Ruthless (The Calvettis of New York 2)
Page 42
Chapter 21
Bella
Another day. Another round of brutal cuts by Barrett Adler.
My boss is heartless.
That’s putting it mildly.
There are a lot of other words I could use to describe him, but it boils down to the simple fact that he doesn’t have an ounce of compassion in his body.
He does have a lean frame and muscular arms.
I saw that yesterday when he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Today, he’s back to a dark blue suit paired with a white dress shirt and a deep purple tie.
“What can I do for you, Isabella?” He calls from behind his desk.
Dammit. I was staring again.
I pluck a piece of lint from the front of my red skirt. “Nothing.”
I hear the creak of his chair as he gets up. I know he’s headed in my direction. The rhythmic beat of his shoes on the concrete floor is a dead giveaway.
I finally look up when I sense him standing next to me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adler?”
His lips curve up in a satisfied smile. “It’s Barrett, but I’m glad to see you finally mastered the pronunciation of my surname.”
I twist my lips in a scowl. “No problem.”
I knew when I arrived at the office this morning at ten seconds to eight that he would be firing more people today.
He sent me an email last night with a list of the names of twenty-five employees of Garent Industries and three simple words: Prepare Termination Documents.
I didn’t respond because I couldn’t say what I really wanted to.
I’d lose my job if I called him an arrogant asshole to his face or in an email.
I bite my lip to ward off the temptation to share my true feelings. This job is the ticket to my future, so I need to hold onto it.
“I found out last night that we share a mutual friend.”
My stomach knots at that announcement. He’s going to tell me that he’s dating someone I went to high school with or one of my cousins. Please don’t let that be it. I loathe him, but I don’t want anyone I know to sleep with him.
Guilt would consume me since I’ve been thinking about Barrett’s body at night when I’m in bed alone.
I look up into his blue eyes. “Who?”
He traces a path over my lips with his gaze. “Dylan Colt.”
I straighten my shoulders. I may have had a crush on Dylan for a hot minute the first time we met two years ago. It was at my cousin’s apartment. Rocco Jones is the eldest of Marti’s grandchildren. He’s also a retired professional poker player.
Rocco taught me ho
w to play cards using peppermints for chips.
Once he felt I was ready, he invited me to one of his monthly poker nights. A handful of his friends were there.
I emptied every wallet in the place, including Dylan’s. I did the same three months later.