Grumpy Romance: Chapter 1

KENYA

I know something’s off when I walk into my apartment.

Our apartment.

Mine and Drake’s.

The air smells stale, like none of the windows have been opened all weekend. The clock’s broken too. The hands are exactly on twelve fifteen.

I feel like I’m frozen in time.

It’s creepy.

I tighten my fingers on the sparkly yellow suitcase rattling behind me. The luggage doesn’t exactly scream ‘ambitious pencil pusher crawling up the corporate ladder’, but the long and pretentious title applies to me. Even if no one acknowledges it.

It’s seven o’clock on Monday morning and I just returned from my first business trip.

The woman who was supposed to attend the workshop caught chickenpox.

Sad for her.

Wonderful for me.

Somehow, I got an amazing opportunity to prove myself as a competent, knowledgeable member of the team.

And I aced it.

My reward? Aches and pains from being cramped in economy next to a bodybuilder and his chatty manager. And a generous offer to come into work one hour later than usual.

Hurrah.

I shuffle deeper into the apartment.

My feet protest.

The past forty-eight hours, I’ve been marching up and down a well-lit conference room, speaking to Belle’s Beauty sales reps about my top ten secrets for customer acquisition.

It’s not like I’m an expert, but I do have experience. I’ve worked a variety of sales positions since high school. From what I’ve learned, people just want to feel seen. Heard. Valued. It’s not that complicated.

Sure, there are a few pretentious customers who complain over nothing and ruin it for everybody. And those customers suck. But for the most part, people are good. I genuinely believe that.

I let the yellow suitcase bang to the ground.

The broken clock keeps staring at me.

It feels like a bad omen.

I pretend it’s not there and pad to the bedroom, falling into the twin mattress. My hand automatically slides to Drake’s side of the bed. It’s cold.

Eyebrows wrinkling, I sniff.

The sheets still smell like my favorite detergent.

Weird.

Drake has a particular cologne that gets on everything. I had to change to a different laundry method to get that fresh scent I like.

Did he not sleep in our bed all weekend? I crawl out of the bed and stare at the rumpled blanket like it’s an alien species. At that moment, my screen lights up with a call from my step-mom.

I pick it up. “Hey, Felice.”

“Sweetheart, you’re up. Perfect.” Felice’s voice is as breezy and whimsical as her personality. “Could you do me a huge favor and go check on your sister? She hasn’t been answering any of my calls this weekend. I’m worried.”

I jerk my attention away from the bed, my body on high alert. “Is she okay? Did she relapse? What did the doctors say?”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Felice says.

I let out a sigh of relief.

“Her last check up was good. No sign of the cancer coming back. As long as she keeps going in routinely, we’ll be fine.”

“That’s good,” I mutter, but my heart is still beating fast. I suck in a deep breath. Sasha’s okay. Everything’s okay. Everything’s great.

“When you visit, can you pick up strawberries from the farmer’s market? The ones she likes?”

“Uh…” I stare with bleary eyes at the grey clouds and drizzling rain.

“And make sure you get the grapes too. Get seedless, alright? It’s better for her digestion.”

A familiar rebellion rises inside me, but I tamp it down.

This is about my sister. Not about me.

I paste a tired smile on my face, although Felice can’t see. “Of course.”

“I’m worried she won’t eat well now that she’s got her own place.”

“Sasha’s not going to starve herself.”

“I’m still anxious. I hate that she moved four hours away. The only thing that makes me sleep at night is that she’s living close to you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“You’re such a good sister, Kenya. In fact, people think you two are blood-related, you know. I tell them you and Sasha might as well be.”

My chuckle is short but genuine. I met Sasha when she was thirteen and I was fifteen. My dad married her mom and we moved in together. She used to follow me around everywhere. It was kind of adorable.

“How are things with you and Drake?” Felice asks.

I drag myself to the closet and pull out a thick jacket along with a cute red dress. It’s a bit over-done for work, but I haven’t seen Drake all weekend.

