Boss Next Door Read online

  “You’ve said some terrible things to me over the years, Chloe,” she says, her voice low. “But you’ve never been so deliberately hurtful to me before.”

  Hearing the genuine pain in her voice cuts me sharply, but I push it aside. I’m not going to let her get under my skin. She’s very adept at using guilt to get her way, but I’m not going to let her play the sympathy card this time.

  “I’m tired of you using Dad to justify your own bullshit, Mom,” I snarl. “When are you going to act like an adult and take responsibility for yourself?”

  “What has gotten into you, Chloe?”

  “Nothing’s gotten into me, Mother,” I snap back.

  “I just don’t know what I’ve done to deserve to be spoken to in this manner,” she gasps.

  “Well maybe if you weren’t so self-absorbed and actually thought about anybody but yourself, you’d see exactly why you deserve to be spoken to like this,” I practically shout.

  The look of hurt on her face only deepens as she gets to her feet, and despite my best efforts, it sends a lance of pain through me. She lets out a deep breath and raises her chin defiantly, doing her best to make her face passive and neutral. She regards me with an air of cool detachment.

  “I understand that you’re going through something right now,” her tone is haughty. “And because you are, I’ll forgive this little – tantrum – of yours.”

  I open my mouth but close it again, letting the scathing reply die upon my lips. It’s just not worth having this fight. The best thing I can do right now is disengage. I have to get my head on straight for my interview and fighting with my mother is not going to help my state of mind. Rather than standing there in a room that’s dripping with tension, I turn and walk out of the kitchen.

  My anger still simmering beneath the surface and feeling like a petulant teenager all over again, I take the stairs up to my room and slam the door behind me – a bit harder than necessary.

  I glance at the clock and see that it’s eight-thirty. The email from Ms. Walsh said my interview is at ten, so I still have time, but I’m getting a bit nervous. I’m wearing nothing but a towel as I dance around my room, doing my best to put the fight with my mom out of my head and get into a more positive frame of mind.

  Going over to my closet, I start picking through my wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. I pick through my skirts and suits, trying to find something suitable, but not liking anything I’m seeing. My stomach lurches when my phone chimes with an incoming text message.

  I snatch my phone up off my dresser and call up the message. As I read the words on the screen, the lurch in my belly turns into a full-blown maelstrom of emotion. I read the message a second and then a third time, the disbelief deepening with each successive reading.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter to myself.

  My interview this morning is with the HR director at Voight Designs International – as in Braxton Voight and his father. My perfect damn luck.

  I haven’t seen Braxton in years, and the last time I saw him didn’t exactly end well. I swallow down the trepidation swirling around within me and try to clear my head. It’s been years since that last disastrous morning together. The two days preceding that had been almost magical – I’d never felt so comfortable with somebody before in my life. But the blowout on that final morning had destroyed anything and everything that we’d created.

  I can’t say we were headed for a relationship or anything – long distance relationships seldom work out – but as far as I was concerned, that final fight had closed the door on even the possibility of something down the road.

  I pace back and forth in my room, my palm pressed to my head, my mind a whirlwind of pure chaos. What sort of screwed up luck do I have that not only am I stuck in this situation because of my father’s criminal lifestyle, but now I have to rely on somebody I had a terrible falling out with to save me.

  “Unbelievable,” I mutter to myself.

  I stop and take a deep breath, then concentrate on letting it out slowly. I need to pull myself together and focus on this interview. But as I stand there, looking out my window at the pool in the backyard, I start to wonder if I should go to the interview or whether it would be smarter for me to cancel. I mean, the idea of working for Braxton is daunting, to say the least. It would have been awkward when things were good between us. Now that things have gone to shit, I don’t think it’s even tenable.

  But as I debate with myself, a second thought occurs to me. It’s been a lot of years since the last time I was here. It’s been a lot of years since Braxton and I had our – thing. What are the chances he’s even still here? Given the trajectory of his career arc, isn’t it more likely he’s already back in New York overseeing his father’s empire?

  He’d always told me he was only in Vegas to be groomed to take over the top spot. It only seems logical that after nearly a decade, he’s got to be in charge. Which means, he’s more than likely back home, making the odds of me running into him out here relatively slim. Right? And more than that, given that this is a junior designer position rather than an executive or management position, the odds of me seeing him even if he does come out here seem even slimmer.

  If I manage to get this job, we’ll be moving in two separate worlds entirely, and the crossover between them is minimal at best. Which means I can do this.

  I take one last deep breath and let it out slowly, my decision made. I can do this. At the very least, I can suck it up long enough to get through an interview. There’s no guarantee I’ll even get the job, so all this stressing about the slim possibility of running into Braxton again after all these years is not just premature but probably ridiculous. If I somehow manage to get the job, I’ll let myself stress about it all then.

  Giving myself a quick nod, I walk back to the closet and pick out what I’m wearing. I pull out a blue pantsuit with a crème colored blouse quickly, not giving myself time to even think about it. I need to finish getting ready quickly so I can spend some time going over interview examples on YouTube. Having never interviewed for a job before, I need all the help I can get.

