for me, I wholeheartedly approve. You can bring me that painting, and I’ll give you your old job back. It’s the perfect solution, and I commend you for coming up with it on your own.”

I don’t know which offends me more––the fact that he assumes I’d use someone that way, or the fact that he sounds impressed I thought of such a plan all on my own.

“Not that it’s any of your damn business,” I say, not bothering to hide my anger, “but I don’t give a shit if I never see that fucking painting, or you, ever again.”

“Careful, little girl. You don’t know who you’re messing with right now.”

“I know exactly who you are, asshole,” I grit out between clenched teeth.

“You know,” he says, his tone changing from menacing to philosophical in an instant, “sleeping with an assistant is frowned upon in business. People talk, reputations get ruined, businesses fail…”

His words trail off suggestively, and my blood pressure goes through the roof.

“Is that a threat?” I ask.

“No threats, my dear,” he says pleasantly. “Just a warning.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Well, if I’d known you’d be up for fucking your boss, I might’ve taken advantage of it.”

A growl rips up my throat as I yank the phone away from my ear and stab a finger at the icon to end the call. Tossing it onto the mattress, I cross my arms over my chest and breathe through my anger as I attempt to calm myself.