We’ve exchanged a couple texts and one phone call, but it only made me miss him more. I want his jaw to drop when we meet up later. That’s the only acceptable expression.

“We’re good. He’s super excited about a promotion at work.” Thank God. I barely saw him at home when he was competing for that position.

“When are you two getting married?” Felice asks, a teasing edge to her tone.

Anticipation makes my heart slam against my ribs. I try to keep it out of my voice. “Oh, we’re not in a rush.”

“Sweetheart, what’s the hold-up? You and Drake have been together for what? Three years now?”

“Yeah. We met my second year of college.” It was like something out of a movie. The dashing basketball jock. The shy, Lit major. A romance no one saw coming. Hallmark will call to make a movie about our love story, I’m sure.

“See? That’s more than enough time to put a ring on it.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out my adorable ankle-high boots. “When we’re both ready, it’ll happen.”

“Alright, I know a brush-off when I hear one.”

I laugh.

“Give Sasha a kiss for me, sweetheart. And tell her to answer the damn phone when I call.”

“I will, Felice.”

The line goes dead.

My plans of getting a few hours of extra sleep derailed, I shower and dress for the day. As I hop out of my steaming bathroom, the odd something’s not right feeling passes through me again.

I freeze.

Walk back.

Stare at the tiny sink where Drake and I keep our toothbrushes.

His favorite face care products are gone. That man moisturizes like he’s allergic to dry skin. I’ve never seen him run out.

My heart flip flops.

I notice his toothbrush is still there. So are his prized signed basketball jerseys. He wouldn’t leave without taking those.

Calling Drake’s phone leads me to voicemail.

The uneasy feeling doubles.

Something’s weird about today.

The bed dips as I sink into the edge of it. I haul the ankle boots on, grab my purse from the closet and stalk past the mirror.

My harried reflection reveals a dark-skinned woman with a deep crease between her eyebrows, a flared nose, and frizzy black hair. I threw my coils into a bun because I don’t have the time or the patience to wash it.

Whenever my hair gets attention, it’s a twelve-hour affair. There’s deep conditioning. Sectioning. Shampoo. Conditioner. De-tangling. The styling part is another six hours. Whoever said natural hair was easier than relaxed hair owes me an apology.

Once outside, I take a deep breath and smile at the earthy scent of rain. The clouds are grey and the sky is angry, but it doesn’t scare me. The city is getting a much needed rinse-down.

All is well.

As I walk to the bus top, I tell myself I’m being ridiculous.

A broken clock is a broken clock.

And maybe Drake ran out of his favorite products. That explains why they’re missing from the counter.

I’m exhausted and overthinking everything.

Drake’s been an amazing boyfriend.

And I’m an amazing employee.

I should be celebrating. I know I impressed the higher-ups with my sales performance or they wouldn’t have invited me to HQ. After only a few months fetching coffee and feeling like I was dating the printer, they tapped me into the business meeting.

That means I’m being noticed.

Is that a coincidence?

No way.

Not even close.

When I worked in the department store, I stole the crown of ‘Employee of the Month’ three times straight. I know how to draw people in. Now that I’m a temp at Belle’s Beauty HQ, I’ve been using every opportunity to prove I’m a hard worker.

Yeah, my Lit degree is gathering dust while I head in a completely new direction, but student loans don’t really care if I’m following my dreams. I love food too much to be a starving artist.

What’s important is that I’m no longer traipsing from one temp gig to another. It looks like I’m on the road to a permanent position.

Good things—no, great things are going to happen for me.

I catch the bus to the farmer’s market and absorb the cacophony of activity. Baskets of fresh fruits delight the eyes. Flowers, paintings and old antiques are everywhere. Customers haggle over prices. Crowds jostle for warm coffee.

I’m in serious need of java, but I get the strawberries and grapes first. It doesn’t take me long to make the purchase and I reward myself with a cup.

I slurp loudly and ignorantly. An old man gives me a dirty look, but I forgive him because he’s probably not gotten his coffee yet and even I hate people before that first sip.

