He leaves abruptly, and I collapse against the door. Hutch Winston is a force of nature, and I fucking blew it. So much for getting his help, not that I’ve ever laid the groundwork to ask him for it.

  Scrubbing my fingers against my forehead, I search for a solution. I should’ve just thrown myself in his arms and started crying or done something damsel in distress-like. I should have told him my fears about Victor.

  Like that would’ve gone any better.

  Hutch wouldn’t buy my tears any more than he’d fall for my teen seduction. Still, he might have listened to my story. My shoulders fall, and I open the door to my massive bedroom. It’s too late for post-mortems. If I’m going to get Victor away from my mother and protect Hana, I have to do it myself.

  I’m just getting ready for bed when my phone rings, and I look down to see my mother is FaceTiming me. I accept the call, and I can tell by her eyes she’s tipsy.

  Correction, she’s drunk.

  “Blake van Hamilton, you are to pack your things at once.” Her eyelids flutter as she sweeps her arm dramatically. “I’ve just secured a spot for you at Bishop of the Holy Family. You’re leaving on the ten o’clock train.”

  My jaw drops, and my entire room shifts to the side. “What the hell? What are you talking about?”

  “You’d better rein in that tongue, young lady. It’s a Catholic boarding school, all girls. Just what you need to improve your attitude.”

  A tiny explosion goes off in my brain. Am I old enough to have a stroke? These are not my mother’s words. My mother doesn’t think about me enough to say these words to me.

  “No!” I blurt, cringing at how childish I sound. “What about my schoolwork? Hana? I can’t leave.”

  “The sisters have assured me they can work out your schedule. Roman will be down to collect your things in two hours. End of discussion.”

  I feel like I’m drowning in a vat of molasses, struggling to find my bearings through thick sludge. How could this happen? What the fuck would wake her from her champagne stupor long enough to even come up with such a plan? Should I run? Hide out at Debbie’s until she finally leaves for St. Moritz?

  I’m trying to decide when my eyes land on his, lurking in the background, stony green staring back at me through my mother’s computer screen.

  Bastard.

  Hutch did this.

  It’s only a moment before my screen goes black, and I start to scream. That meddling, arrogant, know-it-all bastard. He’s playing right into their hands.

  I’m being shipped to a boarding-school prison, where I can’t help anyone. He’s ruining everything, and at sixteen, I’m powerless to change it.

  Fisting the sides of my hair, I squeeze my eyes shut and internally lose my shit. It’s the only place I’ve ever been allowed. I grab a pillow off my bed and throw it across the room, then I charge after it and kick it all the way back to my bed.

  Grinding my jaw I go to the window and watch as he leaves in his car. He’s done his damage. Hutch Winston is going to regret this.

  I won’t be sixteen forever, and I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done.

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  BOSS OF ME

  SPECIAL SNEAK PEEK

  Patton Fletcher is

  ✔Demanding,

  ✔Driven,

  ✔Sexy AF, and

  ✔My New Boss.

  My sister says don’t fall for him. I say don’t worry

  I’m not about to let some arrogant, young CEO derail my dreams.

  Or insult my wardrobe.

  I don’t care about his deep brown eyes or the way the muscle moves in his square jaw when he’s pissed.

  I won’t fall for his power or how sexy he fills out that suit.

  I said I could resist him.

  I was wrong…

  Raquel Morgan is Trouble.

  She’s stubborn, independent, and a fighter.

  She has long, dark hair, crystal blue eyes, and freckles…

  Freckles.

  And long, sexy legs.

  And a smart mouth.

  I’ve spent seven years building one of the top companies in Nashville, and I’m not about to let some ambitious, cardigan-wearing new kid distract me from my goals.

  Raquel Morgan won’t tempt me.

  I’m The Boss, and I never lose control…

  (BOSS OF ME is a STAND-ALONE enemies to lovers, military romance with a badass alpha boss and the feisty woman who steals his heart. No cheating. No cliffhangers.)

