Page 29 of Boss Abroad
He doesn’t let me answer before he throws accusations. “No way.” He gasps like a schoolgirl. “Was that an employee? Mr. I’m-going-to-hire-Mia-so-you-don’t-get-sued?” he exclaims with both hands on his waist, tilting his head side to side with every word.
Do we really share fifty percent of our DNA? I find it offensive. I might get us tested.
“I did hire her, but no, she’s not an employee from the club. She’s the escort I was telling you about.”
Noah makes more jokes that I’m sure aren’t funny and asks questions I don’t hear because my brain hasn’t regained full function since April left.
I'm somewhat shocked at myself for not immediately calling security to hunt her down and usher that fine ass out of the building. I blame Noah for distracting me.
She must be gone by now, anyway. Sure, I can admit that took some guts, and she downright outplayed me, but she’ll be sorely mistaken if she thinks she’ll get away with it, though.
And with that thought, the image of her ass begging for a good spanking plays in my mind.
Screw my one-time-only rule, this woman’s gotten under my skin and this is far from over. One more time can’t hurt, can it? Not me, anyway.
A little exception. Just this once. I’ll hire someone else next time.
As I’m about to call the escort service to get her contact details, Mia knocks and pops her head into my office to tell me it’s time to head to the meeting.
There goes Max, fucking with my plans once more.
Noah says hello to Mia, his voice sickening. Thank God I don’t have diabetes or I’d be in a sugar coma from the sound of it. I’ve asked him a million times why he hasn’t asked her out yet and none of his excuses check out. I don’t get it.
Once she leaves, he tells me—in his normal voice—his day is pretty open and he’ll wait until I’m free for lunch. Unlike me, he’s always been fine being just a millionaire. Before I shut my door, I see him making himself comfortable on my six-seater leather sofa, putting some guided meditation crap on.
I take my sweet time walking to the meeting and as I reach the conference room, Mia appears and talks me through everyone who’s already there waiting for me. The American doctors, Max’s agents, stakeholders, and whatnot. She tells me about some changes in my schedule for later in the day and I get my phone out to check on them.
When we step inside the room, my mood is still sour, so I don’t bother raising my head to acknowledge everyone’s presence as I spit out an annoyed, “Good morning to you all,” before heading to the head of the table, where two vacant seats await Mia and I.
I pull Mia's seat for her before I take my own, and finally put my phone down to try and concentrate on this. As I raise my head, I see motherfucking April in a motherfucking doctor’s coat, next to another doctor and Max motherfucking Sinclair.
Is this a joke? What the fuck is going on here? I look at every single fucker in that room, trying to figure out who is in this sick prank.
April looks straight into my eyes and starts the meeting with an edge of sarcasm in her tone.
“Now that we have full attendance, let’s get started. My name is Dr. April Hadden and I’ll begin today’s meeting by explaining what happened to Mr. Sinclair’s knee when he collided with his opponent in the field, what we did on the operating table and what we’re doing to get him back to his finest as fast and as safely as we can.”
If looks could kill, we’d both be gone already. Mine is shooting daggers and hers shattering souls. Good thing I don’t have one.
I whisper to Mia through gritted teeth. “Who the fuck is that?”
She shoots an annoyed look at me as if I’m nagging her with stupid questions. “That’s Dr. Hadden, from the American hospital.”
“No, she’s not.” We go back and forth.
“Yes, she is,” she exhales in a frustrated whisper. “She just said it. What’s going on with you today?” Her eyes dart around the room, probably making sure we’re not being noticed. Like I care.
I grab my phone to text Brooke from the escort agency—I may or may not have the number on speed dial—only to find a bunch of messages from her, saying that April had caught some bug and was unable to attend our date last night. Her last message is a futile attempt to offer me a repeat.
Then I Google ‘Dr. April Hadden’ and am flooded with pictures of her. Her in scrubs, her at awards ceremonies and, of course, pictures of her and Max fucking Sinclair. I keep scrolling and skim through her impressive curriculum of universities, published papers, accolades, and multiple awards. Fuck!
Fucking, fuckety, fuck.
She really is a doctor. And she’s only twenty-four. Impressive for her and quite awkward for me at forty-two. So all she said last night was true? My mind tries to recap every single thing we talked about, but I’m too freaked out to remember a word. My head is about to explode when another doctor carries on with the presentation and April sits down.
She’s on the other side of the table, but instead of facing me, she keeps her eyes on her colleague. Mine are glued on her, drilling a hole in the back of her head.
How the hell did this happen? How the hell is this even possible?