Boss Abroad: A Steamy Billionaire Office Romance, page 1
boss abroad
A STEAMY BILLIONAIRE OFFICE ROMANCE
ABROAD SERIES
BOOK 1
RACHEL KELLAR
Boss Abroad
Abroad Series Book One
Copyright © 2024 by Rachel Kellar
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: rachel@rachelkellar.com
Content warning: The following story contains mature themes, strong language and explicit scenes, and is intended for mature readers.
Cover designer: Eduardo Ribeiro and Ronaldo Tavares
Photographer: Marx Edgar Chavez / @xramragde
Cover model: Rafael Barbosa
Editor: Sarah Baker, Word Emporium Editing Services
www.rachelkellar.com
Created with Vellum
contents
Author’s note
1. April
2. April
3. April
4. Liam
5. April
6. Liam
7. Liam
8. Liam
9. April
10. Liam
11. Liam
12. April
13. April
14. Liam
15. Liam
16. April
17. April
18. April
19. Liam
20. April
21. April
22. Liam
23. April
24. Liam
25. April
26. Liam
27. April
28. April
29. Liam
30. April
31. Liam
32. April
33. Liam
34. April
35. Liam
36. April
37. Liam
38. April
39. Liam
40. April
41. Liam
42. April
Epilogue
Sneak Peek - Trouble from Abroad
About the Author
Acknowledgments
To all the ladies who prefer to read their porn
instead of watching it.
I’ve got you, sis.
author’s note
As far as trigger warnings go, this is
a light-hearted read, but it briefly deals
with an estranged parent and mentions
parental loss (off-page).
CHAPTER ONE
april
“Fuck you. You’re not my boss.”
My real boss murmurs my name in a reprimanding tone, but I barely register it. My best friend Callie, also an ortho surgeon, who has no business being here, can't stifle her laughter, so I talk louder and closer to the speakerphone to muffle the noise.
“I don’t work for any of you. I’m acting in my patient’s best interests. As I always have and always will.”
We’re gathered in Dr. Preston Jett’s office discussing Max’s recovery. More specifically, his place of recovery. Max himself lounges on an armchair to my left, looking less worried than he should.
“It’s already been three months.” The owner of the soccer team Max plays for in London speaks up again. His voice is joined by a cacophony of ‘yes’, ‘that’s right’, and ‘exactly’ in the background. “He needs to be in London, with his teammates, on the pitch.” He carries on so unaffected by my outburst that I just assume he’s used to being cursed at a lot.
Wouldn’t surprise me.
“It’s only been three months,” I correct him. “He needs to be monitored by our team for longer than that.”
What an ungrateful bastard. No one else had a good prognosis for Max. All the surgeons before me wanted to retire him. Even my mentor and head of orthopedics here at the Hospital of Special Surgeries, Preston Jett, a legend in our specialty, had to be convinced to take Max as a patient.
Fair enough, I guess. Max’s legs have a record longer than a CVS receipt. His latest achievement being nothing less than multiple torn cruciate ligaments on his left knee. No sane surgeon wanted to promise him his career back after an injury like that.
But sanity didn’t get me to where I am today. Sanity didn’t get me out of a miserable house, nor did it emancipate me, or help me graduate from Mount Sinai School of Medicine—with distinction—at the age of seventeen.
So it was only fitting that I called Maxwell Sinclair, Europe’s most expensive soccer player, and asked if he wanted to be the guinea pig for a new technique my boss and I invented.
Preston and I have been working for the last two years on a groundbreaking new surgery for ligament reconstruction that is going to change so many lives. It was time to put it to the test. Which we did, while the whole world watched. No pressure.
Max, drumming out a tune with his fingers on his knee brace, pulls me back to the present. I’m tempted to ask if we’re boring him.
I mute our side of the conversation. “Maxwell, speak up,” I urge him in a whisper, trying to get him to focus. “This is your life. They want you there to make appearances. We want you here to make sure you’re okay.”
“Dr. Hadden, I’m fine.” Oh hell, no. Here we go again. I roll my eyes so hard at him, I almost see the inside of my head. “Yours and Dr. Jett’s surgery? It's a freaking miracle. I’m good to go.” The athlete who thinks he’s Superman rubs his hands together in excitement. “Come on. Let me go home. I’m ready to get back on the field.”
“It’s settled then.” Someone at the other end of the phone back in London, without a degree in medicine, celebrates too soon.
“What? You were not meant to hear that. And nothing is settled, mister.” I take my frustration out on said mute button, pressing it too hard, too fast, and it beeps angrily back at me. Stupid, ancient phone. “Okay, now we’re muted.”
“You are not,” one of the British clues me in.
Urgh! How can someone sound so arrogant with the briefest of sentences? Is it the accent? There are not enough syllables in there to carry so much disdain.
