Coldhearted Boss

by R.S. Grey

He doesn’t smile with interest like most guys would when he notices my unabashed perusal. Instead, he raises one dark brow as if to say, Almost done? and I realize I was wrong before. This one’s not the prince in the fairytale. He’s the dragon.

This isn’t a man you use for a night. This is a man you turn your life upside down to be with, one you crawl on hands and knees to please, one who touches you once and brands your soul forever.

I’ve survived two nights sleeping in the same cabin as him. HIM—I really need to learn his name, but to do that I’d have to talk to him. So, Him is never getting a name. Sorry Him.

It seems, even if I don’t know the names of 99% of the crew here, they all know mine. It’s not shocking. I’m the only one with boobs.

My disguise has proven to be terrible. I’m like Hilary Duff wearing that tiny mask in A Cinderella Story, acting like no one could possibly recognize her. Spoiler: we know it’s you, Hilary. Your mask is one inch wide.

you were a flirt.” That’s the problem with guys like Max. He soaks up attention like a sponge and doles out smiles and love to any and everyone, not at all discerning about who the recipients are. It’s a good character trait, don’t get me wrong—no one has a bad word to say about Max—but I’m just not sure I could date someone like him. I’d rather be one in a million than one of a million.

I’m glad she left when she did because otherwise, she’d see me right now, touching the flowers she picked with utter bewilderment, like I’ve never seen flowers before in my entire life. Because, the thing is, deep down, I’m not at all mad that she moved back into the cabin. I’ve wanted her here with me since the beginning. It’s why I had them assign bunkhouses in the first place.

I trust that she’s here for the right reasons, that deep down she’s not malicious or cruel. She’s a fighter. A survivor. Someone I’ve actually come to admire.

We’ve been needling each other because we both secretly like it, because the button-pushing banter and teasing remarks are the only ways we’ve allowed ourselves to reveal our true feelings.

“I’m fucking exhausted, so no more games. No more pretending I don’t love the way you look in this red bathing suit. No more pretending I don’t hunt for you every time you enter a room. No more pretending your wit and smart mouth aren’t the perfect match for mine.”

His possessive gaze eats me up from head to toe as if he’s saying, Those legs belong to me, so why are you standing all the way over there?

I want to provide for her and protect her and cherish her, and she wants none of it.

It’s a kiss that says, You can be mad at me all you want, but we’re still in this together.