The coffee keeps me company while I catch a bus to Sasha’s apartment.

So far, the rain still hasn’t let up.

Not a problem.

My umbrella’s handy right here.

When I finally stumble into Sasha’s building, I’m wide awake thanks to the mad dash from the bus stop to her front door. Shaking my umbrella to rid some of the water, I twist it tightly and lock it.

It makes a click when it hits the floor and I smile. Using the umbrella as a cane and channeling my inner gangster, I swagger to Sasha’s front door and tap my knuckles against it.

No response.

“Hey, Sash! You home?”

From inside, I hear a faint groaning sound.

Panic overtakes me. Is Sasha hurt? Did she faint and hit her head against the tub? Do I need to call an ambulance? What if her cancer came back?

Dropping the act, I shove my hand into my giant purse and search for the spare keys Felicia slipped me when Sasha moved to the city.

My fingers shake and the keys jangle noisily, protesting my lack of coordination. Why do I always shake like an addict going cold turkey in times of crisis?

With a deep breath, I steady my fingers and stick the key into the lock.

There.

Open.

I desperately crash through Sasha’s front door and barrel into the living room. My eyes skate across the overly girly decor—fuzzy pink pillows in a soft purple couch, funky beaded chandelier, fuzzy orange rug.

Sasha fancies herself an Elle Woods aficionado and her apartment reflects that. It’s a little outrageous. A little cutesy. Very endearing even if it’s hard to understand.

I swivel directions and head toward her bedroom.

Then I smell it.

That…

It’s Drake’s cologne.

I’d be able to pick it out in a crowd because I’m the one who got him his first set. He loves it and douses it on liberally wherever he goes.

My fingers tighten on the bag of strawberries and grapes. The rustling sound is soft, like the wind rushing through the trees, but the groaning that comes from Sasha’s room is loud. And breathy. And way too low to be a sign of pain.

It finally dawns on me.

What I heard outside—the sound that made me barge into my sister’s place uninvited—was not an ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ groan. It was something else. Something a lot more… private.

I take a step back, heat burning my face. My sister is an adult, so it shouldn’t surprise me that she’s getting certain… itches scratched. But I still remember her as the scrawny tween who wanted to be everywhere I was. It’s hard to reconcile what I knew of her to that of an adult who can…

She’s breathing hard.

Must be nice.

I should go. Maybe I’ll call Drake and find out where he is. See if we can meet up to get our own time in. A weekend apart was long enough to go without holding him.

“You like that, baby?”

I freeze.

All of me goes cold.

Every. Single. Part.

Why did that voice sound like my boyfriend of three years?

I swear I have an out of body experience while I desperately try to make sense of everything my brain is throwing at me.

It can’t be Drake. Even though it’s the very same timbre. The very same growl. The very same husk that he uses when we’re loving on each other.

It’s not him.

Maybe it’s his brother? Maybe it’s a close relative? Or an impersonator?

People are into all kinds of crazy things these days. Impersonators aren’t the weirdest…

Who am I kidding?

Stretching one foot in front of the other, I approach Sasha’s bedroom door like one of those blondes in a horror movie.

The little voice in my head is screaming at me the way I scream at the TV.

What are you doing, you idiot? Don’t you dare go into that room. What the hell are you opening the door for? Are you stupid? Do you want to die? See, this is why black people can’t be in horror movies. We’d run at the first sign of danger.

But I keep walking.

Turns out, running straight toward death might not be a black or white thing.

It might be a ‘person in a horror movie’ thing.

Because even though I’m scared of what I might see, I can’t stop walking toward the door. Can’t stop the curiosity and the dread twining in my veins. Can’t stop the pounding in my head that urges me to keep going even if it hurts.

I have to see.

Have to know.

I push the door with my hand.

It opens slowly.

Oh.

Oh, my go—

The bag of fruits falls out of my hand.

Grapes and strawberries roll through the room, scattering like teardrops on the floor.