  PROLOGUE

  Patton

  Seven years ago in a jungle south of the border…

  The clock is ticking.

  We have to move fast or this will go terribly wrong.

  Sweat rolls down my sides, and I exhale slowly, calming my pulse.

  The air is heavy and close, so thick it’s almost visible and so hot it’s almost impossible to breathe.

  Tropical plants form a dense barrier of wide, shiny leaves, and we’re hidden in the brush around a small, cinder-block hut.

  Our target is a green dot on my screen blinking right in front of us.

  He’s here.

  “Moving in, eleven o’clock.” Taron’s voice is low in my ear.

  “Coming up from the southeast.” Sawyer’s distinct southern drawl is a quick response.

  “No noise. No prisoners.” I give the order, firm and clear.

  I’m the leader of this three-man rescue mission, and we won’t fail.

  We surround the unpainted hovel. It’s quiet in the shadows. The windows are black holes with no glass, empty squares that could be hiding anything—watchers with guns, lining us up in the crosshairs.

  Or he could be alone.

  No, it would never be that easy.

  He could be dead.

  My jaw tightens and I push back on the thought. What good would he be to them dead?

  Taking a knee, I slowly lift my gun to my eye, setting my sites on the front door. We’ve been tracking radio signals, emails and IP addresses, until we isolated them here.

  Two weeks have passed since Martin was jumped on a routine fuel run. From what we’ve been able to piece together, they took him down with PAVA spray, a paralyzing nerve gas. Then the videos started.

  Two weeks of grainy images of our friend and fellow Marine tied to a chair with a bag over his head. They’d rip it off to reveal black eyes and bloodstained skin. Then the threats started—guns and money. It’s what they all want. Until now, the moment of truth in the heart of a South American jungle.

  We’re tired, thirsty, and focused on retrieving our friend, kidnapped off-duty in a routine stop on our way to a peace-keeping mission in Caracas.

  Sawyer checks in from his point, and we watch as Taron creeps across the face of the structure, approaching the weathered wooden door. His gun is at his chest as he carefully reaches out and knocks.

  Three sharp raps, and we wait.

  Nobody breathes.

  No response.

  He looks to me, and I give a nod. I’m front and center, ready to cover him.

  Nobody gets past me.

  Nobody takes my men.

  We’re brothers—no one forgotten, no one left behind.

  My heart beats like a mallet against my ribs. As much as we’ve trained, this scene is entirely unpredictable. We hope to have the element of surprise. We hope his kidnappers believe we’re still in Los Cabos, but they could be smarter than we give them credit for. With low growl, I shake my head. Not likely.

  These drugged-up gangsters dared to kidnap a Marine. The only thing stopping us from torching this whole place is my belief we can extract him without causing unnecessary casualties.

  Taron’s jaw is set, the sleeves of his tan shirt showing from beneath the black Kevlar vest are stained with sweat, and his light-brown hair is wet. All our faces are scrubbed with camouflage, making the whites of our eyes seem to glow.

  My breath stills. My cheek is pressed to my gun barrel, and the noise of cicadas rises like a chorus around us. It grows louder, a warning.

  I shake off the thought. Taron is my focus.

  The shadow of Sawyer emerges from the brush at the opposite end of the house. They’re acting on my orders, but we’re brothers. We’ve had each other’s backs since Day One. This is more than a rescue. Martin is family.

  Taron moves away from the concrete wall, and my finger is ready on the trigger. The only thing standing between us and what’s about to happen is a wooden door…

  He lifts his leg and gives the door a sharp kick, sending it flying against the wall with a blast that rattles the quiet jungle. His back is against the wall again, and he holds, waiting for a barrage of bullets.

  None come.

  Three heartbeats, three silent breaths—I give him a nod. He turns quickly, gun at eye level and steps through the space, swinging his weapon side to side. Sawyer is at his side, and I’m out of position moving forward to cover them.

