The Boss and the Brat: A Billionaire Romance, page 1
The Boss and the Brat
A Billionaire Romance
Sosie Frost
The Boss and the Brat
A Billionaire Enemies-To-Lovers Romance
Copyright © 2020 by Sosie Frost
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Cover Design: Pink Ink Designs
Created with Vellum
The Boss and the Brat
Listen...it wasn't my fault.
I had no idea that the gorgeous, infuriatingly arrogant stranger was my new boss and CEO when I pushed him into the koi pond.
But had I known the mysterious billionaire was Cameron “The Panty King” Mitchell, I would’ve let the koi turn his bits into fish sticks.
Instead, I did the worst thing that a modest, career-oriented virgin could’ve done. I tumbled into that pond head-over-heels after him.
Apparently, I make terrible decisions with wet panties.
That’s why I’ve ensured the office remains a battleground and not a makeshift bedroom. Cameron thinks he can take over my father’s company because no one has ever told the titan of industry no.
Well, defying Cameron is much safer than desiring him.
So, if he wants coffee, he can pour it himself. If he needs a report—he can fetch the paper airplane from the roof.
But if he thinks he can take me for a lover?
I’ll become his greatest enemy.
I just have one question…
Do the two pink lines on the test always mean that I’m pregnant?
* * *
The Boss and the Brat is a laugh-out-loud romantic comedy from Wall-Street Journal Bestselling Author Sosie Frost. This BWWM billionaire, enemies-to-lovers romance is 100% safe, contains no cheating or cliffhangers, and is guaranteed a heart-warming Happily Ever After. 😍
Follow Me!
Can’t get enough romance?
Join my Facebook Group for sneak peeks, early access promos, and a chance to enter a giveaway for whatever romance book I’m reading every Tuesday!
Click Here to Join!
Or
Click Here To Join my Mailing List!
I’ll email you as soon as a new book is available!
(Usually once a month!)
Or
Text: SOSIE
to
245-87
Receive a text right as soon as my book is live on Amazon!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Also by Sosie Frost
Now Available - Baby Daddy!
About the Author
1
Mackenza
They called him The Panty King.
Seriously.
They also called him a titan of industry, one of the most accomplished men of the twenty-first century, and the most eligible billionaire bachelor five years running.
Yet, somehow, Panty King was the one that stuck.
Cameron Mitchell had billions of dollars to his name, but he couldn’t buy a better nickname?
Then again, I expected nothing else from a man invading and utterly decimating the fashion world.
His reputation had granted him access to the couture scene, but Cameron Mitchell didn’t possess even the slightest qualifications to lead a fashion empire.
Qualities like style.
Expertise.
The ability to tell a pair of pumps from his prick.
And while the media and moguls fawned over the newfound breath of fresh air polluting our once sacred space, I wasn’t about to bow down to this usurper king.
Especially since he’d earned his nickname due to the collection of women’s undergarments he’d stolen after nights of drunken debauchery. He’d claimed his trophy drawer had been the inspiration for his new line of women’s lingerie—too many women wearing too many types of hideous underwear. He’d taken it upon himself to ensure he’d never again be subjected to the horrors of cotton bikinis or boy-shorts.
And I was supposed to welcome the arrogant misogynist to my father’s retirement celebration? Sure, he’d fronted the entire cost of the party, but he’d replaced a quiet, black-tie affair with a repulsively decadent gala centered in what had once been a serene Japanese garden.
Nothing said tranquility like a waitress in lingerie instead of…
Well, anything that might have covered her booty.
It’d be the first night ever in which I broke my one-and-a-half drink limit. Enough to appear sociable, but not enough to create a scene when I was introduced to our newest consultant.
All we’d wanted was a modest, conservative runway show before Daddy’s retirement—one last hurrah to highlight his tried, true, and traditional style which had served him well for forty years.
But Cameron had talked him into a disaster worse than our famed Underwire Blowout of 2011, when we learned a valuable lesson about the weight of elderly Mrs. Mulligan’s bosom and the tensile strength of galvanized steel.
The Panty King had thought it’d be best if we ended the show with lingerie.
So, four leggy, impossibly skinny, unbelievably well-endowed women had bounced down the runway with such enthusiasm I was surprised they hadn’t finished by scaling the nearest pole for a quick encore to score a couple extra bucks.
They’d worn nothing save for a hodge-podge of ribbons and silk, all practically transparent save for the blessing of lace which had spared our Board members the most enjoyable heart attacks of their lives.
