This man thrives on putting me down. He must be buzzing with glee because this is the fuck up to end all fuck ups.
Étienne’s furious eyes narrow. “Harley, you do this?”
“It’s not my fault.”
He gives me a resting bitch face. “It is your fault.”
The man was in his office. How dare he accuse me without knowing the facts?
I should lower my gaze to the floor and bite my tongue, because I can’t afford to lose this job. On the other hand, if I don’t stand up for myself, he’ll always walk all over me. “Étienne?—”
“If you’re going to put the blame on anyone for this disaster, you need to put the blame on the right person.” Kaz crosses his arms over his wide chest.
The man looks like a conquering king.
This guy is oozing so much big dick energy, it’s dizzying.
Étienne swings his gaze in Kaz’s direction. “And who isdat?”
“That predator over there.” Kaz jerks his chin in Mr. Asswipe’s direction.
Chapter 4
Don’t touch what’s not yours
Kazimir
The man I know as Étienne turns his head in the direction of Mr. Douchebag and laughs.
What the fuck is so funny?
“Oh, no. No, no, no,monsieur,” he says. “Not possible. You make mistake.”
My head jerks back. “For a guy who wasn’t even on the premises when everything went down, I find it interesting you’ve already come to a conclusion without having all the facts. Were you blessed with the omnipresent gift?”
He wrinkles his nose at me. “Dawhat?”
“You don’t even know what happened, yet, you’re throwing Harley under the bus.”
Étienne comes and stands in front of me, the top of his head reaching my chest. He tilts it back and narrows his eyes at me. “I do not understand your American saying. What I know is this man”—he points at the idiot smirking—“is good quality client.”
“You’re wrong.” I jab a finger in his direction.
He jabs one back at me. “You talk no sense,monsieur. I am Étienne Leveaux. I am the manager. I am right.”
The Brazilian owner warned me about his eccentric thirty-seven-year-old manager. He never mentioned he suffered from a god complex.
My nostrils flare.
Through narrow eyes, I study Little Napoleon.
Everything is over-the-top. From the turquoise-colored linen suit, to the paisley motif ascot, to the fresh from the barber hairstyle, to his jet-black beard that matches that of a villain in a superhero movie, to the silver hair—which I doubt is natural. With the strong accent, the guy is more cartoon than human.
“I take care of this. You go.” He shoos me off with a flippant hand gesture.
I place my arms behind my back and adopt a military stance. “I’m going nowhere.”
“Monsieur, this is not your business. Yes, you go.”