  “Marley!” Taron’s gun lowers, and he rushes forward. I’m at the door to see him whip the bag off our friend’s face, and it hits me like a sucker punch.

  His head drops forward, bobbing like a top. I don’t understand his mumbles. A thick stream of bloody spit drips from his swollen lips.

  Rage mixes with adrenaline. He’s been beaten almost to death, and cords of rope cut into his skin. Taron’s quickly slicing his restraints as Sawyer and I case the hut. It appears deserted, which puts me on guard for IEDs. The unfurnished room has no interior light, casting long shadows in the corners. With a muted thud, Marley’s knees hit the floor.

  Taron bends to help lift him, and that’s when I see her. Green eyes shining like cat in the darkness.

  “No!” I shout as she rushes forward, screaming, just in time for Taron to whip around and see the raised machete in her hand.

  Light flashes off the silver blade, the blast of Taron’s pistol deafens us in the small space, and she drops like a stone, a bloody splatter like a megaphone fanning out on the floor behind her small body. Long, caramel hair fans around her head, and she looks seventeen.

  “God, no.” He lets out a pained groan as the small gun falls to the floor.

  For a moment, we’re unable to move, unable to look away from the girl lying dead at our feet. My eyes heat, but I squeeze them shut briefly, clenching my teeth against the emotion. Marley mumbles incoherent words. He’s barely conscious, beaten almost beyond recognition. I can’t even tell if he recognizes us. The machete is at his feet, beside the dead girl.

  She would have slashed them both if Taron hadn’t done what he did.

  Combat leaves no room for second-guessing. Hesitation is how you end up dead, cut in half by a teenager you’d otherwise overlook. A girl who never should have been here. Bastards using children to fight their battles.

  “Get him out of here.” My voice is a gruff order. When Taron doesn’t move, I raise the volume. “I said GO!”

  He struggles to lift Marley over his shoulder, and Sawyer steps forward to help him. I’m the last one to leave the hut, giving it a final sweep before I turn, in time to see Taron hit the ground and then cry out in pain.

  “Mother—” He rolls to his side, blood soaking his lower back from where he landed on a broken sapling.

  “Patton, stop!” Sawyer yells, and I see the trip wire.

  How we missed it coming in is anybody’s guess. Sawyer hoists Marley onto his shoulders. He’s strong as an ox from working on his family’s peach farm back home. I throw my rifle over my shoulder and lean down, grabbing Taron’s arm.

  “Can you walk?”

  His face is scrunched in agony, but he manages to nod. “Get us out of here.”

  My jaw is tight, my brow set, and I force the determination we need to finish this rescue mission. Our ATV is down the hill, hidden in the brush, and we follow Sawyer, Taron leaning heavily on me.

  His blood soaks through his clothes onto mine, dripping down to his pants. This injury might send him home, and Marley’s worse. We’re all worse on the inside. We saved our man, but we’re all scarred by what we left behind.

  It’s too late to change it. We’ll deal with the scars later.

  When the fighting stops.

  1

  Raquel

  Present day

  A hot breeze whips through the streets of downtown Nashville, sweeping my light brown hair off my shoulders and throwing my black blazer open. I catch it, holding my bag and clutching my phone to my ear, hanging on my sister Renée’s words like the voice of God.

  “Make friends with Sandra. She’s a good ally.” Renée is encouraging, but my stomach is in knots. “Don’t ask too many questions. If something doesn’t make sense, wait and ask her later.”

  “I can’t ask questions on my first day?” The orange hand appears at the crosswalk, and I take the opportunity to straighten my blouse. “What kind of mind reader do they think I am?”

  “Trust me, Patton Fletcher doesn’t have time to teach you how to do your job.” She sounds like she might be quoting him.

  “I’ve never even met Patton Fletcher.”

  “Who hired you? Taron? He’s the only one who could get away with something like that.”

