My best friend, Ava, always tried to make me feel better. Too bad I knew she was lying. Lying through her teeth.
With my forefinger, I pushed my glasses farther up my nose and leaned closer to the computer screen, so close that I nearly went cross-eyed. The scent of coffee hit me directly in the nostrils. The sound of paper spat out of the printer. The chatter of my coworkers rang loudly behind me. But I ignored it all and concentrated on my computer screen—her—my replacement. Jeff’s replacement for me.
“She’s not that pretty,” Ava continued.
I scrolled through my ex-boyfriend’s Facebook feed again, fixated on their endless pictures together, laughing, hugging, smiling, eating. And her … I couldn’t get over her. The replacement was beautiful, her body built like those mannequins at the store, tall and perfectly proportional. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. High cheekbones contoured like those stupid tutorials Ava always watched on YouTube.
“I hate her.” Venom dripped from my tone. Not only because she was beautiful, but also because she had him.
Already tired of looking at my computer screen, I leaned back against my chair and straightened my pens, separated by color in their cup-like containers.
“I’m telling you, she’s not that …” She coughed. “But do you think her boobs are real?”
“They can’t be.” My eyes level with the screen. “Who has a perfect face, body, and boobs, too?”
Why must life be so unfair?
“Sonia!”
I jerked back at the sound of my boss’s voice and knocked over my coffee in the process, causing me to jump back and drop the phone. “Damn it!”
Liquid spilled everywhere—on the desk, on my keyboard, on my skirt.
Fisting a handful of Kleenex from my tissue box, I cleaned up my desk. The light-brown liquid soaked the tissues. I grabbed more, repeated the process, patted my damp skirt down, and glared at his office door.
I had ordered his breakfast, picked up his dry cleaning, and gone over his schedule for today. What the hell did he want now? Couldn’t I get some peace for five freaking minutes?
I reached for the phone dangling off my desk and placed it to my ear. “Gotta go, Ava. The crass hole is beckoning.”
She sighed overly loud. “Tall, dark, and oh-so fine. Give my love to your BILF.”
Boss I’d Like to—yeah, right.
How about Boss I’d Like to Kill?
“I’ll tell the BILK you said hello. Bye.” I reached for my iPad, adjusted my glasses, and skittered to his office, my two-inch turquoise Mary Janes clicking against the black marble floor. After I pulled down my plaid knee-length skirt, I entered his fishbowl office.
Floor-to-ceiling windows outlined every single wall. His eyes focused on the screen in front of him, his backdrop was worthy of a picture frame—the Chicago skyline.
Brad Sebastian Brisken had the face of a Hollywood heartthrob, the jawline of a GQ model, and the body of someone who lived at the gym all the time. His suit was always perfectly pressed, and the lines in his sleek slacks always hugged his firm thighs. There was never a dark strand of hair out of place. He looked like a Greek god—tall, fit, and fine.
“Took you long enough.”
“Sorry, was on the phone with my mom.” Jerkface. I didn’t sound sorry.
And this was how our two-year working relationship had been going. Him being a jerk, me snapping back or blatantly not caring.
Who cared if Brad was a millionaire? Who cared that he was seriously one good-looking, fine specimen of a man with his chestnut hair and dark brown eyes? Every woman fawned over him. Every male wanted to be him.
Me? Sometimes, he drove me to the point of insanity where I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and choke hold him, WWE-style, until he turned blue.
After working for him for over two years, there was one thing I had come to realize: good looks and all the money in the world did not make up for his jerk-like attitude.
He motioned to the chair in front of his desk, and I sat down. And, as I swiped at my iPad, his phone rang.
“Hey, Jimmy.” He leaned back on his chair, resting his ankle on the opposite knee, and with a flick of his hand, he waved me off as though I were a fly on his shoulder.
I stood, about-faced, and was almost to my desk when he called out to me as though he had a permanent megaphone attached to his mouth, “Sonia!”