  Finished dressing and getting ready – and armed with the knowledge gleaned from the power of the Internet – I’m about as ready as I’m going to be. This is my first step toward building my brand-new life – my brand-new me. This is my first step toward living a life free of people telling me what to do and how to live. My first step toward becoming the person I used to believe I could be.

  With butterflies churning wildly inside of me, I head out of the house with the hope that I’m doing the right thing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Braxton

  “Hey, just wanted to let you know I interviewed a few people for the junior designer position,” she says. “Good morning, by the way.”

  I look up to see Stephanie, my HR manager, leaning into my office doorway with a smile on her face. I only sat down at my desk fifteen minutes ago – I haven’t even had time to finish a cup of coffee yet – and I’m already being bombarded. Just once, I’d like to come in and have an hour or so to myself, just to get acclimated and ready for the tumult of the day before the hounds are unleashed.

  But I know I’m not likely to ever get that hour of peace in the morning – it’s the price of being the man at the top of the totem pole.

  I do my best to give her a smile. “And did you interview anybody worth looking harder at?”

  She nods. “I have my eye on a couple of them,” she says. “I want to bring them in for a second interview with Jerry.”

  “Sounds good,” I respond.

  “I’ll send you the files in case you want to take a look,” she mentions. “I’ll also send them to Curtis.”

  I look up at that. “No, don’t send them to Curtis.”

  She looks at me with a confused look on her face. “But isn’t this for a spot on his team?”

  “Yes, but I’ll make the final call here.”

  The confusion d
eepens on her face. “Oh. Okay,” she says. “Not a problem. I’ll make sure you get the final word.”

  “Thank you, Stephanie.”

  “Sure thing,” she chirps, brightening before she leaves my office.

  Ordinarily, I put the team leads in charge of their own groups. I give them the power to hire and fire as they see fit. It’s their team, and they’ll be working the most closely with these people, after all. I try to give my team leads as much freedom as possible. But that doesn’t mean I’m out of touch with what happens. I monitor everything closely – I’m just unobtrusive about it.

  One thing my father taught me was to learn to trust the people working for me. Trust their talent and decision making. But he also liked to say, and I think he was quoting some president, Carter or Reagan, probably: trust – but verify. Meaning that I need to give them freedom, but I also need to remain in the loop on everything, so I have the opportunity to catch any potential problems before they crop up.

  But when it comes to Curtis Greeley, the simple fact is that I don’t trust him. I don’t trust his decision making, and I don’t trust his judgment. I think he’s a talented man who’s usually very detail-oriented and has an eye for the unusual. But he seems to want to put his own quirky spin on every project he’s involved with, regardless of what the client is looking for. He seems more interested in creating art than bringing a client’s vision to life. And while there are certain times when those two things intersect, it’s not every time. And Curtis doesn’t seem to know the difference between when it’s appropriate and when it’s not.

  So the last thing I intend to do is let him load up his team with more people like him. Frankly, stripping him of the power to hire his own team is something I should have done long ago. But I know what it’s going to lead to – a long and drawn-out conversation with him – so I’ve been kicking the can down the road by not hiring somebody to fill the vacant junior designer slot on his team. But we’ve come to a point where we need to fill the slot, so I’ve got no choice but to hire somebody and deal with the fallout.

  I take a sip of my coffee and start to scroll through my email again, determined to get through it all before I’m interrupted again.

  That dream is shattered two minutes later though, when Curtis Greeley storms into my office, huffing and puffing like he’s just run a marathon to get here. His face is as red as his hair, and his forehead glistens with a thin sheen of sweat. Curtis has a receding hairline that he compensates for with a thick, bushy lumberjack beard. He wears black-rimmed glasses and is neatly dressed in khaki slacks and a blue button-down shirt.

  He’s average in almost every sense of the word – not tall, not short, not thin, and not fat. If not for a quirky personality and a penchant for firing off random facts at odd times, he’s the kind of man you’d forget five minutes after you meet him.

  Curtis is a highly intelligent man and one who has a very – different – view of the world around him. And that’s why when a project calls for something unique or more on the artistic side; he knocks it out of the park every single time. But it’s also why when a client wants something a bit more traditional and less abstract, he fails on every level.

  It really is feast or famine with him, since he views himself as an elevated Frank Lloyd Wright and can come across as smug and arrogant at times. That sense of superiority is why most people seem to find him off-putting. But when he’s around people in positions of authority – like me and my father before me – he’s obsequious and entirely deferential. I have no idea why my father is so fond of him. Personally, I tolerate the man – but just barely.

  “Curtis,” I begin, irritated by his interruption.

  He plops down into the seat across from my desk without waiting to be invited – which irritates me even more. He takes a moment to gather himself, then looks at me. I can tell he’s upset, and I don’t have to be a mind reader to know why.

