The Boss Project Read online

  Copyright © 2022 by Vi Keeland

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  The Boss Project

  Edited by: Jessica Royer Ocken

  Proofreading by: Elaine York, Julia Griffis

  Cover Model: Daniel Harris

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar

  Cover designer: Sommer Stein, Perfect Pear Creative

  Formatting by: Elaine York, Allusion Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Back to the Beginning

  Dear Readers

  Other Books by Vi Keeland

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  “I, uh, was eating cherries.” I looked down at my stained blouse and offered an apologetic smile. “When I’m nervous, I snack, and I passed a fruit stand that had Bing cherries. They’re my weakness. Though I realize now it wasn’t a good idea fifteen minutes before my interview.”

  The woman’s forehead wrinkles deepened. To be fair, my shirt was speckled with more than one or two cherry stains. If there was any shot of saving this interview, I had to jump in and try to make her laugh with the truth.

  “I dropped one cherry,” I continued. “It bounced and left red dots in three places before I could catch it. I tried to get the stain out in the ladies’ room. But this is silk, and it wouldn’t come out. So then I had the bright idea to make it look like a pattern. I had a few cherries left, so I bit them open and tried to replicate the marks.” I shook my head. “It didn’t work out too well, obviously, but my choices at that point were to go shopping for a clean shirt and be late for our interview, or try to pull it off as fashion. I thought it wouldn’t be that noticeable…” I sighed quietly. “Guess I was wrong.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Yes, well… Why don’t we get started with the interview, shall we?”

  I forced a smile and folded my hands on my lap, even though it seemed like I already didn’t get the job. “That would be great.”

  Twenty minutes later, I was back out on the street. At least she didn’t waste too much of my time. I could grab some more delicious cherries and still have time to stop at a store for a new shirt before my last interview of the week. That put a spring in my step.

  After I stopped back by the fruit stand, I jumped on the subway. I’d grab a new shirt somewhere between the train station and my appointment.

  But two stops into my trip, we screeched to an abrupt halt and didn’t move for the better part of an hour. The guy sitting across from me kept staring in my direction. At one point, I dug into my purse for something to fan myself with, because the train was really starting to get hot. He looked down at his phone and back up at me two or three times. I tried to ignore it, but suspected I knew exactly what was coming.

  A few moments later, he leaned forward in his seat. “Excuse me. But you’re that bride, aren’t you?” He turned his phone to show me a video that I wished did not exist. “The one that blew up her wedding?”

  This wasn’t the first time I’d been recognized, though it had been at least a month or two since the last encounter, so I’d hoped the insanity had finally passed. Guess it hadn’t. People sitting to the left and the right of us on the train were now paying attention, so I did what I had to in order to escape being bombarded with questions once I admitted the truth: I lied straight through my teeth.

  “Nope. Not me. But people have told me I could be her twin.” I shrugged. “They say everyone has a doppelgänger somewhere. I guess she’s mine.” After a pause, I added, “Wish it was me, though. She’s a badass, isn’t she?”

  The guy glanced down at his phone again and then back up. He didn’t look like he believed a word I’d said, but at least he let it go. “Oh. Yeah, sure. Sorry to bother you.”

  Another hour later, the train finally started moving again. No one had even bothered to make an announcement about the holdup. By the time I got off, I only had about twenty minutes before my next interview, and I still had on my cherry-stained shirt. And…I’d dropped a couple more as I binged while sitting on the hot train. So I rushed up the subway stairs, hoping I could find something presentable to wear on the way to my appointment.

  A few buildings down from my interview, I finally found a store with both men’s and women’s clothing in the window. A saleswoman with a heavy Italian accent offered to help as soon as I walked into Paloma Boutique.

  “Hi. Would you have a cream silk blouse? Or white? Or…” I shook my head and looked down. “Basically anything I can put on with this skirt?”

  The woman eyed my top. I gave her credit for not reacting. Instead, she nodded, and I followed her to a rack where she pulled out three different silk blouses. Any of them would do. Relieved, I asked where the fitting room was, and she started to walk me toward the back of the store. But when someone called out from the register, she pointed to a door and barked something at me in a mix of Italian and English. I thought it might be “I’ll check on you in a moment,” but whatever. It didn’t seem too important.

  Inside the dressing room, I looked at myself in the mirror. My lips glowed bright red. The pound of cherries I’d eaten on the train must’ve stained them. “Shit,” I mumbled and rubbed at my mouth. But it wasn’t coming off before my interview. Thankfully my teeth had been spared. Those damn cherries had turned out to be a disaster. Though I didn’t have time to deal with anything else, so I shook my head, pulled off my ruined top, and took one of the blouses from the hanger. Before I slipped it on, it occurred to me that perhaps I should clean up a bit. The hot subway car had left me feeling not too fresh. So I grabbed my purse and fished out an old wet wipe from a wing place I’d gone to a few weeks ago. Thankfully, it was still moist. A lemony scent wafted through the air as I raised my right arm to wipe, and I wondered if that smell would transfer to my skin. Curious, I bent my head and sniffed. Which was exactly the position I was in when the fitting room door whipped open.