I gasp, terrified by the sight of my sister on top of my boyfriend. I can’t see what body parts are sticking into each other because a blanket is draped over their hips, but I can guess by the way they’re moving that they’re not exactly praying under there.

“Yes,” Sasha is bawling. “Drake…”

Drake?

Heart pounding at the confirmation, I twitch. The next thing I know, the umbrella is gone from my hand. I see it sailing through the air as if I’m not really connected to my body. As if I’m having some kind of trippy dream.

The umbrella slams Sasha square in the middle of her tan back.

She curses and goes sprawling down on Drake’s chest.

He makes a garbled sound of distress as she crashes into him.

The angle must have been painful.

I hope she broke it.

I hope he can never have kids because of it.

“The hell?” Sasha flings her hand and presses it to her back. Her neck twists next and her head whips around.

That’s when our gazes collide.

Deafening silence fills the room as she stares at me.

It’s funny the way horror crawls over her expression.

If it wasn’t my sister and my boyfriend—

If it wasn’t my life—

It would be almost satisfying to see that split second of oh damn, I got caught slip into her eyes.

But it is my boyfriend.

And it is my sister.

In bed.

Together.

‘Making the beast with two backs’, as Shakespeare would say.

My hands start shaking again.

Hell.

Holy crap.

This can’t be happening.

“Kenya!” Sasha gasps, grabbing for the blankets and covering herself. Her long, straight black hair curtains half her face. Big brown eyes, soft and soulful like her Mexican grandmother, dart to the ground.

“Kenya?”

That voice belongs to my boyfriend.

Ex-boyfriend as of now.

Drake pokes his head up from where it had been resting on Sasha’s fuchsia-pink pillow. He’s sweating a little. I guess he was putting in some work.

His jaw is square. His beard is long, full, and perfectly lined. He’s got big brown eyes and a sharp set of cheekbones.

Chocolate perfection.

It hurts.

Damn.

The whites of his eyes threaten to overtake everything else as he stares at me like he wants to climb under a rock.

Pain rattles through my chest.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t freaking think.

Flight or fight?

The instincts roar inside my head. Should I grab the umbrella and go mad? Should I offer my sister and jerk of an ex-boyfriend a lashing they’ll never forget?

“Kenya, I can explain,” Sasha says, her voice tight.

All at once, I’m too overwhelmed to keep standing there in a room that smells like sweat and lovemaking.

I need out.

I need air.

I pump my arms and try to run, but my heels catch on the shag rug at the foot of the bed, tripping me up. My arms flail. I wobble in an attempt to keep upright, but I step on a grape instead and it upends me further.

I fall hard, landing on my elbows. My bones rattle and a physical pain jangles my fingers all the way up to my shoulder. I come nose to nose with Sasha’s lingerie that was, apparently, discarded right along with Drake’s boxers.

Tears fill my eyes, but I forbid myself from crying.

“Kenya, are you okay?”

Wow, my sister sounds like she actually cares.

That’s ironic, isn’t it? Not only that she’s concerned about my fall but that she thinks I could be okay right now?

Who in their right mind would be okay in this scenario?

My sister and boyfriend are screwing each other.

And I just fell hard on my face.

I’m freaking peachy!

Scrambling to my hands and knees, I push myself up and throw myself at the door.

“Kenya, wait!” I hear cloth rustling and footsteps pattering the ground behind me.

All of a sudden, this is a horror movie.

Except there’s no guy in a mask with a chainsaw.

There’s no clown peeping at me from the sewage pipes.

There’s no possessed doll rising from my collection with an evil sneer.

I’m being chased by my naked sister, a white sheet trailing behind her. She doesn’t have a knife. Because she already slammed it straight into my heart.

I’m the one bleeding.

I’m the one fighting to survive.

“Kenya, please! Wait a minute!”

I power through the living room without looking back.

There’s a picture of our family on the television stand. There’s dad, his shorn hair and dark face beaming at the camera. There’s Felice, her tan skin, bright brown eyes and warm smile catching all the light. And then there’s me and Sasha.

