Missing Love - eBook

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An enemies-to-lovers story about heartache and desire.

Olivia

I’d been handed the contract of a lifetime, revamping the flagship Madison Avenue store of Fashion icon, Farrah Goldsmith Couture.

There was only one person standing in my way.

Her grandson, Ari.

Now he was my boss and my arch enemy.

I wanted him to get hit by a bus or run over by a pack of rhinos. But no, I wasn’t that lucky.

For the next three weeks, I’m stuck with him and his sickly gorgeous body and mocha-colored eyes.

Help.

Ari

She thinks I’m an arrogant jerk… I think she’s uptight and sassy.

I didn’t like her before, but now I was her boss, I had the upper hand.

So making her life a living hell was priority number one… until it wasn’t.

I don’t understand why she ignites a fire inside of me, all I know is I’m addicted, hook line, and sinker.

Now if only she’d let me in.


An enemies-to-lovers steamy boss romance with a HEA that will leave you swooning.

Trigger warning - Scenes of loss are part of this novel.

I loathed him. 
No, strike that, I despised him.


Whenever he was near, the hairs on my neck stood at attention.

In the short time I’d known Ari Goldsmith, every conversation we had turned into a battle of wills. A seemingly innocent discussion turned into an argument and one that he enjoyed, which just riled me up that much more. 
We didn’t see eye to eye on anything, which was completely fine until recently.

Mixing in the same friendship circles and seeing him socially, I could barely tolerate it, but now, it was worse. 
So much worse. 
Now, he was my boss. 
The thought made me very uncomfortable. That and the fact I’d kissed him back at Lourde’s party last week at a moment when my defenses were down from copious amounts of alcohol and never mind that I had liked it. So much so that if we hadn’t been interrupted by one of his model things, I can’t exactly say with confidence, things would have stopped then.


Nevertheless, I sat glued to my plastic seat, staring vacantly through the crowd of people, focusing on the slither of darkness in the subway tunnel rather than the desire-laced kiss my arch-enemy had laid upon me.
When I saved Ari’s grandmother from a spectacular fall at her fashion show, the last thing I expected was for us to hit it off and for her to hire me. But turning down the opportunity to revamp fashion tycoon Farrah Goldsmith’s flagship Manhattan store and potentially those along the East Coast was like shooting yourself in the foot twice. I’d have to be birdbrained to turn the queen of fashion down and rightly so. It was the gift of a lifetime and one I was going to seize with open arms. 


There was just one problem standing in my way. 
Ari. 


Manhattan’s famous womanizer and grandson of Farrah Goldsmith had an arrogance that matched his impossibly tall stature. Sickly gorgeous with mocha eyes, thick chestnut hair that swooped perfectly to the tops of his ears, and a chiseled jaw sharp enough to cut glass, he wore a dusting of dark stubble, perfectly kept and groomed just like the women he was with. The same harem of women who worshiped the ground he walked upon, and he, in turn, walked all over them.
Okay, so maybe I googled him after meeting him a few weeks back. Who wouldn’t look up a guy you had a fiery debate with over labor wages? That was our first argument, and it left me reeling to the point where I couldn’t sleep and ruminated for hours after.
That and how he talked about women like he had bedded the entire town.

With broad shoulders atop his six-foot-four muscular frame, he looked like he was carved from granite and should strut the catwalks of New York and Milan alongside his model friends on the runway. Supermodels, Victoria’s Secret angels, and celebrities were his M.O. I knew his type. I’d been with enough players to know exactly his type. Heck, I was a player myself. But that didn’t bother me as much as his general know-it-all attitude, and at the last meeting, when he called my interior work ‘plain,’ I wanted to reach across the table and slap him with a Thor-like fist. Knock those perfect teeth straight out. I let out a sigh. 


I guarantee his spoiled ass had never had to work a day in his life. He didn’t have to wonder where his next meal was coming from, if he was going to eat the next day, if the heating would be shut off, or if he would be evicted, again.


Ari, who had no regard for anyone, was my boss.
Mine alone. My business partner, Lourde Diamond, was super busy planning her wedding to Barrett Black and training up the new replacement at Barrett’s construction company which we both left to start our own interior design company. So, sigh. I’d taken the lead on this contract.
It was amazing. I couldn’t be more thrilled until I found out who I was reporting to. Insert eye roll here and panic attack. It all happened in a whirlwind too. One minute, I was working with Barrett, and the next, I was here doing my thing with Barrett’s support. 
For the last seven years, I couldn’t have asked for a better boss—supportive but firm, two traits I admired and respected. Barrett trusted me with the luxury detail of his house and apartment developments, and I delivered.
So very different from the email I received from my soon-to-be boss. One etched in my brain like a worn tattoo on aged skin.


