Office Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses, #1)

by Nicole Snow

“So this means I’m fired?” I ask numbly. Her eyes widen in a Goodness, no! kind of way. For a flimsy second, I think this day might not sink into the tar pit it’s heading for. “Let go,” she whispers, as if that softens the blow. “Mr. Tillis prefers the phrase right-sizing.”

You’ve got to love whatever evil genius came up with comically brutal corporate speak like right-sizing.

The cheekbones, the brow, the dusting of a well-trimmed beard all hint at an inner wildness tucked behind his hell no to any and all nonsense expression.

I glance down, desperate for an excuse to break eye contact. And halfway afraid I’m in the middle of a terrible wardrobe malfunction I’m clueless about. Nope. Sweater dress still intact. Heart still beating. Panties still safely concealed where they should be... I think?

With a snort, I dig my heels—okay, heel—into the ground. If looks could kill, there’d be a smoking crater right where his smug, rude, devilishly fine figure used to be.

“This is public property. I’m not going anywhere,” I snap, giving him my best defiant face. “My mom says you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know. Maybe you should try it.” His eyebrow quirks up. “As cute as clichè Midwestern sayings are, there’s a marketing campaign happening here with a very tight schedule, and you’re stealing our light.” Oh, their light. I’d forgotten. How do you steal sunlight, anyway? Is he so rich he thinks he owns the sun? Arrogance and entitlement go together like chocolate and peanut butter with this dude.

“I propose a trade. Your cats I’ve kindly rescued from blowing away for my camera space.” He smiles, and not in a friendly way. “Are you a cartoonist? A cat-toonist, maybe?” I fight back an eyeroll so intense it’ll probably land me in the ER.

Funny thing is, I probably would’ve moved in a heartbeat, with no problem, if he just asked me nicely. But he picked the wrong day to dick with my pride, and now I’m on a mission. This bench is mine until I say it’s not.

“Uh, did you just growl at me?” I blink, trying not to snicker.

I push the Sweeter Grind cup to my mouth and chug the remaining delicious liquid, as much as I can hold in my mouth. Then I lean forward, look down, aim, and spray cinnamon-colored coffee all over his expensive Italian shoes. So much for savoring the flavor. It kinda sucks that I spent nearly ten bucks on this unexpected date with Chicago Satan.

I smile up at the arrogant jackass with my latte still dripping off his shoes, slowly standing up. “The space is all yours, pal. I’m done with my coffee now.”

I swallow a chuckle and shake my head. The day’s taken a strange turn. I can’t help being curious about the hellcat who might’ve used her claws like she threatened, rather than that cinnamon dreck pungent enough to strip paint.

Apparently, Miss Llama Spit works in advertising. Her work speaks for itself. Hard to believe she’s developed the same defense mechanism as a shaggy camel if she’s ever called an office home.

Yes, I’m a jackass. Guilty as charged. No wonder she was pissed enough to become a cinnamon coffee sprinkler.

“Where do you see yourself in five years, Miss Bristol?” she asks. “Still thankful I survived today,” I say. Oops. Wrong answer.

Meanwhile, Sabrina Bristol glares at me like she’s holding an invisible cigarette she’d love to stab out on my forehead.

This kid will never know what I’m doing for him, but that’s the whole point.

Innocence is a hard feat around this man. Aside from being an absolute jackass, he’s—okay, he’s divine. Undeniably delicious.

The worst part is, in spite of his arrogance, I’d relish peeling that dark suit off his body. Or maybe I’d just like to hang off him the way his jacket does. Either way.

If I were a more horrible man, I’d pull her closer, take her over my knee, hike up that dress and— No. I’m not letting myself do this shit. Fantasizing about a new hire who turns my blood bullfighter red.

Desperate to make a woman you can never have smile like she doesn’t want to shank you in the throat.