I’ve got my arms around her. My hair is kinky curly while hers is long and straight. My skin is dark while hers is a sun-kissed tan.

Different. But the same.

Sisters.

Not by blood but by choice.

I charge down the stairs and crash through the exits.

My mouth is open.

Big gulps.

I’m out in the street and people give me funny looks while I race past them. A dark-skinned teenager sees me running and he takes off too, needing no explanation other than that a fellow sister is on the move.

I want to tell him it’s okay.

I’m not running from thugs.

I’m running from family.

Isn’t that nice?

A glance over my shoulder reveals Sasha has given up the chase.

My phone rings.

It’s Walt from work.

“You need to come in now,” Walt says without so much as a greeting.

I stare unseeingly at the horizon, the cell phone to my ear.

My arms hurt.

My head.

My heart.

“Do you hear me, Kenya? Someone very important is visiting today and you need to be here to—”

“I understand.”

He makes a choked sound and probably wants to scold me, but I don’t give him the chance. I hang up on him and drift to the bus stop, my eyes on the ground and my body extremely numb.

The world passes me by and I don’t really register a thing. Somehow, I get on a bus and get off on the right stop.

The moment I walk into Belle’s Beauty HQ, I wish I’d just gone home. Walt is standing guard at the front desk, his eyes squinting at me like I ran over his dog.

Not a great addition to my day, but it’s too late to whirl around and head home. He’s caught me.

Walt frowns. “You’re late, Kenya.”

My nostrils flare. Usually, I wouldn’t say a thing. After so many years of working under annoying bosses, I’ve trained myself to keep my sharp comments at bay. Plus, this job pays much better than when I was working in the store. I’m not in a hurry to lose it.

But the image of my sister and boyfriend together is tattooed behind my eyelids and I’m a little short on patience.

Walt wags a finger in my face. “Do you think you can slack off without repercussions? This isn’t a playground! I expect more from you!”

“You’re the one who told me I could come in an hour later,” I snap.

Walt blinks rapidly, his thick cheeks swelling as he gives me an astonished look.

I glare right back at him.

He turns a bright shade of red. “Check your attitude, young lady. You had our very important guest waiting for an hour and—”

“That’s enough, Walt.”

My eyes lift to the man stalking around the corner.

My heart trips over itself.

Holy Fitzwilliam Darcy.

It’s too horrible a day for a man so fine to descend from Mount Olympus.

Over six feet of chiseled muscle strains beneath an Italian suit that probably costs as much as three student loan payments combined.

The sharpness of his chin, divine.

Thick brown hair like a shampoo commercial.

The slashing eyebrows, well-groomed beard, and cut of his cheekbones all whisper he’s as dangerous as his do anything to annoy me and I will end you scowl insinuates.

What makes me almost forget about my awful morning, though, are those eyes.

Sure, they’re hazel, but to call them a ‘pretty brown’ or ‘amber’ or even ‘unique’ would be a gross letdown of the English language.

His golden-toned eyes are sunbursts, thrumming with a cold, lashing energy. Still so riveting, it’s impossible not to draw close to the fire even though you know it’ll burn and probably even kill you.

His gaze sends an instant thrill down my spine and my whole body tightens. My toes curl inside my rain-drenched ankle boots. I feel like I’ve just been electrocuted.

He… he has to be the new spokesmodel for the company, right? There were talks of expanding the product line into men’s care.

“This is the sales associate who attended the workshop?” Hercules frowns. His expression lingers on me, making it hard to keep my balance. One eyebrow arches higher than the other as if I’m expected to curtsy or kiss his hand.

Are all men this obnoxious?

I fold my arms over my chest and meet the jerkface’s stare head-on. Running out the door with my tail between my legs is only going to happen once today.

Once.

His regard turns even icier.

If I were a little more like myself, I would have glanced down to check if my zipper were open or if I had something on my face. But I’m not in my right mind at the moment.

I’m delirious with hurt and fury.

And he so happens to be the closest and most deserving target.

“It’s impolite to stare,” I snap.