  “What the…?” The man on the other side immediately went to close it. But he paused halfway with his brows knitted. “What are you doing?”

  Of course, because my day couldn’t get any shittier, the guy had to be gorgeous. His stunning green eyes caught me off guard, but I quickly regained my wits when I realized I was still holding up my arm and he’d just watched me sniff my armpit.

  Flustered, I folded bot
h hands over my lacy bra. “Does it matter? Get out!” Reaching forward, I yanked the door shut, brushing it against the intruder as it closed. “Go find the men’s room!” I yelled.

  From the bottom of the door, I could see the man’s shiny shoes. They weren’t moving.

  “For your information,” his gravelly voice rumbled, “…this is the men’s room. But I’ll let you wash your pits in peace.”

  When the shiny shoes finally disappeared, I blew out two cheeks full of air. This day just needed to end. But I still had one more interview left, which I was going to be late to if I didn’t hurry my ass up. I didn’t even bother to wash under my other arm before trying on the first shirt. Thankfully, it fit, so I changed back into my own lovely blouse and rushed to the cashier while still tucking it in. I expected to see the guy who’d busted into the fitting room waiting around, but thankfully he was nowhere in sight.

  As I waited for the salesperson to ring me up, I looked back at the fitting room and noticed that the door I’d thought the woman had pointed to was actually right next to another door, and that one had the Ladies sign above it. The one I’d been in was clearly marked Men.

  Crap. Perfect.

  The shirt cost me a hundred-and-forty dollars—about a hundred-and-twenty bucks more than the one it replaced, which I’d picked up at Marshalls. Since that was almost enough to deplete my sad checking account these days, I needed to land this last job—the interview for which I only had a few minutes left to get to. So I rushed to the building a few doors down, did a Superman-speed change in the ladies’ room in the lobby, ran my fingers through my hair, and applied an extra layer of lipstick over my already too-red lips to even out the cherry stains.

  The elevator ride up to the thirty-fifth floor was about as speedy as the train ride downtown had been. The car stopped at almost every floor to let people on and off, so I took out my phone and scanned my emails to avoid stressing about being a minute or two late. Unfortunately, that turned out to be even more draining, since I’d received two new email rejection letters from jobs I’d submitted my resumé to—including one from the place I’d interviewed earlier today. Great. I felt completely defeated, especially since I was now walking in to interview for a job I knew I wasn’t qualified for, even if Kitty had put in a good word for me.

  The elevator dinged at my floor, and I took a deep breath to compose myself before stepping off. But I barely had one foot over the threshold when whatever morsel of the calm I’d managed to find flew out the window. Tall, double-glass doors with big, fancy gold letters announcing Crawford Investments intimidated the hell out of me. Inside, the reception area was even worse, with sky-high ceilings, stark white walls featuring boldly colored art, and a giant crystal chandelier. The woman behind the desk looked more like a supermodel than a receptionist, too.

  She smiled through glossy lips. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I have a five o’clock appointment with Merrick Crawford.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “Evie Vaughn.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re here. Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  As I walked over to the plush white couches, the woman called after me. “Ms. Vaughn?”

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “You have…” She motioned over her shoulder to her back. “…a tag hanging off your shirt.”

  I reached around, patting until I found it, and tugged it off. “Thank you. I got something on the shirt I put on this morning, so I had to buy a new one before I got here.”

  She smiled. “Thank God it’s Friday.”

  “Most definitely.”

  A few minutes later, the receptionist walked me back into the inner sanctum of offices. When we reached the proverbial corner office, there were two men inside embattled in some sort of a screaming match. They didn’t even seem to notice us. The entire office was glass, though, so I could see them standing toe to toe as they yelled. The shorter of the two was balding and talked animatedly with his hands. Every time he flailed his arms, he flashed giant sweat rings in his armpits. The taller of the two was definitely the boss, based on his stance. He stood with his feet spread wide and arms folded across a broad chest. I couldn’t see his whole face, but from the side, it looked like some of the confidence he oozed probably came from being extremely attractive.

  “If you don’t like it…” the boss finally growled, “…don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

  “I have socks older than this kid! What kind of experience could he possibly have?”

  “Age isn’t a number I give two shits about. It’s the other number that calls the shots around here—profit. His are double digits, and yours are in the toilet for the third quarter in a row. Until things improve, your trades all need to be approved by Lark.”

