Page 3 of Dirty Legacy

I push on for another twenty minutes when I get an email. I’m ready to ignore it until I notice the name. It’s a reply to a message I sent hours earlier, and it’s from him.

Connor Maguire.

The Big Boss himself.

He has never written me back before. In all the time I’ve been here, which isn’t really that long, but still, I’ve never gotten anything from his email address. Part of me thought it might be fake.

But there he is, waiting in my inbox. My heart skips a beat as I remember the last time I caught a glimpse of him. Surprisingly tall, dark hair, thick brows, a shocking number of tattoos for a corporate CEO. Obscenely handsome in a way that even makes Nadia stutter like a little girl when we talk about him.

I eagerly read the message, afraid I screwed up somehow, and my stomach sinks down to my knees.

Ms. Bellandi, please come meet me in my office. I know you’re still here.

Nothing else. No explanation. No signature. Just, he knows I’m here, and he wants me immediately.

What the hell is happening?

My mouth goes dry as I push myself from my desk. How does Big Boss even know I haven’t left yet? Probably because I’ve been sending him a steady stream of bullshit reports, the last one ten minutes ago. My knees feel weak as I step into the hall and check both ways. Everyone’s gone though; the office is desolate and quiet, almost creepy. I wish Nadia were here. Heck, I’d even take Rick right about now.

I try not to breathe as I walk to the back corner of the building where Big Boss has his huge space. I’ve seen the door, but never been past it. Nobody has, not that I know of, at least. Big Boss comes in, does whatever he does, and leaves again, barely acknowledging the workers around him. He’s more myth than man, a beautiful creature that haunts the halls. Nadia says he’s shady. She also says Bigfoot is real and the Chupacabra is the Jersey Devil, so I don’t put much stock in that.

I try to get myself under control as I approach his door. This shouldn’t be happening. Is he going to fire me for being late with my reports? Did I make some horrible error bad enough that he’s going to toss my ass to the curb?

Wouldn’t that be perfect. Dumped and canned in the same week.

But I can’t lose this job. The pay is too good, even if the work stinks, and I’m the one paying rent on the apartment I share with my mom, buying groceries, restocking soaps, basically doing everything an adult should do but that my mother is incapable of handling herself.

Crap, crap, crap. Gotta pull it together. I take some deep breaths before knocking on Big Boss’s door. A voice calls from inside, low and resonant, strangely sexy. A chill runs into my toes. Come in. I get the feeling I shouldn’t be anywhere near here, like this is the start of a scary movie or something.

The interior of the office is surprisingly nice. There’s a large set of windows to the left, a simple modern carpet on the floor, and a big wooden desk in front of a massive abstract painting. The gold and silver trim screams elegance and seems so out of place for the rest of WashCo, which is about as corporate bland as possible. The lighting is muted and there’s a pair of chairs alongside a couch to my left.

I take a step inside before stopping. Behind the desk is a man. I know him from glimpses, but seeing him now, sitting there in the flesh like a king, it strikes me how he doesn’t fit in with this place. Everyone at WashCo is so normal and boring, while this man looks like he wandered in from a modeling job. His dark hair’s perfectly messy and curly. His jaw’s square and his green eyes are startling and sharp under his heavy brows. His dress shirt is open at the top showing off the dark tattoos scrolling along his tanned skin. Muscles everywhere, shoulders to forearms, to chest and down. His lips are full and pressed flat, and I can’t read his expression at all.

We call him Big Boss for a reason. It’s not just that he’s the owner and the CEO—but also because he’s massive, physically imposing, while his presence is also strangely charming and obsessive, like a painting meant to catch the eye.

I don’t want to gawk at him, but I can’t help myself.

“Uhm, hello, Mr. Maguire. You wanted to see me?”

He leans back. His chair creaks. I get a better view of him then, the way the shirt pulls across his defined chest muscles. His tattooed fingers steeple in front of him, the tips pressing against his pouty lower lip. My core clenches at the thought of that mouth on mine, of those powerfully strong hands gripping my hair⁠—

Stop it, Angie, this is your boss. It’s an HR violation to objectify him like this!

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Ms. Bellandi.” The way he says it sounds illicit somehow. Maybe it’s my dirty mind.

I stand there awkwardly waiting for him to say more. It takes a lot of effort not to start twirling my auburn hair. That’s my nervous gesture and my mom always says it makes me look like an idiot. Her exact words are about as smart as a cat in heat.

The moment stretches. Big Boss stares at me, drinking me in, and I want to scream. What’s going on? What did I do wrong? Is he angry right now? I honestly can’t tell. His face is a mask, caught somewhere between boredom and annoyance.

Finally, I break. “Was there something wrong with one of my reports? I’m sorry, I double check everything, but if I made a mistake⁠—“

“Actually, yes, it was one of your emails.” His head cocks to the side curiously. “You work in accounting, isn’t that right, Ms. Bellandi?”

“Yes, that’s right.” My cheeks flush red with embarrassment. Oh my god, I’ve been so distracted by Brad the Douche that I’ve totally screwed myself. Now the sexiest and most terrifying man I’ve ever seen in my life is going to fire me.

“Do you enjoy your job?” He sounds genuinely curious, and it’s not the question I expected.

“Ah, um, it’s good, yes,” I manage to stutter. “I like numbers.”