Hot Boss - Anne Marsh Page 0,6
I’d decided we could housebreak him and teach him a few moral values along the way. Win-win. The three of us had become best friends, then billionaires. We’re the kings of Silicon Valley, California. There’s nothing we can’t buy or hack.
Still.
Who would have thought Max, the king of kink, would be hosting a celebration of true love and happily-ever-after? Let’s get real—he earned a fortune coding an app that hooks up horny people for hot, meaningless, no-strings sex. Quite frankly, milestone celebration planning is usually my bailiwick, but the fact that I’m still reorganizing my life after my divorce means I’m not in the fiesta mood. Ergo, Max stepped in when Dev proposed a personal kind of merger to his CEO girlfriend, the kind that comes with a diamond ring and a church date.
When the noise next door swells to deafening proportions, I plug in my headset and turn up the volume on my playlist. Coleman and Reed is scheduled to close an important round of funding for Silicon Valley’s newest and hottest start-up later this week, making it all-hands-on-deck at the office. And even if things were slow at work or if I’d decided to do the FIRE thing, achieving financial independence and retiring early at thirty-two, I still wouldn’t go over to the party next door. I’d rather have a root canal with no drugs. Hunt angry lions with my bare hands in Africa. Fight for a cheap TV at the Black Friday sales.
Why would I make those choices? For starters, going to the party means finding a clean shirt. It’s currently me, my blue jeans and a bare chest, because why bother getting dressed? Plus, there are people at Max’s. Happy, cheerful, celebrating people who will wonder—and then outright ask—how Molly is or if I’m dating. Everyone has a cousin Jo or Sue or Amy Beth that I should meet. But I’m okay by myself. Hopping back on the dating merry-go-round isn’t part of my life plan...
Yeah. I need help.
My phone buzzes once, twice, and I eventually locate it underneath my pillow. I’ve missed a text from Hazel:
I’m stopping by. Scream now if you’re naked or on the throne.
Should I respond?
Nope.
Sure enough, there’s a brisk but brief application of knuckles to my bedroom door and the door flies open. Hazel marches in, one hand shielding her eyes, the other clutching two bottles of champagne to her chest. Brown hair, cut bluntly to stop in a perfect line between her jaw and her shoulder, swings about her face in a sleek, smooth curtain.
“Are you decent?”
She’s practically hopping up and down. I watched a video this morning of a labradoodle bouncing in place, wiggling its butt with canine glee as its owner arrived to collect it from doggy day care. That happy pooch has nothing on Hazel.
“I’m wearing pants,” I say gravely. “But you should add counting to ten to your door-knocking routine. What if I were shy?”
“You’re not shy. You surf half-naked all the time. I watch you from the beach.” Hazel drops her hand, sets the champagne on the floor and takes me in. Brown eyes meet mine and then dip quickly to my bare chest. A mischievous grin tugs at the corners of her mouth as she crash-lands on the corner of the bed nearest the door and looks at me upside down.
She’s a constant in my life, familiar and welcome. She has a strong face and bold eyebrows. Brown eyes. High cheekbones with three freckles she claims look just like Orion’s Belt. There’s another freckle in her ear, although she disavows all knowledge of it. She’s of average height and curvy. She likes long walks on the beach—not because they’re romantic, but to stay in shape. Hazel only needs people in small doses, so the running part happens when she spots a fellow walker (she claims it’s a HIIT workout, but I know the truth).
Her gaze returns to my chest. I should probably figure out why. Whatever. It’s a little weird, but it’s also not as if I’m a virgin princess in a tower. My naked chest has been previously ogled. Still, I shove to my feet, pad into my walk-in closet and retrieve a T-shirt from a hanger. The laundry service delivers them washed and pressed once a week.
“Why are you here, Hazel?”
The bed rustles and creaks, which is the most action it’s seen in ages. Footsteps pad across the floor and stop in the doorway. When I finish pulling the shirt over my