Page 1 of Bobby

Chapter 1—Willow

Twenty minutes. I just have to survive twenty more minutes, and then I can take off these ridiculous heels. The next time I go bargain shopping, shoes will not be on the list. Sure, they look cute, but cute and comfort don’t go hand in hand with heels. I’d rather skimp on something else than deal with sore feet all day.

“Heads up.”

I glance over the cubicle half-wall at my desk mate, Missy. A cute, ambitious woman with a bright future ahead of her if she only worried about the work in front of her instead of trying to be everyone’s best friend. I’ve only known her a few weeks, but I know her type already.

Because I was her. It cost me everything I thought mattered. Not that long ago either.

The one who stayed late. Doubled down on work. Always helped. Apologized for everything, including existing. It was exhausting. Still is when I think about it. I’ve been trying to coach her subtly so she thinks the ideas are coming from her own head. To say no, to stand up for herself, to not accept the blame of someone else’s faults.

It’s a work in progress.

But another thing I do, aside from trying to change her entire mannerism, is give her my full focus. She reminds me of my girls too much for me to overlook her. Sweet and kind to a fault, and sheltered just enough not to see and feel the world hurt her more than a bruised ego here or there.

“Yeah?”

“Spencer’s on the warpath.”

At the mention of my boss, I groan, barely containing the noise inside my head. Spencer Folly is a giant douchebag if there ever was one. The kind that leans over a desk to look down your shirt instead of at your work. But I guess he’s smart if he got the management job, right?

I snort at my own dumb idea. The guy used charm and then intimidation to get the position. The same way he gets us to work. Either with a smile if he thinks it’ll get him somewhere—like in my pants, from the way he was last time—or by beating us with a stick—especially after I turned him down. Figuratively, of course.

Not that he wouldn’t be capable of violence. I’ve seen enough in this world to know that anyone is capable of it. Not everyone looks like they could inflict harm on another, but everyone is capable of it. Even me.

“Great.” I already know that whatever set him off, he’ll take it out on me. Not only because I’m the latest one to turn him down, but I’m also only part-time. Something he hates because my hours aren’t what he’s used to. He likes when people arrive early and stay late every day of the week, something he’s stated not so gently several times. But since he can’t fire me for simply sticking to the hours I’m contracted to do, he finds other ways to make life hard for me.

Like tighter deadlines. Things that should take twenty hours, I have ten. His theory is that if I only work half as long as the others, I’m still expected to turn in the same amount of work. So what if I have a thirty-hour workweek and he gives me sixty hours of work? Get it done or leave. Those are my options.

Too bad for him—I don’t have the luxury of leaving. And he knows it. Finding this job took months. I’m not about to leave it because of some hard work. Something I’m not afraid to do. I’ve been working since I was sixteen. I only took a break when I got married and my husband—ex-husband now—said he wanted me to stay home with the kids. Which I foolishly did, relying on him for everything. Which he enjoyed, just like Spencer. Same type of man, different suit.

They’re so much alike that I can see my boss’s game before he plays it. Thinking a little flash of money and free things will make me compliant. And when I’m not what he wants, he turns work into a nightmare. But he’s smart. Nothing documented, so I can’t report it. Nothing directly over the line, just brushing it.

It’s only been a few months. Maybe time, and perhaps someone new joining the team to take his eyes off me for a while, will help. That’s what I’m counting on. So I double the work. I focus. I bring things home and work late into the night. I do over thirty hours, just not where he can see. I don’t mind working late to get a job done. I find it oddly satisfying. It’s more the principle of not being under his thumb when I do it. And not letting it cost me time that I can’t get back with my girls.

I also have obligations that take me out of the office. Hence choosing part-time over full-time to begin with.

“Frazzer,” he yells across the rows of cubicles in a power-play move as everyone turns to look at me.

My face heats from the attention, but I keep my expression neutral, not wanting him to see it affecting me. He could email me or communicate through chat that he wants to speak with me. We could go to his office or to a conference room. But no. He likes to do things in public to make it known—not just to me, but to everyone—who’s in charge.

“Yes, sir?” Always polite, even if I mumble “jackass” under my breath, just loud enough to get a giggle out of Missy before she ducks her head down as Spencer approaches my area.

The guy is my age or maybe a little younger. I might look like I’m approaching mid-thirties, but I’m only twenty-nine. The last few years haven’t been very kind, and the stress has aged me. Every article I read says I can look my age again with some “wonderful” facial products that will cost more than I care to spend on anything that makes me vain.

Yeah, right.

I want to look my age, but I also want to make a good impression on my daughters. And what does it say if I spend our food allowance on face creams? That appearances mean more than eating?

I think not.

So I let everyone assume I’m older than them. Age is just a number. What I’ve been through gives me more life experience than most people on this floor.

If I didn’t have kids, or a past, I might have been more interested in Spencer’s offer. The guy’s good-looking, unfortunately, and has money. He knows it too. Probably why he took my no so hard. I doubt he gets many rejections. I might have been his first. He’s straight up The Wolf of Wall Street if that were a style. Black suit every day, Italian loafers that squeak when he walks, and slicked-back dirty-blond hair. It’s a style I see often in this building.

The owner of the company has a certain look, one that many seem to try to implement. I’ve only met him once, when he interviewed me. And unlike Spencer, Bobby Leone owns the look. Not only because he’s the big boss, but also because he doesn’t look like a tool. The one time I saw him, he was in a suit, sure, but he held himself in a way that said he molded the outfit to fit him and not the other way around.

Unlike Spencer.