Page 6 of Bossy Wicked Prince

Sandy and Olivia always gossip when they roll silverware. Usually, I’d only have a passing curiosity in their chatter. But when I hear Sandy say Harry’s name, I stop up short behind them.

“Harry must’ve done something, right?” Sandy asks. “They don’t fire people without warning. Otherwise, I definitely would’ve been cut when I had to call-in for all those shifts last month.”

My stomach sinks. I have a pretty good idea who got Harry fired. Nate, and by extension,me. If these two don’t know it yet, they probably will soon. Nothing gets past sees-it-all-Sandy and always-listening-Olivia.

“Harry definitely did something.” Olivia waves a clean fork for emphasis. “The guy was a mess. I heard he was doing coke during his smoke breaks.”

“That would explain the rage. Remember when he threw a plate at Javier?”

“Yeah, well—oh! Did you need something, Cat?” Olivia turns to me with raised eyebrows.

Oops.

“Uh, I’m going on break,” I say quickly. “You guys want anything from the deli?” Technically, I’m not lying. I am going on break, but I packed my own PB&J.

“We’re good, thanks!” they chime back in unison.

I swear, Sandy and Olivia are going to morph into a single person one of these days. Just one giant, all-knowing, all-seeing gossipmonger with a wicked French twist in kitten heels that smells strongly of Eau de Chanel.

My lips press tight against a giggle at the image that creates as I rush away for break.

When I wrote “never see Harry again” in my manifestation journal, I didn’t think it’d happenthisfast. I hoped he would just magically decide to quit, or get offered a job defrosting burgers for researchers in Antarctica.

But I didn’t have to wait for the universe to answer me. Prince Frowning took control instead. It had to have been him, right?

He must’ve blabbed to his billionaire friend, and poof, Harry’s history.

I should feel relieved—it’s not like Harry didn’t deserve to get fired. But guilt still forms a little hollow in the pit of my stomach. What if he was living paycheck to paycheck, like me? What if he has family members he’s responsible for? What if he can’t pay his rent and ends up on the street?

It’d be my fault—well, at least partially.

My thoughts are still swirling when I get an incoming call from Pipsqueak, aka Pippa, my best friend. The nickname’s ironic, since she’s got more than a few inches on my five foot one and a half inches. Yes, that half an inch is legit. It’s mine and I’m claiming it.

“Hey, Pips,” I say once I swallow. “What’s up?”

“There was some kind of accident and I’m stuck on the 401. I’ve been here for an hour and I’m bored. Talk to me.”

“Oh no. I hope no one was hurt.”

“No idea, kitty Cat. Let's not dwell. Tell me something good.”

I chuckle. “Like what?”

“Anything. Catch me up. You’ve been working so much, I’m starting to feel like you’re avoiding me.”

“You know I’d never,” I tease. “But you only have yourself to blame. You’re the one who told me to apply for this job.”

“Nah, we’ll blame Ryan.”

Her stepbrother is best buds with the owner, Beau Bishop, which is how Pippa knew they’d be hiring before the first job posting was ever made. It was because of her that my resume was at the top of the list. She might’ve also forced Ryan to put in a good word for me with Beau, but yeah, we’ll blame Ryan.

A memory from the night before clicks. “Ryan! Pippa, I think I finally saw your stepbrother last night.”

“Let me guess. He tried to get in your pants?” she asks dryly.

“Ew, no,” I snicker, but then recall something else. “But actually, I’m pretty sure he was waving around a pair of lacey underwear.”

“Of course he was. The pig.” I can hear her eyeroll through the phone.