Our stock portfolio? Probably tanked.
Potential investors? Scared away.
The company reputation? In the gutter.
And for what? The shock value of a scrap of satin better served as dental floss than a respectable pair of underwear? Well, with the company ruined, at least the poor model could keep her lingerie. She’d need it for those hard-to-reach crevices once we could no longer afford our dental insurance.
The only thing stopping me from finding Cameron and ceremoniously calling security to remove him from the property was one small problem.
I had no idea who he was.
Served me right for holing up in New York City instead of Ironfield. Had I been at the company’s headquarters instead of working with the rest of the design team, I might’ve been able to stop Daddy from making a terrible decision.
We never should’ve trusted someone called the Panty King.
“Wonderful party!” A posh woman with heels an inch too tall stumbled over the garden’s gravel path. She clutched a drink in one hand and wrapped herself around the arm of a man more interested in the hemline of her skirt than keeping her upright. “And did you see that lingerie? Stunning!”
Wow.
Our event was hardly in full-swing, but already our guests were completely toasted.
A bad time to make any formal announcements…but a great time to solicit investments.
Maybe Cameron Mitchell had the right idea in hosting such an pretentiously resplendent gala. The drunker the guests, the less they’d remember, even if the party was enough to make even the Great Jay Gatsby step back and say, easy, superstar, you’ve overdone it.
He’d transformed the Japanese gardens from a tranquil and serene location into a head-throbbing, heart-pounding, booze-overflowing hotspot of pure extravagance. The grounds layered in twinkling LEDs, thrumming color in time with the blaring techno music that dropped beats and nearly shook the blossoms off the cherry trees. Waitresses in corsets and scantily clad models ducked between throngs of people—men and women who had never heard of the brand Maxwell Intimates before getting invited to a party in its honor hosted by the Cameron Mitchell.
Journalists and sales reps, designers and industry moguls danced along the pebbled paths as flashy, sexy purple and electric blue lights illuminated the grounds in an ombre gradient of decadence. Even the champagne had been tinted. Pink. It matched the lonesome cherry bobbing in the bubbles.
At least the glamour overshadowed the atrocity which had ended our runway show. And, if nothing else, it had entertained Cameron’s crowd.
“Did you see that lace?” A balding gentleman said, one hand clutching crab puffs and the other teasing his way down his date’s backside. She swatted at his bubblegum pink vest, but he ignored her giggle. “I should find you something that exquisitely designed. Hand-stitched, you know.”
The woman at his side had indulged in this year’s latest trend—oversized hats. The crushed velvet swirled outwards, held in place with a drooping white bow. Her smile, creamsicle orange, matched her four-inch heels. She flattened a palm against the man’s chest and gasped.
“Would you really buy me one?” Her excited squeal would shatter the champagne glass in her hand. “That garter belt was divine. Tasteful, and yet so seductive. They’ve blended innocence and sensuality into a perfect piece of lingerie. I must have my own before it’s all the rage next year.”
“I’ll speak with Cameron Mitchell myself—under one condition.” The man was fifteen years too old for her, but it was the wedding ring on his finger which concerned me more. “You only wear it for me.”
“Then I’ll need one in every color.”
This was a nightmare. The lingerie had just graced the runway, and already Cameron Mitchell had secured four sales.
I pouted into my champagne, hating the luxurious fizz from the bubbles.
So much for Maxwell Intimates’ long-standing tradition of being the specialty, couture undergarments for the matronly, modest, and moneyed.
We supported but didn’t embellish.
We slimmed but never scandalized.
We hid but we weren’t ashamed.
And our parties were always more hot tea and BenGay than champagne and caviar.
I’d thought jetlag would be my only problem this evening. Apparently, I’d wasted too much time in New York. Had I known Daddy needed me this much, I would’ve boxed up my material, traded my needle and thread for a flight, and scurried home quicker than I could slip stitch.
He needed my help.
And probably a drink.
The most influential members of the fashion industry swarmed Daddy on the opposite end of the party, far from the drunken ruckus on the pagoda turned flashing dance floor. At least I had a clear shot through the crowd. Most of the media and guests had stampeded to get another look at the newly arrived brunette model strutting around the investors in five-inch heels and not much else.
A passing waiter offered me a glass of pop-star pink champagne. I took two. Daddy would need it more than me.
That was…if it lasted.