Walt’s eyes widen.

The stranger shifts his feral gaze away from me and locks it on the chubby manager. “This is her?”

Walt bobs his head.

Stroking his chin, the cold stranger returns his glare to me and watches with a clenched jaw.

I frown. “Can I help you?”

Walt stares up at the man like he owes the guy money. “Why don’t you rest in my office, sir? I’ll send Kenya to get you a cup of coffee before we talk.”

My jaw drops and an astonished laugh pops out of it.

I’m a doormat.

A freaking doormat.

It must be tattooed on my forehead.

Total Push-over. Can Screw Boyfriend.

Not that I think Mr. Grumpy Pants would want my boyfriend. He strikes me as the type who’s so self-absorbed he’s evolved beyond human dating. I can see him looking into mirrors, sweet-talking an electronic version of himself. The jerk.

Why Walt is working his butt off to please this guy is not my concern. But dragging me into the ridiculous power play in order to stroke an attractive stranger’s ego? Yeah, I’m not going to be a part of that.

Walt makes a slight hand gesture, shooing me away.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Fetching coffee is not in my job description.”

Walt’s eyes widen. “Kenya.”

“You’re going beyond your boundaries, Walt. And I’m not going to take it.”

His jaw drops.

I don’t care. “I’m here early even though you gave me an hour off today. And I didn’t complain about that,” I speak calmly, but I can hear my voice start to climb. “Even though I’ve been working all weekend and I deserve a full day off, I took the crumbs you threw at me and didn’t complain.”

Shut up, Kenya. The little voice in my head chirps. You need this job. You have bills to pay. And now that you’re breaking up with Drake, you’ll need to find somewhere else to live. You might have to pay more rent. It’s not the time to act brave.

But I keep seeing Drake and Sasha in bed and the acid keeps pouring out of my mouth.

“If you’re asking me for a favor, I’ll consider it, but bossing me around is not going to fly here.”

The hot stranger continues with his grumpy stare-down. It’s strange. Tucked behind his frigid stare is an undeniable assessment. And it’s aimed at me.

I stare into his annoyingly gorgeous face and dig my fingers into my purse. This time, I’m too nervous to hold my ground. Butterflies take flight in my stomach and make it impossible not to feel flustered.

He holds a big hand up and points it directly at me. “How long has she been working here?”

I grit my teeth, annoyed by the fact that he’s talking about me when I’m standing right there.

Walt makes a motion with his hands. “She just started about three months ago? Previously, she was working in a store, but she was responsible for so many sales at the product relaunch that we brought her into HQ on probation.”

“Hm.” The stranger glances at me again. “She’s the one who tripled sales? With this attitude?”

I want to slap his face.

Who does this guy think he is? My father?

He should try getting cheated on and betrayed by his sister. Maybe he’ll have a smiley disposition and higher BS tolerance.

You need this job, Kenya.

My mouth doesn’t seem to be in agreement with my brain. “Do you know how disrespectful you’re being right now?”

Hot Grump blinks rapidly. “Me?”

Read my lips, Neanderthal. “If you have any questions, you can direct them to me.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

My blood boils.

Of course he’s a giant prick.

Of course.

Because today seems like the day where men turn out their skins and show their real, worst selves to me.

At least the rose-colored glasses have been stripped from my eyes.

Walt is capering behind the stranger, shaking his head ‘no’ and motioning for me to zip my lips.

Really? You want me to cram it shut when this guy who doesn’t even know me is being mega disrespectful?

With a snort, I stand my ground. If looks could kill, there would be a mushroom cloud where this rude, pretentious, wickedly handsome jerk is standing.

“K-Kenya, why don’t you calm down and come with me?” Walt mumbles.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” I give the jerk a floppy wave. “I’m here to work, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“Freeze.”

I go still. Not because the stranger’s command is that powerful—which it kind of is—but because I can’t believe he just said that.

Freeze? As if we’re playing cops and robbers and you’re the hero who came to save the day? Is this narcissist for real? Does he think he’s my boss or something?

