Boss I Love To Hate Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by London James

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  Boss I Love To Hate

  London James

  Description

  To the Boss I Love to Hate,

  1.) I hate that you make me come at your every beck and call.

  2.) I hate your gorgeous cocky smile, and how you don’t know me at all.

  3.) I hate the way you stare at me as if I was your most precious thing.

  4.) I hate your expensive Italian suits.

  5.) I hate our one-night fling.

  6.) I hate that you’re always wrong, but your ego is too big to see it.

  7.) I hate how awkward you acted, when I told you I was pregnant.

  8.) I hate how you crept into my heart, and how deeply you cared for me.

  9.) Lastly, even though you represent everything I hate…

  I hate that I fell for you just like every other girl you know.

  Sawyer West… I love you, and I hate that I love you.

  If only I could be certain you’re no longer the boy from college I once knew.

  With our baby girl on the way, could we truly make us work?

  If only we weren’t so different, then maybe things could be so different…

  P.S.- I still hate working for you.

  Berlin Roth

  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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Broken Hero (Sneak Peek)

  Want More London James?

  Also by London James

  Chapter One

  Berlin

  “Great,” I mutter as I stare at the ‘Out of Order’ sign taped to the elevator door. “Third time this month.”

  “Shit breaks down,” comes the voice behind me. “Whaddya want me to do about it?”

  I turn and stare at Lou, the building’s super, and have to fight like hell to keep from rolling my eyes. Lou is a tall beanpole of a man who seems to have a constant sheen of sweat on his face. He’s in his sixties, the wisps of hair he has on his head are iron gray, and deep lines are etched into his face. He’s got the red, watery eyes and spider veined nose of an alcoholic, and the demeanor of a pit bull with a toothache. Other than that, he’s a pleasant guy.

  As a human being, Lou is next to useless. As a super, he’s even more useless than that. He resents having to repair anything in the building and will only do it when forced to. And even then, he does half-assed, shoddy work. The elevator, which is always busting down, is prime evidence that the man does not like to do his job.

  “Gee, I don’t know, Lou – fix it maybe?” I snap.

  “I fixed it,” he fires back. “It’s you people who can’t stop breaking it.”

  “Maybe if you fixed it right the first time then –” I bite off the rest of my reply, take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “You know what? Forget it. Please get the elevator fixed.”

  I hear him grumbling under his breath as I adjust the bag on my shoulder as well as the two sacks of groceries I’m carrying and head up the stairs, my irritation raising my blood pressure to dangerous levels. Granted, this isn’t one of the fancy and trendy neighborhoods around Manhattan, but for what I pay in rent for this place, I should be able to expect certain things – like functioning elevators and not getting a bunch of flak when we need things in our apartments fixed.

  I know I’m not the only one to have the same complaint – or the only one to complain about Lou. But the owner of the building doesn’t really give a damn about the tenants, and he likes the fact that Lou does everything on the cheap, so he’s never going to do anything about him.

  Which means that I – and the other residents in the building – are going to need to get used to lugging our groceries up the stairs. Given that, I’m grateful I only have to trudge up to the fifth floor and not the tenth like some of the folks that live in this building. I’m just grateful we’re not in the heat of summer right now. Summertime in New York is an exercise in torture. A five-floor hike with arms full of heavy grocery bags makes it even worse.

  By the time I reach the landing for my floor, I’m out of breath, and my arms are screaming in agony. I think I’m in pretty decent shape, but I’m a runner – I’m not built for powerlifting heavy sacks up a thousand stairs.

  With a sigh, I walk down the hall and set my groceries down, then fish my keys out of my bag. The door opens before I can get my key into the lock, and my cousin Nadia gives me a smile that looks a bit strained.

  “Hey,” I greet her. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No worries,” she replies, grabbing the bags of groceries and carrying them inside.

  “How is he today?” I ask as I follow her into the kitchen.

  She shrugs as she begins putting the food away. But I get the impression she’s doing that just to avoid looking at me. Finally, she turns to me slowly, and I see the sadness written across her face.

  “It wasn’t a very good day,” she admits.

  “Are you okay? Did he –”

  “No, nothing like that,” she interrupts softly. “I just don’t know what to do when he – I just – I feel so helpless.”

  I step over and pull Nadia into a tight embrace, and not for the first time, feel terrible for getting her involved with this. She’s family of course, but this isn’t her problem. Not really. Nadia had happily volunteered to help out, but I don’t think she entirely understood the situation or how difficult this was going to be.

