Daddy's Dirty Boss

“I’m sorry,” I told her again, and tried my hardest to keep my voice as mature as I knew how to make it. “I’ll be sure to keep myself as professional as possible.”

She didn’t reply, just raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. And she hated me. There was no doubt in her eyes that she really hated me.

I wasn’t expecting her to lean in closer, and I definitely wasn’t expecting to hear the hiss of her whisper in my ear.

“Don’t you dare think for a second that I’m not aware of that glorious little purple car you got given over the weekend,” she said, and my whole body tensed.

“Sorry?” I quizzed back, not quite believing it.

“Believe me, I know about everything that goes on behind the scenes in this place, and I know full well what’s going on between you and Miles, even if the rest of the world is too fucking clueless to realise shit about you.”

Oh my God.

How my butterflies fell flat in my belly, all of them lurching to the pits at hundreds of miles an hour.

“But I…” I began, not having a hope of knowing where to start.

It was a very good job I didn’t start trying.

She hissed out another spiteful sigh before she started up again.

“I know you think you’re some precious little princess who can get all kinds of pretty little gifts from her oh so generous uncle Miles with his oh so generous wallet, but I see right through you.”

“You do?” I quizzed, genuinely curious.

“Oh yes, I do. You’re a pathetic little diva who thinks she’s so special. So wonderful. So adored by all these fawning daddies treating you like some spoiled little dolly. But I know you’re a devious little bitch who is twisting everyone around your fingers for some pitiful recognition of being wonderful.”

I didn’t have a clue what to say to that, so I said nothing and let her continue.

“Miles thinks you’re his sweet little pre-schooler who needs such taking care of, but I know you’re a calculated bitch out to take, take, take.”

I turned my face to hers, unable to fathom how she could really be seeing this about me.

I’d been accused of many things over the years. Being naive and slightly ditzy with my rushes of excitement, and not able to know when a good time to stop chasing after stuff is. I’d also been accused of talking a bit too loud over the dinner table, and spending way too much time watching antiques shows, but not once at any point in my life had I ever been called a manipulative, spoiled little cow out for other people’s money.

My mouth was open, and I’m sure my eyes must have been saucers, and my words sounded so weird and distant as they came out.

“But I’m not… I’m not like that… that isn’t what I’m doing…”

“Trust me, little bitch,” she hissed. “I know exactly what you’re like and what you’re doing. I promise you your days here are numbered.”

I was as still as a statue as she paced on by, clacking on those super high heels she was always wearing. I felt so totally misunderstood, and like I should try to reason with her somehow, but I didn’t have a clue where I’d ever start, not with Erica Tate.

My cheeks were boiling, burning up so bright at the realisation that everyone in the business might know about the car and think I was some devious little gold digger, just like she did. And I didn’t want that. I truly didn’t want that.

I didn’t want people to think of me like that. Not even for a moment.

My flutter of excitement at charging right into Mr Lindon’s office was well and truly hidden beneath a whole pit of self-doubt. Was I really that shallow seeming that people would think things like that of me? Even Erica Tate?

I mean, I shouldn’t be. Couldn’t be. I’d never been accused of anything like that before. I didn’t believe anyone would really believe anything like that of me before.

So why did my belly still pang at the prospect?

I forced it down, and forced a smile back on my face and kept on walking, even though I felt thoroughly side bashed by the passing Tate Typhoon.

Luckily the butterflies were well and truly back in flight by the time I knocked on Miles Lindon’s door.Chapter Twenty-TwoMilesI loved the soft little tap of her knuckles against my office door. My anticipation was a fine wine, teasing the tip of my tongue. The most perfect shiver of want.

I’d been impulsive, driven by both need and impatience as I fired off that summons to her inbox, but I was glad to have been so reckless.

“Come in,” I called, and the handle lowered slowly, once again so delicate. Everything about the girl was so deliciously fucking delicate.