Page 20 of My Sexy Boss
Chapter Nine
Cierra
Islowed asI tried to read the addresses on Mission Street, searching for the soup kitchen I’d volunteered for. The windows in my car were fogging up a storm, and I cursed the bad timing for the heater to stop working. Rainy March nights were damn cold in the city, and I made a mental note to take the car to my mechanic early the next morning.
Oncoming headlights glared, horns honked behind me, and I was ready to give up when a dull neon “Soup Kitchen” sign blurred in the rain. I pulled into the parking lot, thankful I’d found it, and grabbed my tote and scarf. It was freezing that evening, the kind of cold that settled in heavy around my shoulders and wrapped its icy fingers around my skin. I pulled my scarf up over my mouth and furrowed my brow as I hurried to the front door, the rain sloshing under my boots.
I was glad not to be home obsessing over Trace Prescott. His name passing through my memory made me cast my eyes upward in annoyance at how firmly he’d squirmed inside my head. What the fuck was his problem? He’d almost kissed me at the Tipsy Cow, and then he came by the office at the end of the day and flirted with me. Other times, he was cold and professional. What the hell was up with the hot-and-cold crap? What was I supposed to make of him?
Then again, I was just as confused by my actions. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him. Kelsey had painted such a horrible picture of him, but he didn’t seem that way to me. But then, I wasn’t emotionally involved with him. I was his employee.
I had to remember that.
But that was the duality of him. There was clearly a side of him that had a strong asshole streak, the kind that messed Kelsey around and fed her lines before hitting a club to hook up with whoever he could get his hands on. I had seen all of that with my own two eyes, so I knew it was there.
But then there was this other side, the one that was passionate and intelligent and driven. And it was hard not to be a little attracted to that side of him, because it was so close to what I valued in myself.
Ugh!I hated this endless cycle. It was like I was on an out-of-control merry-go-round and I wanted to get off, but it never stopped. And I had yet to return Kelsey’s phone call from the day before. I just needed to find another guy to focus on.
Cory jumped into my head. I was going out with him in a few days and he seemed like a nice guy. That’s what I needed—a nice, safe guy. I’d give Cory a chance.
Happy that I’d come to a resolution, no matter how tenuous it was, I walked into the building.
It was dark and dank-smelling, and I shivered beneath my jacket. Up ahead, I saw a glimmer of light seeping from under a closed door and I headed toward it, eager to get started. All through my childhood, my mom had always been quick to drill into me and my siblings the importance of helping other people whenever we had the chance, and that had stayed with me. I’d been involved in volunteering ever since I started junior high. It made me happy to show a needy person that someone cared, even if for a brief moment in that person’s life.
From behind the door, I heard dishes clattering, and I slowly turned the knob. Light spilled over me and I quickly unwrapped my coat and scarf as I stepped inside a large room filled with tables and chairs. A woman in her early forties with a head of red frizzy curls stood behind a counter.
“What can I do for you?” Her smile warmed the last vestiges of cold from my fingers.
“I’m Cierra. I signed up to volunteer.”
“Welcome. I’m Natalie, the administrator of Mission Street Soup Kitchen. Thank you for volunteering. With the weather, I was afraid you weren’t going to come. Two volunteers already canceled, so it’ll just be the three of us. We’ll be hustling tonight. The bad weather always brings in a big crowd.” She stepped around the counter and gestured for me to come closer. Pointing to a door behind her, she said. “Go on back. The other volunteer is already here and can give you a rundown of everything that needs to be done before we open the doors while I finish setting up.”
“Will do,” I replied, then headed around the counter and back into a brightly lit, industrial-sized kitchen. There was a guy stirring a large pot at the back end of the room, his back turned to me.
“Hey,” I greeted him cheerily. “I’m—”
Then he turned around, and my jaw dropped.
“Mr. Prescott?” I gasped. Of all the people I’d expected to see in a place like this, my damnbosswasn’t one of them. He dropped the wooden spoon and his eyebrows shot up, though he regained a mask of composure in a fraction of a second.
“We’re not in the office. You can call me Trace.”
“I didn’t realize you worked here,” I blurted out. “I mean, volunteered here. I mean—”
“Yeah, I’ve worked with this place for a long time, although I don’t get in to serve as much as I’d like.”
“With this place?”
“I’m a benefactor for the soup kitchen.” He shrugged as though it wasn’t a big deal. “Have been for a long time. That’s one of the pluses in having money. A few business colleagues and I built this place from the ground up.”
“I didn’t know that,” I mumbled, chewing my cuticle as my mind raced.How did I not find this in my research of him?It was probably because all the media cared about was his bad-boy antics. That was what sold. People wanted to read about the awful things the rich did, not the good things. It was easier to demonize them that way.
“First night?” he asked, heading over to a bench on the other side of the room that was stacked high with sealed plastic packages.
I nodded, still trying to wrap my head around him being there.
“How’d you wind up volunteering here?”
