Forbidden Boss: A Dad's Best Friend Romance

By Scarlett Press

His confident gaze captures my attention.

His salt and pepper hair only adds to my attraction of his experience. That attraction we both feel is natural — too natural — but taking action on our growing desire is something we can’t indulge in.

We’ll only be working together for a short time, but Adam is my boss... for now. When the job comes to a head and we can no longer restrain the building passion, our worlds collide in an earth-shattering moment.

Will my father forgive me for sleeping with his best friend? Adam and I burn hot, but will the fire last?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steamy eReads
• Release date: Apr 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005467081

Book preview

Chapter 1

Roxie

I sit in the glass-fronted lobby, in a corner seat, hidden from view of the reception but with my eye on the lifts, and gaze out at the courtyard area, in front of the immense building. There is an artificial lake with benches all around. A few ducks swim in the bright Spring sunshine, minding their own business. A few suited businessmen and women sit on the benches, some chatting, some alone, eating lunch or staring out into the middle distance, work and family and a million other things on their minds.

I watch them closely as I sit in the stylish swivel chair, the scratchy grey-tweed fabric itching the bare backs of my arms as I look out to my subjects, selecting one or two to draw. My sketchpad is out on my lap, pencil in hand, as my eyes fall on a lone woman sitting at one of the artistically stylized benches curving up out of the ground, made of dense, beautiful, polished concrete, small metal ridges curving out of the stone to form the boundaries of seats. She is dressed in a dark grey pantsuit and seems to blend into the bench itself. In her hand, she holds a mug of coffee, brought out from one of the offices upstairs, no doubt, and holds a cigarette absently in the other hand, as she alternates between caffeine and nicotine – a sip, then a drag, sip then a drag. She is the perfect subject, her face in profile, sideways on to where I am sitting.

I start to sketch her, pencil scratching across the thick vellum of the pad, shaping her. She has a beautiful face – chiseled, with full lips, almond eyes — dark brown, I would guess — and long, glossy, brunette hair — the kind of hair that can only be forged with a hefty bank account. Yet, she looks sad. It is the sadness that attracts me to her; there is a still, resigned quality to her which I cannot help but want to get down on paper.

I wonder what she is thinking as I begin to put the more detailed features onto paper. I sketch in the straight nose, the fullness of her upper lip, the shadow of her high cheekbones, and the furrow of her brow. I draw the wisps of blue-grey smoke coming from the half-smoked cigarette and the little handprint pressed onto the side of her mug. Her kid, I guess, as she sips from it. Swiftly, I lift my eraser and rub out the mug held in her hand, preferring it lifted to her sensual lips. I draw that in neatly over the faded lines of the previous iteration and hold the pad away from me slightly, pleased with the new form.

Her shoulders are a little hunched, pulling the fabric of the suit jacket between her shoulder blades, and I sketch it in quickly before she moves. It is this which intrigues me; she barely moves at all, save for the drag and sip of her chosen stimulants to get her through another day. She is the ideal model, sitting perfectly, staring out at the shimmering water of the lake in the midday sun like any Renaissance figure or female portrait one might see hanging in any gallery. Her beauty is just as sad, just as relevant, and she is just as exquisite in her own way.

I adore her, though I don't even know her. I am captivated, wondering what makes her so melancholy – wanting others to see her melancholy, captured in my sketchpad, though I know nobody will see it. I sell the odd piece, getting some commissions here and there, but it's a tough business, the art industry, and one which is less than kind to the pockets of those who try to give their lives to the art of it. 

I am almost finished when she gets up, stubbing the cigarette out beneath an expensive looking boot. She stands there for a moment, still staring out at the lake — now glittering beneath a breath of wind — and I see her shoulders rise and fall heavily as if she is sighing, preparing herself to head back into the great glass beast. I wish I could draw it – that moment – but she is on her way back in before I can even flip the page to a fresh one. I know I could try to draw it from memory, but the end-result won't be the same; it never is. It's like drawing from a photograph — the sketch never feels right.

I watch her as she comes through the revolving doors, her chin up, her shoulders straight, her stride filled with purpose. Whatever pep talk she has had with herself out on the bench, it looks as if it has worked. She is a strong, intelligent, fierce woman, all her weakness and momentary sadness left out on the bench. I almost feel bad for having captured it as I follow her with my gaze, stepping up to the lifts and waiting patiently, her hands folded in front of her. Another beautiful image, but I know she will see me if I start to try and sketch her. She glances over as the lift doors open, casting me a small smile, and I wonder if she knows.

I crane my neck around to see the reception area and look up at the vast clock on the wall, just above the receptionist's head. I feel my eyes roll in annoyance; my own lunch break is over. It is back to the mundane for me. I pick up the big, brown leather tote bag beside my chair and push the sketchpad into the depths of it, zipping my pencils back into a slim, black, faux-croc skin pencil case, and put them delicately at the bottom of the bag.

Taking my own preparatory deep breath, I stand and smooth down the front of my dark green dress, brushing away a fleck of wood from a fresh-sharpened pencil from the glossy surface of my stockings as I hook