  “I’m sorry, Nadia,” I say. “If you don’t want to –”

  She shakes her head, taking a step back, and wipes at her eyes. “No, I want to help.” She gives me a weak smile. “You’re family.”

  “We are family. But I know how difficult this –”

  Nadia takes my hand and squeezes it tight. “We’re family. That’s all that matters,” she responds. “I’m here to help.”

  “I appreciate that, Nadia. More than you can possibly know.”

  Her smile this time looks more genuine. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I walk my cousin to the door and lock it behind her. Turning around, I lean against the door and run my hands through my hair, letting out a long breath. I know this is a temporary situation with Nadia – I can’t expect her to be here every single day. Not when she has her own life to lead, and certainly not at the pittance I’m able to pay her.

  It works for now since she needs a job, and I need home care for my fath
er. But it’s a situation I’m going to need to find a permanent solution for soon.

  The trouble is that I can’t afford the one solution I think would benefit us all – putting my father into a facility. A facility that can care for him and attend to his needs in ways neither Nadia nor I can. But those sorts of places cost a lot of money, and I’m barely hanging onto my apartment as it is.

  I walk into the kitchen and grab a plate from the cupboard, then fish the dinner I bought for him out of the bag, lay it all out, and set the plate on a tray. Picking it up, I carry it all down the hall to his bedroom and step through the door to find him where I usually do – sitting in the chair in front of his window. At least he has a view of the street outside rather than the view of the alley I have from my bedroom window.

  “Hey, Dad,” I call in.

  He looks over, but I can see by the look on his face that he doesn’t recognize me. He still has more good days than bad days, but that gap is narrowing – and his bad days are getting worse. He gets frustrated when he can’t remember things. Angry. And sometimes, when his emotions boil over, he can get violent. He’ll scream, yell, and throw things. Nadia getting hit with a TV remote and me barely dodging a vase taught me to keep anything solid or heavy out of his reach.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” he growls.

  “Dad, it’s me. Berlin,” I tell him. “Your daughter.”

  “Daughter…” he murmurs.

  His voice trails off as his eyes take on a faraway look, as if there’s some faint glimmer of recognition – but then it’s gone, and he’s looking at me like he’s seeing a complete stranger for the first time. I bite back the sob that threatens to bubble from my throat and force the smile back onto my face. Careful to keep an eye on him, I walk over and set the tray down on the small table next to his chair.

  “Your favorite,” I say as cheerily as I can. “Meatball sub with potato salad and wedge fries from Dimato’s.”

  He looks down at the food, not recognizing it any more than he recognizes me in that moment. I stand there for a moment; my heart churning with emotion as I look at my father. I lost my mom when I was younger, and even though he’s sitting right in front of me, when he’s like this, I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost him too.

  I know that watching your parents grow older and deteriorate is all part of the whole circle of life. But I’m only twenty-eight. I feel like I’m way too young for this to be happening – I’m neither ready nor prepared, and I’m certainly not equipped for this. And I definitely feel like my father is too young for this to be happening. But I’ve learned that Alzheimer’s doesn’t discriminate by age.

  “Anyway,” I say. “Eat your dinner, Dad.”

  I pick up the remote and turn on the TV, flipping it to ESPN to let him watch the highlight show. When he had all his wits about him, my dad was the biggest sports nut around. It’s because of him I took an interest in sports myself. Because of my dad, I’ve been a lifelong fan of the Mets, Jets, Islanders, and Knicks – though; I’m mostly into the Mets and Islanders. I’ve always enjoyed baseball and hockey the most.

  A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I remember going to the games together. It makes me recall when my father was so there in the moment with me. When he was so present. It seems like it’s been forever since he’s been so – alive.

  He looks up at me, a weak, watery grin on his face. “Hello. I’m Robert.”

  I fight back the tears and put on a smile I’m sure looks horribly fake – not that he’ll know the difference.

  “I’m Berlin,” I say softly. “I brought you something to eat.”

  He looks down at the tray, and I see his face light up – and for a moment, I think he recognizes it and is coming back to me. My dad looks up and smiles.

  “This smells delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had a meatball sub from Dimato’s before,” he says. “But I’ve heard good things.”