  “Ah, yeah.” The walk sign appears, and I hustle across the four-lane street. “I interviewed with Taron Rhodes and Jerry Buckingham.”

  “Hmm…” Her skepticism fans my nerves.

  “What?”

  “You’ll really have to be on your toes, then. If he didn’t pick you, he’ll be looking to get rid of you.”

  “Why?” Panic spreads into my chest.

  “It’s just how he is. He likes to be in control.”

  “So what do I do? You worked here.” I push through the glass doors of Fletcher International, Inc., fresh out of Vanderbilt’s Owen Grad School with a shiny new MBA.

  Just like my sister, I graduated in the Top Ten in my class, and as such, I landed interviews with the top firms in the city. I wanted to go to Chicago or Dallas, but my advisor said Fletcher was a great starting point, a real feather in my cap if I could get a good recommendation. I assume this Patton Fletcher knows every CEO in the country… or his dad did.

  When I searched Fletcher International, I found pages of articles on George Fletcher, not so much on his son.

  “Don’t let him push you around.” Her voice turns thoughtful. “I couldn’t tell if he did it on purpose or if it’s just his personality…”

  “How do I do that? He’s the boss.”

  I wonder if she might tell me what happened to her here. My thoughts flicker back to when Renée started as an accounting intern at FII. She seemed to be doing great, one of Nashville Magazine’s “Thirty under Thirty” rising stars in local business.

  She passed the CPA exam on her first try… Then a year later, she dropped off the grid.

  She stopped answering her phone, and when I called the office, a woman said she didn’t work here anymore. I had to leave campus in the middle of exams, catch a city bus across town to her low-rent apartment in East Nashville, where it looked like she hadn’t left her bed for days.

  She wouldn’t tell me what happened—she only said she wasn’t doing it anymore. “It” meant anything having to do with her accounting degree.

  That spring break, I ditched my plans to spend the week in South Walton to help her move back to Savannah, to our parents’ tiny home near the watchful eye of Ms. Hazel Wakefield, their old neighbor.

  Now she helps run Ms. Hazel’s gift shop on Tybee Island and pays for rent by cleaning the old woman’s house, running her errands, and cooking their meals. She doesn’t have much choice since she walked away from her career with nothing but a crushing load of student loan debt.

  “You want my advice on Patton Fletcher?” She huffs a laugh like it will take all day. “Don’t mention his dad. It pisses him off.”

  My brow furrows. “Got it. Anything else?” I’m on the elevator rising too fast. Or she’s talking too slowly.

  “Never wear all black. He hates that.”

  “Shit.” I glance down at my black slacks and matching black blazer. “I’ll have to buy a scarf at lunch.”

  “Nope, he hates scarves even more.”

  “What’s his problem?” My lips tighten, and my urge to fight starts to rise.

  It’s how I got my nickname, Rocky. My dad started it because even as a little girl, I never backed down from a bully.

  “Remember when we were kids, and you liked to say ‘You’re not the boss of me’?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t ever say that to Patton Fletcher.” I’m about to speak, when she adds conspiratorially. “But never stop saying it in your head. I think he secretly likes it.”

  “He sounds evil.”

  “Well…” Her voice goes higher. “Patton Fletcher is a devil. He’s not the devil, but he’s definitely one of them.”

  “I’m not afraid of the devil.” I have no intention of letting some arrogant young CEO scare me away from my dreams—if that’s what he did to Renée.

  The elevator stops with a ding, and I wonder if that’s the reason I said yes to this particular job offer, to prove the Morgan girls have grit, to prove we’re tougher than we look.

  “Whatever you do, don’t fall for him.” Her tone turns serious, and it almost makes me laugh.

  “I have no intention of falling for him.”

  “I checked your star sign this morning. It’s a good day for you to start something new.”

  I’m in the door, and not a moment too soon. When she starts on the holistic remedies and astral predictions, I’m done. “Thanks, sis. Gotta run. Love you!”