“Well, I’m a surgeon, not a phone operator. Wanna see me with a scalpel?” My spit lands on the actual mute button, and the sight of it makes me want to slam my head on the table.
“Not at this particular moment, no,” the disembodied British accent replies.
Asshole.
Preston's hand goes up, halting my words, and my witty comeback to that man’s sarcasm gets stuck in my throat. Fine, my shampoo bottles will hear it later.
“Our point is…” His smooth voice doesn’t match his pissed off expression. He didn’t teach me that talent. “... Maxwell is making a record-breaking recovery. He’s at a stage you’d expect one to be after nine months of rehabilitation in only three. It’s in everyone’s interest that he remains under medical observation and in our care.”
“Then you come with him.”
Excu—Oh hell n—What th—I’m so shocked I can’t even fully react.
“His sponsors are restless. If Maxwell doesn’t come home now, he might not have many sponsorships to come back to. I’m just looking out for him.” The nerve on this man. I don’t give Preston a chance to silence me again with a show of his palm.
“First of all, we’re surgeons, not your servants. Second, he’s not our only patient. We can't up and leave at your command.” My huff is loud and I couldn’t care less if I offend any of them.
“But he’s your most important patient at the moment. The one you need to keep a close eye on so you can deem your new surgery a success.” Goddammit. I hate him even more for being right. And Preston’s eyebrows for raising that high, challenging me to answer.
“How much longer do you need? A month?” Another faceless British man at the end of the phone pushes us further into a corner. I’ve lost count of how many people we’re talking to.
I put six fingers up, not trusting the phone to give us the privacy we need for this conversation. Max shakes his head in an exaggerated fashion, obviously dreading staying away from the field that much longer. Preston counters my offer with three fingers of his own and a soundless come on.
Callie chooses this moment to speak up. I didn’t even see her move from where she was standing by the door and now she’s behind my chair, leaning in closer to the speaker. “It’s not only the matter of time but also how much you’re willing to pay to have Dr. Hadden move to London for the foreseeable future to continue Max’s care personally.”
Excuse me? My head whips back so fast that my neck makes an audible crack. When did I volunteer as a tribute? I point at myself and Callie answers why me by lifting a picture from Preston’s desk and turning it so I can see his very pregnant wife and small child.
If someone else but me is right again in this meeting, I’m going to snap.
Callie continues, “She’s America’s youngest orthopedic surgeon, as I’m sure you’re aware.” I squeeze my lips together and cover my mouth with my fist, not to laugh at this poised, collected woman who’s possessed my best friend’s body. Callie is giving a Merryl Streep worthy performance. “Due to receive the Greyer’s
Award in a months’ time for her contribution to her specialty.”
“Of course there’s a price,” he scoffs, sounding unsurprised, bored out of his mind.
My chin falls to my lap as I stare at my colleagues. His response makes me feel a tad dirty and maybe a little offended too. I check to see if his disdain is leaking through the speaker. “We’ll pay her £200,000 a month and cover her travel and accommodation expenses. I’ll even throw in a bonus if I can convince her to leave early.” I stand corrected. Now I’m super offended. And my jaw dropped so wide that it must have dislodged from my face completely.
“We’ll discuss if any of that is a possibility and come back to you. Bye for now.” I hang up before they insult me any further.
Preston's eyebrows are challenging me again, taking residency high up his forehead. Callie is clapping, jumping, and giggling like a cheerleader. A middle school one. And poor Max is taking this as a win. Little does he know nothing is decided.
I need a minute to gather my wits after this conversation, to purge all the patronizing, arrogant, and, well, plain rude people I just had to deal with. I need a few breaths to recover from the shock of the indecent amount of money I've just been offered too.
But no, I’m not granted that courtesy. Max pivots my chair to face him and plants an idea in my already audacious mind.
“Doc.”
I purse my lips and stare unimpressed at him.
“Sorry. Dr. Hadden.” That’s right. All my patients will call me by my title. Sport celebrities are no exceptions. “You think two hundred isn’t much? Ask for more. Milk them. They’ll give you whatever you want.”
I study his face in disbelief. Isn’t much? What world do these people live in? That’s more than I make in a year. Keeping a straight face right now is actually painful. I have to breathe in the scoff that’s climbing its hot way up my nose and breathe out a poker face.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Sure, that indecent amount of money threw me off and it’s enticing. That’s more than my bank has ever seen. More than I ever thought I’d see. More than enough to change my life and guarantee that the kids I’m never having would’ve been taken care of too. I’m not denying any of that.
But money is not what drives me. My career is.
So when I call them back after ping-ponging my ideas back and forth with Preston, and, of course, hearing the unsolicited but very entertaining and supportive advice from Callie, I have a full list of demands in hand. None of which will make me richer, but they make me feel wiser.
“Hi there. Let’s start with the basics. I’ll need a private physiotherapist to be at Max's beck and call.” I don’t waste time with pleasantries and neither do they.
