CHAPTER 1
SICILY
Weighted down with cement feet and tossed into the ocean?
Nah. He’d be a really heavy bastard with cement feet. One look at my non-existent muscles lets me know I don’t stand a chance with that plan.
Tossed into a pile of quicksand? No, because I don’t even know where to find quicksand.
Oh! I could totally put him into the wood chipper and then feed him to the pigs…if I had the stomach for that. Or a wood chipper. Or pigs. Which I, unfortunately, do not.
In case you’re wondering, I’m trying to figure out the best way to dispose of a body. Whose body?
Anderson Harper’s body. That’s who.
Because if he continues to be my boss, he will die. Painfully. Slowly. Possibly for days. Then I’ll need to dispose of the body in a manner that will forever conceal my involvement in his untimely death.
I’m too soft for prison. I admit I don’t have the ovaries for that. But I definitely have the ovaries for killing. I’d bet money on it.
I dig my nails into my palms and bite back all the threats on the tip of my tongue, as Anderson continues to rattle off all the things he finds wrong with my mock-up for the Bradshaw account. The account and people that I’ve studied for six months. The account I brought with me after I agreed to come work here two months ago.
The account that I know better than him.
He’s tearing apart all of my best ideas with his overly intrusive and completely unnecessary critique, with no regard to all the research I’ve done.
“It’s just too unoriginal, Sicily,” Anderson says, pursing his lips as he continues to rip apart months of work. “And I think you’re better than this.”
His eyes flick to me briefly, disappointment there, before he returns his gaze to my work again. My hard work that he finds unoriginal.
Why did I come to work here? Oh, that’s right. Because my brother assured me this company was not sexist, unlike the last place I killed myself for. I thought that meant my talent would finally shine, and all those workaholic hours would mean something.
Then he informed me I was working for Anderson, since I wasn’t allowed to work with my brother. Not that I minded, because I’ve always known of Anderson, though the two of us had never really interacted prior to this position. I didn’t like him, since he was always a bit of a jerk toward women, and he seemed indifferent to me.
But this is business. And I keep my personal opinions out of business.
Usually.
Considering Anderson is a womanizing manwhore, Roman—my older and slightly overprotective brother—never left us alone long enough to chat.
The first conversation that lasted longer than a few minutes we ever had was when I came to work here. For him.
Normally, I have an issue working with attractive guys, but even though Anderson is as sexy as they come, it’s not hard to tune out his sex appeal. Why? Because I’m not interested in screwing someone who has cheated on not one, but two women—possibly more—in the past. That’s why things are uncomplicated. Cheaters are bad enough. Serial cheaters are the unholy grail of despicable.
Since he hasn’t once tried to get into my pants, or even offered me one leering look—ever!—I thought that meant there was a strong chance he’d respect my work.
But he doesn’t. And he doesn’t take me seriously. I feel like a cute blonde he’s labeled as an unoriginal airhead. Oh, don’t get sick of it yet. You’ll hear that word a few more times.
“It’s not supposed to be original,” I point out calmly. “The clients want it to have more reach and decided to go with trendy. Originality is only good when infused with humor these days. And these guys don’t have a sense of humor.”
“Plenty of ways to be original without being funny, and still bring the heat,” he says absently, stroking his strong chin as he continues to stare at my pointless, underappreciated presentation package. “Trendy is only good if you bring something new to the trend. And you haven’t.”
Don’t kill him, Sicily. Not until you know what to do with the body. My eyes flick to the engraved letter opener on his desk. Don’t puncture his jugular with the letter opener!
“Even the designs seem stilted and uninspired,” he says, moving his stapler over on his desk so he can lay out the largest of the design mock-ups and examine them with even more scrutiny.
Don’t bludgeon him to death with the stapler!
“Uninspired?” I ask, an edge to my tone that I can’t conceal.
He nods, still pensive and studying the paper as though he’s searching for something hidden within the uninspired inked outlines.
“Maybe a unicorn should be ridden in while they talk about their latest beer,” I say with a cruel smile.