  “Lark…” He shook his head. “Even the name pisses me off.”

  “Well, go be pissed off somewhere else.”

  Short Guy grumbled something I couldn’t make out and turned to leave. He wiped sweat from his ruddy face as he marched toward the door and swung it open, brushing past us as if we weren’t even here. Inside, the boss walked toward his desk. Apparently, we were invisible.

  The receptionist looked at me sympathetically before knocking.

  “What!”

  She cracked open the door and peeked her head inside. “Your five o’clock interview is here. You told me to bring her back.”

  “Great.” He frowned and shook his head. “Bring her in.”

  Apparently, Kitty’s grandson didn’t inherit her kind demeanor.

  The receptionist extended her hand with a hesitant smile. “Sorry,” she whispered. “But good luck.”

  I took a few steps inside the palatial office. When the glass door clanked closed behind me, and the guy still hadn’t looked up or greeted me, I got the urge to turn and run back out. But while I stood debating doing exactly that, Mr. Grumpy lost his patience.

  He kept his back to me as he put something on his bookshelf. “Are you going to take a seat, or do I need to get a tin can and string to interview you?”

  I narrowed my eyes. What a jerk. I wasn’t sure if it was the day I’d had, or just this guy’s attitude that made me lose my cool, but suddenly I didn’t care if I got the job. Whatever happened, happened. The nice thing about the point when you stop giving a crap about whether you win or lose is that it takes all the pressure off playing the game. “Perhaps I was allowing you a minute in the hopes it would improve your mood,” I said.

  The guy turned around. The first thing that caught my attention was his smirk. But when my eyes lifted to meet his, and I got my first good look at that startling green, I nearly fell over.

  No.

  Seriously?

  Just no.

  It can’t be.

  Kitty’s grandson is the guy from the fitting room?

  I wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere.

  But while I was quietly dying of humiliation, the man who fifteen minutes ago had walked in on me sniffing my armpit was forging ahead.

  Merrick held out his hand to the chair in front of his desk. “Time is money. Have a seat.”

  Does he not remember me? Is that even possible?

  After watching the exchange he’d just had with his employee, I didn’t think he seemed like the kind of man to not speak his mind.

  Maybe he didn’t get a good look at my face… I had yanked the door shut pretty quick. And I’d been standing there in a bra, and now I was fully clothed.

  Or maybe… Could I have been wrong and he wasn’t the guy from the store? I didn’t think so. While I might be forgettable to him, this man had a face I couldn’t forget—chiseled jawline, prominent cheekbones, flawless, tanned skin, full lips, and thick, dark eyelashes that rimmed nearly translucent green eyes. Those were currently staring at me like I was the last person he wanted in his office.

  He put his hands on his hips. “I don’t have all day. Let’s get this over with.
”

  Wow. What a peach. He sounded as excited as I felt about the prospect of working for him. Nevertheless, I’d put in quite a lot of effort to be here, so I might as well finish my shitty week with one more rejection and play along.

  I walked to his desk and extended my hand. “Evie Vaughn.”

  “Merrick Crawford.” We locked eyes while we shook, and I still didn’t see any sign that he recognized me, not from the fitting room or as a friend of his grandmother’s.

  Whatever. Kitty got me in the door, but the rest was up to me.

  My resumé sat in the center of his massive glass desk. He lifted it and leaned back into his chair.

  “What’s Boxcar Realty?”

  “Oh, it’s a nonprofit company I started a few years back. It’s more of a side project, but I spent a good portion of the last six months working on it full time while I was between therapist jobs. I didn’t want to leave it off and show a gap in my employment.”

  “So you left your last therapist position six months ago and haven’t had outside employment since then?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And Boxcar is involved in real estate of some sort?”

  “It’s a rental-property company. I own a few nontraditional spaces that I rent out through Airbnb.”

  Merrick’s brows pulled together. “Nontraditional?”

  “It’s sort of a long story, but I inherited some property down south that’s great for hiking and escaping the city. It wasn’t developed at all, and I didn’t want to spoil the land by building homes, so I built a glamping site and two treehouses that I rent.”

  “A…glamping site?”

  “It’s camping, but done with a little more glamour. It means—”

  Merrick interrupted. “I’ve heard the term glamping, Ms. Vaughn. I’m just struggling to figure out how it relates to being a therapist.”

  Ugh. Not off to a good start. I sat up a little taller. “Well, it doesn’t directly—unless you consider that most of the people I rent to are looking for an escape from their stressful jobs. It’s sort of my passion project. All of the proceeds go to charity. After I left my last position, I took some much-needed time off to focus on growing it a bit.” I leaned forward and pointed to my resumé. “If you look at the job before that, you’ll see my experience as a therapist.”