Mid-Thirties Slightly Hot Mess Female Seeking Billionaire (Single and Sassy in the city Book 2)

Sarah

Dear Diary,

Ethan Rosser of Rosser International is a jerk. Yes, he is my boss and signs my paycheck, but he sucks. And yes, I would say that to his face.

Maybe.

Okay, not really.

Unless I won the lottery and a good couple of million.

Which is unlikely to happen anytime soon because I don’t play the lottery.

Anyway, that’s not important.

Today, I had the opportunity to go on an all-expenses paid trip to the Bahamas with fifty other members of the company staff for some new recruitment videos and brochures. HR came into our part of the building with the Kingpin himself. He looked around briefly and said, ‘Nope, no one from copywriting.’

I was standing right at the front. And sure, I didn’t look like a million dollars. But he could have at least made eye contact. But he didn’t even notice me. It was like I was a piece of wallpaper on the wall. Invisible.

I can’t stand that man.

That is all for now.

Plain Jane aka Sarah

Ethan Rosser is the sort of six-foot-two man with dark golden-blond hair and dazzling blue eyes that I love to hate. Add on the millions, if not billions, of dollars in his bank account and that know-it-all smirk, and you, too, will not be able to stand him. I’m willing to bet money on it. Unless, of course, handsome, sexy men with oodles of money turn you on.

Don’t feel bad if they do. If he wasn’t my arrogant boss, I may be a tiny bit interested myself.

‘Look at you, feeling all handsome and proud of yourself.’ I stick my tongue out at the black-and-white image down below. An image I’m sure many other women are staring at in that moment, as well.

My fingers feel heavy as I hold the morning newspaper in my hands and continue to stare at his photo, gazing up at me. It’s the only time the man has made eye contact with me. And it’s not even real eye contact.

I shouldn’t care.

I don’t care.

Yes, he’s my boss.

Technically.

I don’t actually work directly under him, as he owns the entire company.

Nepo baby.

I try not to feel guilty about my diss as my eyes peruse the article. While it is true that Rosser International is a family company started by Ethan’s grandfather, Frederick Rosser, it was somewhat run into the ground by Frederick’s son—Ethan’s dad—Richard. It wasn’t until golden boy Ethan took over that it soared to new heights. So, maybe, technically, he’s not a nepo baby, but I don’t care. It’s still family money.

That I don’t have. And likely never will.

Dad would laugh if I asked him to front me some of my inheritance money to take a sabbatical from work and spend time dedicated to my songwriting. Maybe I’d even summon up enough courage to play some gigs at local bars. There’s a chance I could be discovered and signed to a label, or at the very least, hired for my songwriting skills.

However, there is no inheritance money, so that is a pipe dream. Honestly, I don’t even mind that I come from a working-class family because my parents are the absolute best. They shower me with love, and while money would have been great, as well, there’s not much to go around in our family. While we didn’t have fancy clothes or toys, there was always food on the table and laughter in the room. Lots and lots of laughter.

I’m the youngest of seven. And the only girl. I’ve been the butt of many jokes, but I’m immune to them now. I give as good as I get. You learn to toughen up real quick when you’re the youngest.

It also helps that I’ve been doted on my entire life. Not that that means anything, because being doted on also means I have six older brothers that love to constantly tease me and basically cockblock me at every turn. Wait, can women be cockblocked? If not, you know what I mean.

My eyes finally move from Ethan’s photo to peruse the article again. This time, I read out loud, which is something I do to mask the silence in my home. I’m either talking out loud to my dog, playing music loudly, or I have the TV on in the background. Sound is important to me. It’s weird that even though I live in New York City, one of the most populated cities in the world, I often still feel lonely. But I suspect that has more to do with living alone.Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

“Handsome playboy and billionaire CEO, Ethan Rosser, is once again named New York’s Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year. The devastatingly charming head of Rosser International is known for his intellect, humor, and business savvy. While much is known about Ethan’s business life, his personal life remains behind closed doors. Often seen with a beautiful woman on his arm, Ethan has no worries getting a first date, he just doesn’t seem to want to go on a second one. Will the man on the top of our list ever settle down or is he destined to drive the women of Manhattan crazy forever?’

I alternate between wanting to laugh and roll my eyes as I pause. What a joke. No wonder the man thinks he’s God’s gift to womankind when editors write pieces like this.

‘Idiot,’ I mutter as I fling the newspaper to the ground and get off of my cognac-tan leather couch that is one of the loves of my life. It is the most expensive piece of furniture I own and the most comfortable. I spent my entire first paycheck from Rosser International on this couch, and I don’t regret it. I truly believe in treating yourself right. Plus, my last couch gave me a backache.

I half expect my dog, Johnson, to run over and grab the paper, but he’s fast asleep in his bed. I head over to the small kitchen on the other side of the room and open the mint green retro fridge my family bought me when my fridge failed, and my landlord didn’t want to replace it. I love my fridge; it makes me smile every time I see it. Not just because of how cool it looks but because it reminds me of how much I’m loved. When my brothers delivered the fridge, they threatened to beat up my slumlord, but a couple of beers convinced them otherwise.

I survey the contents of my fridge, debating between closing the door, walking away, or eating. I’m not super hungry, and I know I probably shouldn’t eat, but food is a way to make myself happy. I know the technical name for what I am about to do is emotional eating, and I should likely go to a support group and find my Mike in the best Mike and Molly way, but I’m not going to.

I glare at the wilting green and brown celery and previously cut dry carrot sticks I’d made myself buy at the grocery store and then at the chunk of brie cheese. The crispy seven-dollar baguette on my countertop is begging me to grab the cheese, go to town, and eat all of my feelings. I even got a small jar of Nutella for when I finish the cheese, to feast on the last part of the crusty bread with. My mouth waters thinking of the chocolatey goodness. I have a weakness for anything and everything sweet.

