Home > Bossy Billionaire

Bossy Billionaire
Author: Mia Madison

Chapter One


A loud squeal of a car horn half shatters my eardrums.

“Okay, okay. Calm down. It's just a traffic light.”

Christ, why are people so manic the second you get into the city? I guess when you drive in from a town called Starry Creek, there's bound to be a noticeable difference in temperament. But still, take a chill pill, people.

I'm feeling a little tense myself and not only from driving in the city when I only ever take transit. This is my first actual event at my new job and I need to make it good. Great, even. My boss hired two new assistants and has let it be known in not too subtle terms that he doesn’t actually need both of us.

“You're both so gorgeous, I can't decide between you,” he lined me up shoulder to shoulder with Sierra on our first day, like the final contestants at Miss Universe.

“All we needed was the sash,” I muttered to her, after he strode away to his office in the back of the gallery. She gave me a haughty stare like we really were about to go ten rounds in the bitchiness stakes, before cracking a huge smile.

“And from the way he was staring at our boobs, it was like he was trying to read the name of the State we're representing.”

“To think I spent four years studying art history to be eyefucked every morning.”

“Could be worse.”


“Oh, I don't know. At least we have the job we want and aren't flipping burgers.”

“Euw. I'm a poke kind of girl.”


“Hmmm. Hawaiian raw fish.”

“Oh, I thought you meant something else.” I kept my face relaxed with a forced attempt at not screwing up my nose. But I couldn’t help imagining a bowl filled with tiny wriggling fish like the pedicure places I'd passed where the fish were dining on human toes.

“Come on, you. Let's get these invites sent. Then I've got some rich guy coming in for a bait.”

I smile, thinking of how Sierra treats every art sale as a personal conquest. A battle of wills to be fought and won with the billionaire clients whose houses we adorn with modern art.

Out of the corner of my eye, a blue flash as a bus pulls out without the driver bothering to look down on my little car.

A sharp veer on the steering wheel. Another car to my left. Too close. Way too close. Colors whirl in front of my eyes. A flash of a pile up in my imagination. My foot hits the brake. An instant too late. My chest goes forward as my head flies back. Then forward.


The jolt makes me feel like my insides made an attempt to escape my body and landed against a fence in a harsh rebound. Once they've somewhat settled back down into their normal position, aside from my neck which is sore, I survey the damage on the Avenue around me.

Oh shit.

The blond model on the back of the bus, is grinning her super white smile from the mouthwash billboard as she disappears in the distance. I missed slamming into the bus but to my left, my fender is entangled with a car that Batman wouldn't kick out of the cave.

And the driver has emerged from his seat and is walking around toward my side. All I see is a dark suit and a rather flashy designer tie in my rear view mirror.

Jesus Christ, if he hadn't been so close, my brother's car wouldn't be a heap of crushed metal. Damn idiot. My heart is pounding a military tattoo as I unlatch the door and climb out.

“What the -?”

The pounding soars to a crescendo that lands in my throat when I take in the hunk from the car that crashed into me. He looks like he stepped down from Mount Olympus – you know where all the Greek Gods hang out. He must be a model, driving a car like that and with a face that perfectly chiseled he ought to be hanging on the wall at the gallery.

I reel my eyeballs back in from stretching out on stalks after noticing the flexing tautness beneath the fine white shirt. The guy is ripped and no mistake. The kind of ripped that hangs out in perfume ads shot on Italian beaches. The kind of ripped that has a massive swell in the jocks that I absolutely must not linger on.

“First day with the new license?” he says, his grin turning up in a delicious crumple of flexible firm lips. No, don't think about his lips.

“Excuse me?”

“You were driving like you were coming from your test,” he quips with a look that's pure cocksure arrogance.

Who does he think he is, just because he's driving something that belong on a race track?

“I was driving just fine. You clearly believe Fifth Avenue is a Formula 1 circuit though.”

“Do you like Grand Prix?”

“What? No. I'm saying you were way too close, driving like an idiot,” I snap.

The adrenalin is still pulsing too fast through my veins. I'm pissed at the smug rich guy talking down to the young girl. I'm not that young and I definitely didn't just pass my test, even if I have only ever driven my mom's or my older brother's cars around Starry Creek. He doesn't need to know that.

“I think you'll find it was you slammed into me when you got spooked by the bus.”

“You were too close. You were almost in my lane.”

“You can't blame me for wanting to get a better look.”

“At what? At....What?” I stutter, confounded when I realize he means me.

He was edging up beside me to get a look at me. And slammed into my brother's car, the asshat. Dan's going to be furious when he sees the damage. At least I can fix it before that but the insurance is going to skyrocket with the repairs on the arrogant scumbag's superhero vehicle. Why is he grinning like a deranged man on crack?

“You think it's funny to cause accidents just so you can gawp at women?”

“Babe, it wasn't me that veered away from a public transit vehicle and slammed headlong into a MacLaren.”

“It wasn't - A what?”

“A Maclaren. It's a concept car, not yet on the market.”

“Oh, my god,” I groan.

“Don't worry, you don't have to give me your insurance details.”

“Really?” I snip.

I'm about to say I want his. Seeing as he's at fault and someone has to pay for the repairs to my Brother's car. But my mouth drops open at his next statement before I get the chance

“Just your phone number.”

“My phone number? Instead of swapping insurance information?”

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