  “Braxton, I got your email,” he begins, his voice terse. “And I don’t understand why you’re insisting on revising the Lyman project. Again.”

  I sigh and lean back in my seat. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were at the meeting with Mr. Lyman and his people, were you not?”

  “Yes of course I was.”

  “So you heard what it was Mr. Lyman wanted,” I go on. “You heard what his vision for this project was, yes?”

  Curtis nods. “Of course,” he says. “And I’m trying to bring that vision to life.”

  I take a drink of my coffee, staring at Curtis over the rim of my mug the whole time. My frustration with the man is threatening to boil over, but I manage to stuff it down. But my patience with him is hanging on by a thread. For all the talent he possesses, his knack for being a pain in my ass overwhelms that by a country mile.

  “No, you’re trying to bring your vision to life.” My voice is cold. “Just like you do with every project you work on.”

  Curtis sits up in his seat primly, his face pinched. “What I created is an organic blend of Mr. Lyman’s stated desires with my creative inspiration –”

  “Stop,” I interrupt, holding up my hand. “Just stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Braxton, you don’t understand –”

  I slam my fist down on my desk hard enough to rattle everything on it. Curtis flinches, then shrinks back in his seat. He looks at me with wide eyes and an expression of absolute fear on his face.

  “I said I don’t want to hear it!” I snap. “The bottom line is that we were given a specific outline. We were given a task to do, and you failed to see that vision through. What you designed is not what the client wants. Not even close, Curtis.”

  He purses his lips and sniffs loudly. I can see his own anger and frustration bubbling below the surface, and know he wants to lash out at me. I also know he won’t do it because, at the heart of things, he’s not a fighter. Oh, he can play the tough guy with his subordinates, but when faced with somebody in a position of power over him, he’ll back down every single time.

  “You know, my creativity and outside the box thinking is something your father appreciated about me,” he huffs.

  I set my mug down and run a hand through my hair. I turn my eyes to him and hold his gaze for a long moment before speaking. Curtis’ obstinance is really trying my patience today.

  “Curtis, we are in the business of meeting the needs of our clients,” I tell him. “If we can’t make our clients happy, we won’t have any clients. You do understand that, yes?”

  “Of course I understand that,” he snaps as if offended by the question.

  “Oh good because, based on the fact that your design doesn’t take Lyman’s wants into account at all, I wasn’t sure you understood that.”

  The air around him is saturated with a righteous indignation so thick; you can practically cut it with a knife. He lets out a loud breath and uses his handkerchief to wipe away the sweat on his brow again.

  “What would you have me do, Braxton?”

  “I would have you design what our client asked for,” I press. “Not go rogue and do your own thing on this project.”

  “Your father –”

  “My father is not in charge anymore, Curtis,” I shout. “I am. And goddammit, you will do what I say. If you don’t like it, please feel free to move on.”

  Curtis’ eyes narrow, and he glares at me. “I know you can’t fire me,” he muses. “I know your father won’t allow it.”

  I bite back the scathing reply that’s on the tip of my tongue and let out a long breath instead. I take a moment to collect my wits and to calm down. I know I’m not being very professional at the moment, and the fact that he can get under my skin this deep is only irritating me even more.

  “You’re right; he didn’t want me to fire you,” I nod, forcing myself to be calm. “But keep pushing me, Curtis, and I will demote you. Push me hard enough, and you’ll be mopping floors around here.”

  “Your father won’t allow that.”

  I laugh wryly. �
�He has no say in the matter. I may have given him my word that I wouldn’t fire you,” I growl, “but I never said anything about not demoting you.”

  His mouth falls open, and his face darkens as he stares at me. I can see him trying to formulate some kind of response, but he looks like he has no idea what to say to that. He’s been operating under the assumption that he has the same free rein with me that he had under my father, and I’ve finally reached my breaking point with him.

  “Start over on the Lyman design,” I order. “And this time, give the client what he wants.”

  Curtis continues to sit there as he absorbs my words. It seems like the new world order around here is finally beginning to sink in, and it’s more than obvious that he doesn’t much care for it. In an ideal world, Curtis would choose to take his talents elsewhere. Personally, I think a mutual parting would be the best thing for the both of us. The man is talented, and he would probably thrive in a firm that would be able to give him the freedom he wants. But that’s not my firm. And no amount of bickering will change that.

  I gave my father my word, and to me, that means something. Which means I’m saddled with Curtis until he decides to leave.

  “We’re done here,” I snap. “I expect the phase one redesign rendering by end of day tomorrow.”

  He gets to his feet silently and shuffles out of my office, leaving me in the quiet peace of my office. I let out another long breath and glance at my watch, calculating how much time I have until I can take a lunch and have a drink.

  This feels like it’s going to be a three martini kind of day.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Braxton

  I’m up before my alarm the next morning and wander downstairs to pour myself a cup of coffee. Carrying my mug out to the back patio, I reflect on my conversation with Curtis the previous day. More precisely, I think about how my father would have handled it. I know I came up way short in comparison.