The Stranger: The Boss

By Abigail Barnette

Six years before Neil Elwood became Sophie Scaife’s boss—and Dom—she knew him as Leif, the charming stranger in the Los Angeles International Airport, and the man who would change her life forever…

Fresh from the class of 2007, eighteen-year-old Sophie Scaife is ready to throw her carefully planned future to the wind and chase her dreams all the way to Tokyo. When her flight is canceled and a handsome stranger offers her a night of no-strings-attached pleasure, Sophie finds herself on a much different adventure than she’d expected.

With his commanding sexual presence and deviously filthy mind, Leif is the perfect man to teach Sophie everything that’s been missing with other lovers. But while Sophie can trust him with her body, she’s not sure he’s all that he claims to be…and their night of passion could change everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abigail Barnette
• Release date: Aug 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536541441

Book preview

Chapter One

LAX was both the most exciting and the most terrible place I’d ever been. My stomach knotted as I half-skipped, half-jogged through the terminal. I had no idea what would happen if I missed my connecting flight. I’d never flown anywhere before. If you end up trapped in L.A., your mother will never forgive you.

Especially since I was supposed to be on the exact opposite side of the country. As far as she knew, I’d already arrived at NYU. She’d expect a call any minute now.

I swallowed down a pang of sickness that could have either been fear of missing my flight or the absolute certainty that I would destroy my mother’s heart. She’s going to be so worried.

I hated the thought of hurting my mom. It had been hard enough for her to let me go to New York. She would have never agreed to Tokyo.

You don’t need her to agree. You’re an adult, now.

I didn’t feel terribly adult as I hurried, breathless and near tears, through the airport.

A bank of monitors displayed gate information, and I skidded to a stop in front of them. Scanning the destinations, my eyes fell on NEW YORK printed in accusing block letters.

I’d been so sure of myself during the flight. It wasn’t like I could have changed my mind mid-air if I hadn’t been, but running away had seemed right.

Not running away, I reminded myself. Taking charge of your own destiny.

Taking charge of my destiny had seemed a lot easier when I didn’t have an option to turn back. Now, I was in an airport. I could use my emergency credit card and get on a flight to New York, and to the life I was supposed to be making for myself there.

But college was so...final. Once I went to college, my youth was officially over. After a degree came a job, after a job came marriage, and after marriage came children. I wasn’t even sure I wanted any of those things; until a few weeks ago, I’d had to ask an adult for permission to go to the bathroom.

I found TOKYO on the screen, took a deep breath, and memorized the gate number. I’d already blown all my graduation money on the ticket. I had to go, now. I would figure out everything else once I got there.

Like how to live in a city. I’d gone to Spain on a school trip, and we’d been allowed to roam around Madrid freely, as long as we’d taken a buddy. But visiting a few stores and restaurants wasn’t the same as finding an apartment and setting up a bank account. And at least I’d taken some Spanish. All I knew how to say in Japanese was arigato and kawaii.

Still, total immersion would make me learn the language. I hoped.

Beside the city, angry red letters informed me that the flight was delayed. I took a deep breath. Someone was looking out for me. I slowed to a normal human walk and headed for the gate, marveling at the number of stores and restaurants I’d heard of but never seen in person. I couldn’t believe I’d spent so much of my life in a town that was too small to even have a Wal-Mart. I’d been missing out on so much.

That only strengthened my resolve to get on the damn plane to Japan.

Judging by the nearly empty seating area at the gate, everyone had gotten the news about the delay before I had. I scanned the faces there. A middle-aged couple who looked like they were on the brink of divorce right then sat on either side of a preteen boy with ear buds in his ears and an iPod in his hands. An elderly woman flipped listlessly through a magazine. A man with a beard and white guy dreads napped on the floor beside the windows, through which no plane waited for us. I flopped into a seat and unzipped my hard-sided carry-on, pulling out a tattered magazine. I couldn’t read it—I didn’t know Japanese—but I’d studied the photos of the clothing over and over.

Fashion had lured me to NYU, but I’d never truly imagined I would become a designer one day, no matter which degree I picked up. I had sketchbooks filled with drawings that weren’t innovative or exciting at all. Though my mom was proud of them and reminded me often that we were all our harshest critics, I was more interested in seeing what designers were doing than in being one myself. So many exciting trends were happening in Japan. If I ended up waiting tables for the rest of my life, it would be worth it to be near such a thriving fashion scene. It wasn’t like I’d ever be good enough to be a part of that kind of thing, anyway.

"You can’t get anyone?"

My gaze cut sharply upward and darted all over the seating area. Someone had a James Bond voice. Didn’t celebrities fly out of LAX all the time? What if it was someone famous? Did the rich and famous fly on regular planes like the rest of us?

I don’t know how I’d missed him, sitting right in front of me, just two rows away. If he was famous, I didn’t recognize him, but I did recognize his total hotness. His hair was that not-quite-brown, not-quite-blond color people described as dishwater, cut short and mussed from the hand he’d just raked through it. His nose was straight, his chin was strong; he could have been a movie star in the 1950s. One arm tucked over his chest, like he’d be folding his arms in consternation if he didn’t have to hold the Blackberry that was dwarfed by his huge hand. He was definitely older than me. Like, full adult. He might have even been close in age to my mother, which should have disgusted me, but I’d had so many crushes on so many older guys already, it didn’t faze me.

He was a good-looking guy. But his voice...

Somehow, this man I’d never seen before in my life had been exactly who I’d imagined as Colonel Brandon when I’d read Sense and Sensibility. The crisp, proper-sounding English accent made even his quiet cursing sound sexy.

And there’s nothing? Did you try Jameson? He paused and shifted in his seat, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling in annoyance. Look, it goes to print... Yes, I know. But that’s the absolute last...

His gaze met mine without any warning. I physically jolted; there was no way he hadn’t noticed me staring.

I looked away, my face burning. Here I was, in a T-shirt, with a ratty ponytail, fresh off a cross-country flight, staring at him like I was someone he wouldn’t mind being stared at by. My forehead was greasy. I hadn’t even bothered to wear a bra. I was a mess.

Then again, he had a James Bond voice, but not James Bond’s wardrobe by any means. Still, the guy wore his light blue chamois shirt—open over a gray t-shirt—like a tailored garment.

Call me back when you know something concrete. All right. All right. He ended the call, and I couldn’t help but sneak a glance. He ran his hand through his hair again, the gesture telegraphing unbearable frustration.

This guy definitely didn’t want anyone staring at him. He was going through something.

I went back to my magazine, but it was way less interesting than him. My eyes couldn’t stay away. An elaborate story began inventing itself in my head. Me, approaching him. Him, open to my advances. Me, pulling off the kind of coy flirtation that wins men over in the movies. Us, hooking up in the airplane bathroom for the hottest sex of both our lives, then never seeing each other again.

Obviously, I wasn’t going to do any of that.

His gaze caught mine again, and his eyes narrowed slightly, as though he were trying to place where he knew me from. My throat constricted; I couldn’t breathe. I definitely couldn’t make eye contact.

I tried to look away, but it was a losing battle.

He knew. From the slant of his half-smile, I could tell he knew every dirty thought running through my head.

Shit. What was I supposed to do in this situation? He probably thought I wanted him. I did want him, but in that curious, fun way that never ended in anything other than fantasy. I was only eighteen years old,