A passing investor, clad in a snazzy, three-piece suit, pointed at me with the amber-red end of his cigar. A blonde snuggled close to him—probably a fourth wife. I didn’t recognize her, but, after that much plastic surgery and reconstruction, she probably didn’t recognize herself either.
“Look at you, Mackenza!” Freddy Arthur spun his finger and smiled under a bushy white mustache. “Did you make that delightful dress yourself?”
I twirled. “Finished with two hours to spare.”
“Beautiful!”
I thanked him, patting the sensible black gown. It was only a small passion project—something flattering and professional. I’d embellished the dark material with a gold chain around my waist. The limited detail was all I needed to accentuate my dark skin. The sparkling gold nail polish might’ve been a little too flashy for my liking, but it worked. Bright and fun but still modest. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, after all.
And to think—I’d even cut my hair for the night. A strict, no-nonsense bob that looked cuter on me now that I wasn’t a blubbering mess after seeing my tender locks scattered across the salon floor. I looked feminine and confident. Exactly the sort of prudent style which would serve me well when I moved upwards in the ranks of Maxwell Intimates.
“She’s a brilliant artist,” Freddy said, elbowing the blonde at his side as her attention drifted to the hunky man serving the pâté. “Mackenza is the most talented designer at Maxwell Intimates—probably on this side of the pond. You should see the dresses she makes.”
The blonde crinkled her nose. “But I thought you made old lady bras?”
Freddy winked at me. “Not if Cameron Mitchell has anything to say about it. It’s a whole new world for us now, Mackenza. I can’t wait to see what this company does with Mitchell’s mind and your talent.”
Probably fail. Miserably.
So, the Panty King had already wooed the investors. I couldn’t imagine the sort of damage he’d cause to the board.
Daddy had to be warned.
I bumbled through the crowd, but the mass of flowing dresses and oversized hats made traversing the graveled garden a challenge.
I couldn’t wait for Monday. A return to sanity. No parties. No Panty King. Just a world of girdles, shapewear, and rigorous standards—where the women were modest, their breasts tastefully supported, and the most daring color to grace the office a muted shadow of beige.
I nearly spilled the champagne as I hopped the decorative wooden bridge arching three feet over a trickling koi pond.
Looking down was a mistake.
I did it anyway.
The pond roiled with glittering, ravenous goldfish, each slurping the surface with gaping mouths. God only knew how many of the gluttonous demons lurked beneath the twisting water lettuce and lily pads.
I shivered away from the edge of the bridge, but a lavender hat the size of Texas nearly guillotined me with a sequin-encrusted brim. I ducked before I became part of a literal fashion crime and twisted away, nearly careening into the water below.
Fortunately, I smacked into a solid, muscle-bound chest.
Unfortunately, both flutes of champagne jostled from my hands, into the air…
And drenched the sexiest man I’d ever had the misfortune of dousing with hundred-dollar-a-glass champagne.
Whoops.
The alcohol soaked through his white dress shirt, and the material clung to the hardened, rippling muscle beneath. His pecs alone were hard enough to crack the glass flutes on impact, but I was the one who shattered into a million pieces.
He didn’t simply steal my breath—my body threatened to deflate.
I suffocated in my own amazement. Stiffened in shock. Raced my own heart to make a fool of myself.
I scrunched my nose and plucked a wayward cherry from his lapel pocket.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” My hushed words practically quivered in sheer delight that I’d somehow blundered into the only man handsome enough to steal the party’s attention from the scantily clad models. “I didn’t mean to bump into you. I thought I was about to become fish food.”
I shouldn’t have looked into his dark, impossibly severe eyes.
The man said nothing.
And, in his silence, my mind shrieked in warning.
I was going to sleep with this man.
I knew it. From the top of my head right down to my Vera Bradley strappy heels.
Somehow, someway, I would make the mistake of a lifetime with this man.
And I would enjoy every regretted moment of it.
He was as cold as cash and hard as diamond.
But his stare? Pure, undeniable heat.
His gaze studied the world and instantly conquered everyone within it. Then, with a thin smirk framed by the tease of stubble on his jaw, he promptly dismissed the others.
His heavy brow bore entirely too many cares for someone who couldn’t have been more than thirty-five. But the solemn strength complimented his dark eyes and fair complexion. The man looked almost pale under the striking pink and purple of the lights, but it only hardened his features and exaggerated his size. His suit broadened his shoulders, and the sharp, angled lines of his jacket accentuated his pure muscle.
