The Boss Vol. 3: a Hot Billionaire Romance by Cari Quinn, Taryn Elliott Page A
Authors: Cari Quinn, Taryn Elliott
Ads: Link
was concerned.
But I needed work.
I had to get Blake Carson out of my head and in my rearview mirror. Work was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that would save me.
“I’ve known your name, longer than I’ve known my own.”
“You’re fired.”
I flicked on lights and struggled out of my dress, hose, and his scent, leaving a trail of clothes from the front of my studio to my worktable. I pulled on my overalls, tucked my hair under the old golf hat with more singe marks than plaid lines, and clamped my wireless headphones over my ears.
I flicked on my stereo and blasted Frank Turner. An angry Brit would drown him out.
I pushed away all the bits of copper and glass until the angel sculpture was at the center of my table.
Work.
I had work to do.
I ripped off her wing and pulled down the smoky gold glass I’d been saving. She needed to be bigger. She needed to be more dynamic.
She needed to be more.
Just like me.
Chapter Two
M y cheek had hit the pillow sometime around dawn. Since it was November that had to be more like seven in the morning, rather than five. I honestly didn’t remember falling onto the little twin bed I had stashed in the corner of my workroom.
I’d worked for three days straight on the angel. Deconstructing her in a frenzy, only to find myself in that precious fugue state to put her back together. It didn’t happen all that often. I couldn’t say it didn’t happen, but not since my grandmother.
I hadn’t really allowed myself to fall into my work. Too much guilt, too much sadness, too much Blake. So much time wasted.
I slid my hand out from under my pillow and winced. My fingers were raw with scrapes and burns. The work had been too intense for safety gloves. I couldn’t get close enough to do the fine welding work. In the middle of a work tornado, I could lose time, and burns didn’t really register.
With blurry eyes, I studied the nicks at my knuckles, and a nasty gash along the side of my hand. Yeah, that was going to need peroxide and a butterfly bandage.
“Good job, Grace.”
I rolled up to a sitting position and barely swallowed a groan.
Definitely had passed out.
I reached for my phone. Thursday.
Holy hell, I’d worked for days. It didn’t feel like it. My stomach roared. Okay, so my stomach said it did. Thursday—Thanksgiving.
Why couldn’t I work through one more day? Then it would have been over. Today was the one day that I always unburied myself to see my grandmother. Obviously that wasn’t happening. I could go to Philomena’s. She was forever sending me texts for dinner, brunch, lunch—even breakfast. Anything to get me to come see her.
It was easier to just work. Whether in my studio or at Blake’s company, anything was better than feeling the loss.
I rolled forward to stretch out my back. The buckle of my overalls swiped over my nipple. Sometimes I was intelligent enough to shuck the overalls, but not this morning evidently. I pushed the strap up and resisted the urge to look at my worktable.
If I did, I’d be lost again.
But I definitely needed food. I needed caffeine. Hell, I needed a shower. I could still smell him on me under the sweat and madness. More like he was the madness. I’d effectively pushed him away from my subconscious with work, but now his face was screaming into my reality.
The anger and the accusation.
Did he know everything?
I padded to the window, pressing my palm to a cool pane of glass. Not like Blake’s glass. This was old with tiny flecks of color bleeding onto the crystal clear squares from years and layers of paint.
I tipped my fevered forehead to a higher square. The ocean roared outside and the sound settled my racing heart. A cold snap was heading in off the water. Today would require one of my bulky sweaters and wool socks, but right now it felt so good to let the cold inside.
The sun had long since risen and the morning had melted away in my post-work stupor. I lifted my gaze to the beach. A
But I needed work.
I had to get Blake Carson out of my head and in my rearview mirror. Work was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that would save me.
“I’ve known your name, longer than I’ve known my own.”
“You’re fired.”
I flicked on lights and struggled out of my dress, hose, and his scent, leaving a trail of clothes from the front of my studio to my worktable. I pulled on my overalls, tucked my hair under the old golf hat with more singe marks than plaid lines, and clamped my wireless headphones over my ears.
I flicked on my stereo and blasted Frank Turner. An angry Brit would drown him out.
I pushed away all the bits of copper and glass until the angel sculpture was at the center of my table.
Work.
I had work to do.
I ripped off her wing and pulled down the smoky gold glass I’d been saving. She needed to be bigger. She needed to be more dynamic.
She needed to be more.
Just like me.
Chapter Two
M y cheek had hit the pillow sometime around dawn. Since it was November that had to be more like seven in the morning, rather than five. I honestly didn’t remember falling onto the little twin bed I had stashed in the corner of my workroom.
I’d worked for three days straight on the angel. Deconstructing her in a frenzy, only to find myself in that precious fugue state to put her back together. It didn’t happen all that often. I couldn’t say it didn’t happen, but not since my grandmother.
I hadn’t really allowed myself to fall into my work. Too much guilt, too much sadness, too much Blake. So much time wasted.
I slid my hand out from under my pillow and winced. My fingers were raw with scrapes and burns. The work had been too intense for safety gloves. I couldn’t get close enough to do the fine welding work. In the middle of a work tornado, I could lose time, and burns didn’t really register.
With blurry eyes, I studied the nicks at my knuckles, and a nasty gash along the side of my hand. Yeah, that was going to need peroxide and a butterfly bandage.
“Good job, Grace.”
I rolled up to a sitting position and barely swallowed a groan.
Definitely had passed out.
I reached for my phone. Thursday.
Holy hell, I’d worked for days. It didn’t feel like it. My stomach roared. Okay, so my stomach said it did. Thursday—Thanksgiving.
Why couldn’t I work through one more day? Then it would have been over. Today was the one day that I always unburied myself to see my grandmother. Obviously that wasn’t happening. I could go to Philomena’s. She was forever sending me texts for dinner, brunch, lunch—even breakfast. Anything to get me to come see her.
It was easier to just work. Whether in my studio or at Blake’s company, anything was better than feeling the loss.
I rolled forward to stretch out my back. The buckle of my overalls swiped over my nipple. Sometimes I was intelligent enough to shuck the overalls, but not this morning evidently. I pushed the strap up and resisted the urge to look at my worktable.
If I did, I’d be lost again.
But I definitely needed food. I needed caffeine. Hell, I needed a shower. I could still smell him on me under the sweat and madness. More like he was the madness. I’d effectively pushed him away from my subconscious with work, but now his face was screaming into my reality.
The anger and the accusation.
Did he know everything?
I padded to the window, pressing my palm to a cool pane of glass. Not like Blake’s glass. This was old with tiny flecks of color bleeding onto the crystal clear squares from years and layers of paint.
I tipped my fevered forehead to a higher square. The ocean roared outside and the sound settled my racing heart. A cold snap was heading in off the water. Today would require one of my bulky sweaters and wool socks, but right now it felt so good to let the cold inside.
The sun had long since risen and the morning had melted away in my post-work stupor. I lifted my gaze to the beach. A
Similar Books
The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey Into the Minds of Sexual Predators
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood
