The Carrero Effect - Falling for the Boss (Billionaire CEO)

Wilma Munro is a shock to the system. She’s Scottish and her accent is thick, but not completely alien, with hints of a long New York residency. I can understand her for the most part and she’s a resolute force to be reckoned with.

Wilma is small with dark coppery curly hair and huge brown eyes set in a love heart face, standing at only four and a half feet tall. She catches me immediately in her whirlwind of enthusiastic energy. Loud, but not in a commanding way, she is direct, yet friendly and slightly terrifying. She whisks me into my new domain, assigns me a desk near her office, and outlines my responsibilities as part of her team, thrusting a box of files at me. She believes throwing someone in at the deep end brings out their inner worth.

“I’ve heard enough about you, Miss. Anderson, to know you were being wasted at Carrero Tower. I’ve great expectations of you.” She smiles warmly, soft eyes twinkling merrily as she fawns over the files.

“Mr. Carrero seemed to imply I was only seconds away from dismissal,” I respond drily, instantly regretting letting my mouth jump in before my head. I look away nervously, my fingers finding my jacket to twist the hem, anxiously.

Nice move just tell your new boss how useless you are.

“I’m particularly good friends with Margo Drake, my dear. I spoke to her only this morning when I was informed you were coming to me. She only had good things to say about you … and maybe some insight on recent behaviors.”

I spin to look at her, sudden shock on my face, blood draining away and leaving me cold as I get the jist of what that might mean.

What did Margo say to Wilma? What did Margo know? Surely Jake didn’t tell her about sleeping with me? Everything that happened?

My head is reeling. Of course, he would. He tells Margo everything about anything, she’s like a surrogate mother to him, and my old mentor. She would’ve pushed him to give her the real reason he let me go, unsatisfied with excuses and seeing through any untruths. He would’ve told Margo about that night for sure. That we had sex on the hotel floor.

But would Margo have told this woman?

Even when I was with Jake, I kept Margo up to date with how he was doing; she always wanted to know, she always seemed discreet to me, so I hope right now she has been. Wilma winks at me knowingly and I pale, my body turns colder as the blood leaves my veins and my mind almost crumbles hysterically.

Oh, my god.

She must know!

but Wilma doesn’t dwell. She sweeps away from me with a wave of her hand, leaving

press releases and a guest list to sort out, that’s going to

smacked, completely overwhelmed, my head somewhere in outer space, stunned, like I’ve been hit by a tornado, but I push it all down deep inside and stare

Margo, forget Jake. This is my life now and they owe

seem to care about the past, so neither should

and regain some of my reputation. This job should be easy; easier than facing Senior Carrero and handing out coffee like a mindless minion every day. This is exactly what I need, a new challenge and a new distraction. Time to get my complicated head back together and file everything into that little

capable of and

realizing it’s the end of the workday

I needed to

* * *

the door and my heart pounds through my chest wondering if Sarah made my mother leave, but something deep down tells me she hasn’t. I open the

home from her shift at work, Marcus is unlikely to cook so that means someone else is here. I stiffen as I walk in, glimpsing my mother leaning over the stove, her arm still in a cast. There’s a young brunette hovering by her side helping with whatever she

My mother’s cooking expertise stops at heating a can of soup.

the Carreros’.

couch I tense up, ready for this little altercation. They haven’t heard me come in, too busy making noise in the kitchen with bubbling pots and pointless chatter. My rage simmers at the sight of her in my home, taking over. I’m still reeling with the fact that she let Ray Vanquis

at all as both heads spin

as she comes out of the little kitchen toward me, her face still bearing some of the yellowing bruises from being beaten to a pulp by the so-called man in her life. She attempts to hug me but meets my icy stance and statue like posture. I flinch at her touch, so she quickly recoils to

a picture of confusion and embarrassment, at least she has the good grace to turn back to the stove and continue cooking, acting like she hasn’t seen anything.

whimpers like a child, causing my anger to flare again. That childish, wide-eyed expression of hers, the one I’ve seen a million times on her frail little innocent face, reserved for an audience. I turn away from her before I say

walk off, leaving her to stand in the center of the room like a lost puppy. I take satisfaction in the hurt evident on her face, maybe it’s about