‘Go for the celery, Sarah.’ I try to amp myself up as my inner devil laughs in my face. ‘Yummy, yummy celery.’ I’m trying hard to convince myself as I grab the waning vegetable reluctantly. It’s limp in my hand and reminds me of one of my ex-boyfriends, who shall not be named. He was always limp unless he watched porn. I stare at the celery and giggle, but then I let out a sigh as regret hangs over me. I haven’t even eaten it yet, but I’m already disappointed in the choice. No one wants to eat a limp di—piece of celery.

‘You will never be skinny if you don’t make the right choices, Sarah.’ I continue lecturing myself, but it’s half-hearted, and I already know I’ll put it back in the fridge. I should dump it in the trash, but I know I’m going to lie to myself and pretend I’ll eat it tomorrow. ‘Think of the bunny rabbits,’ I mumble as I place the celery back down in the fridge and push it to the back. I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I’m not going to question myself.

‘You deserve this.’ My greedy fingers find a tub of Belgian chocolate pudding and grab a hold of it. ‘This is better than eating bread,’ I convince myself. The cheese and baguette can wait. Only chocolate can help to calm my nerves right now. ‘Stupid, Ethan Rosser, this is your fault,’ I say as I grab a spoon from my cutlery drawer, head toward the couch, and turn the TV on. I flick through the latest movies and TV shows on Netflix, Hulu, Peacock, Paramount Plus, Britbox, and Acorn, and let out a long sigh as nothing catches my attention.

Why am I paying for so many subscription services yet still have nothing to watch? I look away from the screen, and my body dances in joy as I take my first bite of the smooth, silky, and delicious pudding. For a few moments, I just enjoy the perfection that is this dessert and the immediate sugar high that hits me. My fingers flicker through my watching options again, and I settle on an old season of Project Runway that I’ve never seen before. I take a few more bites, settle back into my five throw pillows, and make myself comfortable.

Sometimes, it’s not so bad being single and alone. I can eat what I want. Watch what I want. Wear what I want. And I can lie on the couch, scratching my stomach lazily without feeling self-conscious.

A life I’m sure women who date Ethan Rosser certainly do not have.

I think I need a makeover. And when I say think, I mean, I know. The beautiful models and trendy designers on Project Runway have convinced me of that fact. I know I shouldn’t compare myself to people on TV, but how can you not? Especially when you look down at your ugly black sweatpants and bright pink ‘I’m hot, and you’re not’ top. I don’t wear the top out because I don’t want someone to laugh and call me a liar.

I pause the TV and stroll over to the mirror in my bedroom. I gaze back at my reflection, ignoring the smearing of chocolate on the top of my lip, emphasizing the mustache that is the bane of my existence. I get it waxed every week, but I swear it’s becoming more and more obvious that it exists.

I grab my long, dark brown hair and try to style it. It sits flat and appears dull and lackluster. I know I need to get a cut, though I haven’t bothered because it is almost permanently in a bun. I pull it up, tie a hairband around, and lean forward so I can examine my skin. I haven’t had any acne in years, which is great, but I feel like I don’t have any sort of glow. I hold back another sigh and stare into my eyes. My black horn-rimmed glasses make me look like Harry Potter’s older, nerdy sister. Much older sister. Maybe even his spinster aunt. I suddenly remember the events of three days ago when I was in a store that shall not be named (cough, rhymes with castles) and the grumpy cashier who offered me a senior citizen discount.

‘Excuse me, what?’ I sputtered in bemused shock that later turned to anger. ‘I’m thirty-four.’

The grumpy cashier glared at me like I was lying, while I glared back at her, waiting for her to apologize. Which she didn’t do.

‘I’m not seventy-four,’ I stated, waiting for her to cut me off and laugh and say she was joking.

Her deadpan face just stared back at me.

‘Or however old you have to be to get the discount. I haven’t checked yet, as I’m not even close to being that age,’ I continued to a disbelieving cashier. Okay, so that was a bit of a lie. I did know how old you needed to be to get the discount. Fifty-five in some places. Sixty-five in others.

But I digress. That wasn’t important.

Instead of apologizing, the lady, who had no relation to an animal that goes moo, asked me if I was paying by cash or card. I covered the fifty-two dollars with my American Express card and prayed I wouldn’t see decline before I left the store. Thankfully, it went through.

I try to dismiss the memory from my brain as I rub my forehead and straighten my shoulders. I could be beautiful if I tried a little harder. That’s what all my idiot and too-honest brothers say. As they laugh and smirk. Jackasses. I know they love and support me, but I don’t need their feedback on my looks. It’s because of the fact that I have six older brothers that I’m a bit of a tomboy. And I never really learned how to apply makeup, wear sexy clothes or flirt well.

I walk over to my closet and open the door to see if I can find an amazing outfit to wear to work the next day. I’m not trying to garner the attention of anyone specific, but I would like to look good enough to be included in a company brochure. I would like to not be as dull as wallpaper. However, as I look at my drab and tired pieces of clothing, I understand why I haven’t drawn the eyes of Ethan or any other hotties.

My clothes have seen better days, as well. But it’s not like I have money to go out and buy a brand-new wardrobe. My savings account is an unhealthy three thousand five hundred dollars. Granted, my 401k looks a bit better than that, but I can hardly see HR or the government cutting me a break if I say I’d like to loan myself five grand to buy some new clothes. It would more than likely make me get audited, and the last thing I need is for the IRS to know that the twenty-five dollars I listed as an office lunch expense on my last tax return was really a me-bitching-about-my-boss event with my two besties, Isabel and Ella, at a local bar.

No, I would just have to make do with the clothes I already own. No matter how dated they make me feel. It’s not like I have anyone to impress, anyway.