Breaking Up with My Boss

Imagine the devil’s cocky, sexy brother in a three-piece suit.

To say Mondays suck is the understatement of the century.

If there’s one person that can make me hate my very existence,

It’s Matthew Lewis III, Esquire.

He’s the kind of man that makes any sort of rational thought go right out the window—which is exactly what happened when I thought taking a golf club to his car was a good idea.

Did I mention this was after I ripped his prissy ass to shreds and marched out with my middle fingers in the air?

I’m a functioning adult, I swear.

But my victory was short-lived when he shows up at my apartment with an ultimatum.

Either face a felony for destroying his car or pretend for a few short months that I love him.

I just hope he’s ready to give me an Oscar for this performance because pretending to be head over heels for Mr. Prick-On-A-Stick without ending up with a second felony will be a miracle.

But everything changes the moment his wicked tongue takes us from the boardroom to the bedroom and I’m desperately holding on to the last shred of hate I have left for him.

You know how they say there’s a thin line between love and hate?

I think that line might have just disappeared.