Ms. Willows,


Farrah has informed me of your new contract with Farrah Goldsmith Couture. How thrilling.

I know my grandmother was taken with you, but you work for me now and therefore you will need to prove yourself. As such, we will be working closely together so I can ensure you meet the highest standards that we expect here at FGC.

Monday morning at eight o’clock we begin. Don’t be late.

Your boss.


Aristotle

Vice President

Farrah Goldsmith Couture



And the Asshole of the Year Award goes to… 
I mean, seriously, who would send an email like that? How unprofessional, for a start. But I guess Mr. Big Dick could just swing his dick around because he owned the place. 
Hmm. If the rumors were true, Ari had a humongous dick. 
I shook my head and adjusted in my seat, my shoulder and neck stiff like bricks from the balled-up tension I held the entire subway ride from Williamsburg to Manhattan.


Lowering my head to my left shoulder, I stretched out the tension, then did the same on the right, dipping my head low. Then I rotated my head in slow motion, like a spinning top, feeling it click after a full rotation. 
Damn, that feels better.
My gaze settled to the front of the car where a tall man in his mid-twenties, hair slicked back in an ill-fitting suit, was staring me down. A slight grin on his lips formed when our eyes connected.

Cute.
Any other day, perhaps we could have a night of fun. It had been a while. I smiled back before my attention once again drifted to the monstrous task ahead of me and the roadblock standing in my way.


The repeated clang of the subway slowed down to a near halt, and a piercing voice came over the speakers. “Lexington Ave,” echoed throughout the train.
Picking the invisible lint off my fitted black skirt, I pulled up my tan briefcase resting against my patent black Mary Janes. Then I shuffled my way through the crowded train that smelled like sardines and terrible body odor, clutching the important bag with me. Although worn, with frayed edges and discoloration at the base, it was a briefcase I treasured, bought with my generous bonus from Barrett in the early years I worked for him. Back then, it cost more than a month’s salary, and I had plenty to spare. Money that was so life-changing. It gave me the freedom to move out of my rodent-infested apartment in the Bronx and into a shared flat in Williamsburg with my friend and sommelier, Dario Dash.


Damn, Dario. Lucky bastard flew to Italy yesterday on a viticulture experience that would take him to the southern tip of the boot to Sicily and finish up in the Tuscan countryside. 
Argh, to have a holiday and feel the Tuscan heat at my back. My blonde bob swishing around my face while I drink a Chianti and smell the Italian pizza in the wood-fired oven, crust bubbling, cheese melting. Maybe one day, I’d afford myself such a trip. 


The screech of the train breaks pulled me from my momentary bliss. And my reality smacked me in the face as I stood, seeing my reflection in the glass carriage door as the train came to a sudden jolt. Overpowering cheap perfume, mixed with body odor and dirty laundry, that was my reality and the smelly trip into the city I’d been doing for years. 
I chewed the inside of my cheek as uncertainty plagued me. What was I doing? I’d given up the job of my dreams to risk the unfamiliar.


Starting my company with Lourde wasn’t the daunting part. It was Ari’s lion den, I feared, that was awaiting me in less than ten minutes.

“Hey.” A silvery voice pulled my attention.
I turned around to find the handsome man from before standing behind me, his suit brushing up against me. His suit was so ill-fitting from this close that it hurt. How could he not realize it was two sizes too big? Did he still think he had some growing to do?
I smiled at his pleasant tone and waited for the doors to open.
“Hey, yourself.” I remained beside him, making no move to back away from his advances.
His mouth split into a smile.
“They call me Bud.” His hand disappeared into his suit jacket pocket. 

“You can’t get them to stop?” I twisted my lips into a smile. 
He snorted out a laugh.
“Call me sometime.” He pulled a business card from his suit jacket, and I was tempted to recommend an excellent tailor but decided against it.

“Sure.” I took the card from his fingers, and at the same time, the doors sprung open. I tucked it into my coat pocket and gripped my briefcase.

His eyes hovered over my glossy red lips. “Till then.” 


Turning, I walked out with the thousands who departed the train like a swarm of worker bees.
With a renewed spring in my step—thanks to Bud—I remembered why I was here. My grit, skill, and determination. I was a fighter and that snippet of flirting gave me the confidence boost I needed to get out of my head and on with the job at hand. I wouldn’t let Ari undermine that, and I wouldn’t stand for it because there was no way I was going back to my roots. My poverty-stricken roots. This was the job that was going to put me on the map, and there was nothing or no one that could stand in my way. 

Especially Ari.


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