Before I can string all the colorful four-letter words in my mind together and fling them at him like an atomic bomb, the stranger stomps closer to me.

“You’re going to pack up your things and you’re going to HR.” His voice is as delicious as his face, but the words…

I meet his eyes and frown. Can he do that? He can’t, right?

Confusion descends as I try to figure out what’s going on. It’s a challenge to keep my wits about me given how close his stupidly gorgeous face is to mine.

My inquiring gaze shifts to Walt.

He swallows and glances down, shaking his head as if I dug my own coffin and he’s not going to help me out of it.

“Didn’t you hear me?” The stranger growls. The sound is almost barbaric.

I blink, shocked at his tone. It’s only a momentary pause. Anger surges forward again. I still have some choice words lined up for him, but before I can push those suckers out, he folds his arms over his chest and his brows plunge together in a pointy V.

You know… I’m starting to think he didn’t descend from Olympus. He was probably kicked out because of his heartless behavior.

“Who are you to tell me where I can and can’t go?” I snap.

He looks astonished again. “How did you get this far being so unlikeable?”

Me? I’m the unlikeable one?

“How dare you,” I scowl. “You don’t know me. I bet you wouldn’t last one day in my shoes. I bet,” I give him a once-over, “you’ve never had to work a day in your life. And with that pretty face, people don’t say no to you. Well, I’ll be the first. I don’t care how important you think you are, I’m not going to bow to you just because you snarl at me.”

“Kenya. Stop it. Stop it.” Walt prances to me and grabs my hand like I’m a red-zone Pit bull jerking on the chain.

“Let me go!”

Walt points to the stranger. “This is Holland Alistair.”

“I don’t give a—”

“Our boss.”

“Boss?” All the fight leaves my body at once.

“He’s the owner of Belle’s Beauty.”

Boss.

Colossal Prick is the owner of the beauty label.

That doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t look like someone who cares about organic skin care products. Did he inherit this business? Or is Walt playing a joke on me?

“Why didn’t you just say that?” I hiss, horrified.

Mr. Alistair turns away from me. “Take her to HR.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stare at his back as Alistair walks down the hallway. The view from behind is just as good as the front.

Too bad that knowledge is going to cost me.

Alistair’s tone remains arrogant as he calls over his shoulder. “Ms. Jones, pack up all your things.”

I see the full picture in an instant.

And it’s not looking pretty.

Pathetic Girl: 0

Massive Jerkface: 1

Walt gives me a sucks to be you look.

I return it with a scowl and then point my glare at the brute. If I had my umbrella with me, I would have let it fly at his back. For sure.

What a wonderful day.

My boyfriend betrayed me, my sister stabbed me in the back and now I’m about to lose my job.

I can’t go any lower than this.

My eyes slide around the room for something I can throw. It would be satisfying to hit him just once. At least I can get free housing and three meals a day in prison.

“I’m sorry, Kenya,” Walt whispers, grabbing my arm.

Sorry? He’s sorry? How does that help me now?

“You heard him, you need to pack your things and report to HR.”

As Walt ushers me off on the walk of shame, I can’t resist tossing a dark look over my shoulder. The prick, Alistair, is turning back too. He’s watching me with an assessing look that I can’t quite interpret.

He doesn’t seem confused or annoyed anymore.

It’s more like he’s… grudgingly intrigued.

Maybe he’s the kind of sadist who gets off on hiding his identity and axing innocent employees when they don’t recognize him.

The most annoying part of this whole thing is, even after his insufferable behavior, he’s still gorgeous. Or maybe I’m just delirious from all the horrible things that have happened today.

I need to go home and lie down. Wait, I don’t have a home to lie down in because I’m moving out of Drake’s apartment.

My steps are heavy when I follow Walt to HR.

I will not allow Mr. Giant Ego or Drake or even my sister to keep me down.

I’m going to show them all that I’m stronger than they ever thought I was.

And no amount of betrayal or icy hazel eyes will stop me.