  And just like that, the flickering hope inside of me is extinguished. As he digs into his meal happily, I turn and walk out of the room, and head back toward the kitchen where I ponder making some dinner for myself – but find I have absolutely no appetite. Instead, I go to my room, take a quick shower, and change into some comfortable clothes.

  By the time I’m showered and dressed, my father is done with his dinner, so I help put him to bed, set the timer on the TV, so it goes off in an hour, then take the tray out of the room. I throw away the trash and put the dishes into the dishwasher. After that, I pour myself a large glass of wine, turn on some soft music, and sit down at the small round table in the dining room – which is basically a cramped alcove just off the kitchen – and drop the stack of envelopes in front of me.

  I stare at the pile of mail, knowing that most of it is bills I can’t pay right now. My job is to shuffle them around – figure out what I can afford to put off and what I have to pay now. Between the day to day expenses and my dad’s crippling medical bills, just surviving is a delicate juggling act.

  I push the stack of mail away and lay my head down on the table, the tears coming before I can even think to stop them.

  “I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this,” I whisper to myself for the millionth time, even though I have no other choice but to do this.

  Chapter Two

  Sawyer

  “I can’t keep doing this to you.” I hold my arms up in a victory celebration as my ball disappears into the hole. “I mean, damn – how many holes is that you’ve lost now?”

  Rider chuckles and shakes his head. “I believe you’re up six holes.”

  “And at a hundred bucks a hole, I believe that means you owe me six hundred bucks.”

  “You can do basic math,” he replies dryly. “Congratulations.”

  “Hey, don’t get salty with me,” I chirp. “You set the amount of the skins.”

  He laughs. “Eat shit, brother.”

  A soft rain starts to fall as we drop our clubs into our bags, and the afternoon temperature is dropping noticeably. I look up at the slate gray sky, silently bemoaning the fact that winter is on its way. It not only gets cold as hell here; it’s going to make getting a round of golf in next to impossible. I’m going to have to head down to Florida or out to California if I hope to play.

  Our round finished, I sigh and climb into the cart as Rider gets behind the wheel, and we head back to the clubhouse. As the drops start to fall heavier on the roof of the cart, I make the best of it by putting my feet up and clasping my hands behind my head, enjoying another victorious ride back. It’s the simple pleasures in life. Rider looks over at me and gives me a dry grin, shaking his head.

  “You realize you only won six holes,” he smirks. “That’s not even half the round – it’s a third.”

  I shrug. “Still a third better than you.”

  Rider has been my best friend for years now. We first met back in college, and even though our backgrounds were completely different, we just clicked right away. His younger life was humbler – he grew up in a working-class home – while I grew up in a wealthy family. Despite our differences, we hit it off almost instantly, and he’s been my right-hand man ever since.

  After my father passed and I took over the company, I brought him over once he finished out his law degree. I brought him in not just because he’s my friend, but because he’s one of the smartest people and most capable corporate lawyers I’ve ever met. The man processes things faster than anybody I know and brings a different perspective to everything we do – which is something I value. I trust him with my life – and my company – and know he’ll keep me on the right path if I ever start to get a little wonky. Which admittedly, I sometimes do.

  Rider pulls the cart to a stop at the valet station, and we climb out. He laughs as he fishes six hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and hands them over to me. I give him a wide, smug smile, and slip the bills into my own wallet.

  “I’m suddenly feeling generous,” I announce. “Why don�
��t you let me buy you lunch.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” he laughs.

  “Not the first time you called me that.”

  “Isn’t going to be the last time either,” he notes.

  “You should work on some new material. Creativity is everything, man.”

  We turn over the cart keys to the attendant and head into the clubhouse, where we’re seated at our usual table. Mandy, our usual waitress, waves to us from behind the bar and saunters over to our table, putting some extra swish into her hips. She’s a gorgeous brunette in her early twenties with long legs, curves for days, and a smile that can make even the most chaste of men blush. The woman just oozes sex appeal, and she knows it. She also knows how to work it to the maximum effect to keep the tips flowing.

  “Nice to see you boys, again,” she purrs.

  “Hey Mandy,” I wink. “Good to see you again. A couple of beers?”

  “Right away.”

  She turns, and both Rider and I fall silent as we watch her walk off, admiring the way her black slacks perfectly frame her heart-shaped ass. Finally, we turn back to each other and share a chuckle. A couple of minutes later, she returns and sets our beers down on the table, then takes our lunch order. With another thousand-watt smile, she departs again, leaving us to watch her go.