Page 10 of Handsome Devil

He studied me for a moment, searching for a crack in my facade. Danger sizzled in the air. I knew I was going to pay for it at some point. We played a long game, my boss and I. One where he always had the upper hand. But sometimes I managed to sneak in a snakelike, quick blow to his ego. Like tonight.

Tate concluded I wasn’t going to lower myself down and pick up those files.

With tight, barely contained rage, he strolled over to the discarded files, righted the cabinet that buried them, and stacked them neatly on my desk.

I watched him through a screen of white-hot fury.

Why did he loathe me so much?

I was a hardworking employee. Thoroughly agreeable the first year of our work together. But no matter how hard I tried, he always made sure I remembered how much he disliked me.

Initially, I thought maybe I was beingoverlyfriendly. So I stopped being cheerful, cracking jokes, and leaving him thebaked goods I’d prepared over lonely weekends in New York City. If anything, my change in attitude made him hate me more.

My next theory was that he didn’t like paying my hefty salary, but that didn’t make much sense—heactivelyincreased my salary each time I tried to quit.

Lastly, I suspected Tate belittled me because I was biracial. Being half-Jamaican, half white-Cuban, I was no stranger to racism. Whether it was on the tennis court or out of it, in posh events, I’d always noticed the pseudo-subtle way some people looked at me. The backhanded remarks.

And him being racist seemed like a logical personality trait for the soulless ghoul. But I couldn’t find another instance where Tate was degrading or dismissive toward a person of color.

On the contrary, for all its faults (and there were too many to count), GS Properties was constantly praised in business magazines and other outlets for being inclusive, diverse, and cutting-edge.

Two of the handful of people Tate respected—the CFO of the company, Will, and the head of litigation, Tiffany—were Black.

No, it seemed as though Tate’s problem was specifically withme.

When Tate was done, I shouldered off my coat and began sorting through the files. I already knew I wasn’t going to find the blasted certificate. I remembered putting it on his desk after the courier delivered it.

My boss slinked into his office, probably to sip his baby-blood smoothie.

I tried to ignore the ticking clock above my head as I slipped documents back into their original files, this time sealing them with paper clips for the next occasion Tate decided to chaotically rip through the office like a storm.

At five thirty in the morning, I finished shoving the last file back into the cabinet without a single sign of the Fonseca Islands certificate of incorporation.

I closed the cupboard with a soft click.

“Gia,” a deep voice husked behind me.

I jumped in surprise, swiveling around. Tate popped his face from his office.

“Lucifer,” I answered.

“I found the certificate of incorporation.” He held up the paper, his smirk unforgivingly taunting. “Silly girl. It was under my Starbucks cup all along.”

Three months later

Iclasped my fingers around the familiar curve of my shell bracelet, drawing a deep breath.

Beyond the door looming in front of me was the party of the century, hosted by the arsehole of the millennium, a.k.a. my boss.

I heard the music, the chatter, the laughter, the chime of delicate champagne glasses kissing.

Smoothing a hand down my lavender chiffon ball gown, I swallowed. The last thing I wanted to do was party.

And technically speaking, I was not invited to this one. Only planned it to its finest detail, hired the catering, and sent out the invitations.

But I had to speak to Tate urgently.

I needed a massive favor.