“Your head of physio will come too. We want him to carry on with the work he’s been doing,” some Londoner is quick to answer. Their arrogance makes me sick and my lunch comes back to haunt me. I sneer at the phone, itching to argue, but what argument do I have to say they can’t always get what they want?
“I’ll need a license to practice medicine in the UK—”
“We’ll arrange your visa,” he manterrupts me, which is not surprising in the least. “... your license and a placement at King Edward Hospital so you can continue your fellowship here.” That addition stuns me. How on Earth did they find out I’m in the middle of the program? Nope. Scratch that, I don’t want to know.
Feigning nonchalance, I set my next demand. The most demanding of them all. “As a show of good faith in embarking on this partnership, we’d like you to donate a sum for our lab. The one where we developed the technique that will give Max his career back.” Before I can catch my next breath, he’s agreeing to it, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
Not a genuine, happy one. Nope, a defiant one.
“We’ll pimp your lab and your orthopedic wing, too. How about that? I’m feeling generous.” Actually, sir, you sound high. “Now pack your bags, Doc. You’re bringing my star player to London.”
I hang up but can’t join the celebration erupting around me. I’m finding it too hard to shake off this cautionary sense of defeat.
How the hell did he give me more than I asked for and still make me feel like I’m at a loss?
CHAPTER TWO
april
“Who wants a margarita?” Callie’s voice trumps the loud playlist she has on. She put together a bunch of music that mentions London in its lyrics and right now, Fergie is telling us her London Bridge wants to go down. It’s the clean version, for Preston’s daughter's sake, but I still don’t think it’s clean enough for a five-year-old.
“It’s ten in the morning, Calista!” Preston's stern voice reprimands her from the living room. She’s in my kitchen, fixing our favorite cocktail as a parting gift and they scream at each other as if this isn’t a 480 square feet apartment.
“It’s three in the afternoon in London, Dr. Preston. Get into the mood.” I laugh at their exchange and soak in their bickering, knowing I’ll miss the heck out of it. I wheel another suitcase out of my bedroom and join them at the campsite that my living room has turned into. Boxes everywhere, furniture covered in plastic sheets.
Preston’s wife, Blake, sits on my couch, one of the few pieces of furniture left uncovered. She shifts in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position for her and that seven-month belly of hers to no avail. Poor thing looks miserable.
Callie offers her a drink and Preston grits his teeth, waving with both hands at his wife’s unmistakable pregnant bump. “She’s pregnant!”
“Oh. Right.”
A stranger might have fallen for her airhead act, but I have over five years of Callie’s drama school under my belt. There’s also her diagnosed inability to resist a chance of messing with Preston. It’s a condition she suffers from. And a talent.
She pulls the drink away but one glance at Blake’s face and she’s extending her arm again. “You sure? You look like you could use it.”
Blake smiles, and that seems to instantly unclench Preston's jaw. She whispers Callie a thank you and pulls Preston to sit next to her. He kisses his wife, asks if there’s anything he can do to make her feel better and pulls her feet up for a massage. It’s like watching a Hallmark movie.
“What about you, Lily?” Oh, crap. What was that? Ten seconds? Yeap, that’s all the rest Preston’s going to have. Lily’s pigtails pop from behind the boxes she made a fort with and she raises her arms to reach Callie’s mini margarita. She couldn’t look more excited.
“Goodness sake, Calista. She’s five!” He jumps from the couch and hurries to his daughter's rescue, snatching the shot glass from her greedy fingers before she can take a sip. The devastation in her eyes makes me stifle a laugh out of respect for her loss.
“Relax, dude. It’s a virgin.” Callie rolls her eyes and huffs as if it’s preposterous to expect anything different from her. I know them both well enough not to judge either party. “I made her some lemonade and put sugar on the rim.” Preston smells the shot glass and his shoulders sag in relief. He still licks the rim for his own peace of mind, though.
“Daddy, what’s a virgin?”
Nope, there will be no peace for this man today.
“Ask your mommy, sweetie. Daddy needs to help Auntie April finish packing.” Preston drags me and Callie out of the room by the arms as we laugh at his sorry excuse to evade giving his daughter an answer. He shuts the door and rests his back on it. “I thought I’d have a few years before I had the sex talk with her.” He squints his eyes at Calista. “Thank you for that.”
Her words are coated with even more sarcasm than his and she punctuates it with a wink. “Anytime, boo.”
Jett hangs his gray head, but not in defeat. I catch the smile he’s trying to hide. Once he pushes himself off the door, he’s all business again, bossing me around as if we’re in scrubs. “Are you checked in? Did you check your baggage allowance like I asked?”
“Baggage allowance?” Callie chuckles and blows a raspberry. “She’s flying first class. Getting paid an indecent amount of money to be Max Sinclair’s live-in nanny.”
I cough at her comment-slash-dig and lift two unimpressed eyebrows at her.