“She looks like hell. The warnings are there. She’s already twice as miserable as your other assistants looked right before they quit. Quit, you doofus! Do you hear me? At this rate, I doubt she lasts a month.” “Nonsense. She’s doing just fine. Better than most EAs ever have. You’re being ridiculous, Ruby, stirring up drama over—” “Watch your step with that bullshit. If you had a male HR manager, would you call him a drama queen for raising concerns about talent retention? You know every single one of your past EAs weren’t all problem children, right? It’s statistically impossible, even if you are King Asshole.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” “Oh my God. Is that some line they teach pretty boys at prep school?”

Fireman’s Pregnant Tinkerbell? He must’ve seen my Amazon search. Oh, great.

Keep talking, boss. I need you distracted. I need me distracted. I need distractions galore before you notice my eyes undressing you.

“Jesus. You need to be nice,” I scold him. “It’s bad enough when you talk to us like that, but at least you pay us for the privilege. She doesn’t make enough to put up with your shit.”

“You know what they say about large hands?” he whispers, interrupting evil thoughts. “Huh?” My face heats. “No, what?” “All the better to handle large hoses,” he rumbles.

A body made for sin hidden behind her modest dresses and sleek fall sweaters, strawberry lips my teeth ache to claim, an ass too perfect for my hands, and—how could I forget?—those bottomless cocoa-brown eyes.

Damn her. I know she’ll be my personal apocalypse, and that dress may have been a bad decision. I’ve set myself up for a dagger to the face.

I love the little wrinkle of concern on her face that kindles into a smile fit for the Valley of the Sun.

She’s so different from any girl I’ve ever dated—curious, grateful, ready to soak in life without expecting everything to be handed to her. Hit the brakes. I’m not dating her. She’s my employee.

When your family’s as marvelously fucked up as mine, the only shockers are bad ones.

Same.

And before I know what the hell I’m doing, my hand reaches for her face. She gasps as our skin makes contact. My fingers lift her chin, my thumb traces her jaw, and this strange, unspeakable spark flashes through both of us. Heat lightning.

She’s an angel cast in rusted light and shadows that contrast far too brilliantly with her mahogany hair and a smile that could rob a man blind.

For a second, I wish this grip on her was about more than preventing a broken neck. She trembles at my touch, supple curves and rippling hair, my own raging desire personified in one stubborn, gorgeous, and right now far too vulnerable young woman.

This woman will end me, and I’ll die smiling at her beauty. Perfect sunsets aside, there’s something else I can’t save. The narrow gap between us closes. Her eyes go wide, all anticipation, an energy whipping through her. My tongue flicks across her bottom lip. She opens her mouth. This time her sigh is longer, higher pitched. So much for a prayer of holding back.

He kissed my face off. He kissed me like a cyclone. He kissed me freaking blind, deaf, and senseless. Then he told me to never speak of it again.

He kissed me in a way no one ever has, leaving me a puddle of confusion and clashing feels, and then the prick pretended it never happened.

Cat art and superstitions are just a few of my favorite things. Merry Christmas, Miss Bristol.

“The business that involves you fused to me, ruling you with my hands, my mouth, and every last burning inch I’ve got. Mark my words, Sabrina, you’ll come so hard for me you can’t walk,” he growls, lightning in his eyes, tracing a finger down my back until I shudder. Oh, God.

I want to take it further. I want her so bad I could split myself open and let her see the real me, not the snarling savage of a boss she already knows.

She intrigues me in a way no woman ever has. I knew it the second she baptized my shoes in cinnamon latte.

“If you’re checking out my package, it’s nicer to say hello first,” I tell her.

My lips are so full of his that there’s no chance to scream. Just shake. Just breathe and whimper and dig my nails into his back as he pumps into me, turning me into an exhausted mess.

“One fine day, I’ll take you where I want to most,” I tell her. “Oh? And where might that be?” Her curious little smile slays me. “My desk. I might have to see if the insurance policy covers total loss by hurricane-force fuckery, but...” She bursts out laughing, silencing my insanity with more sticky kisses.

A furious sting like a pissed-off murder hornet bathes my jaw in fire before I can even figure out what the hell is going on. I just got fucking slapped by my own HR Director. It’s official. I’ve lost control of this ship and my life.

“You’re making it really, really hard not to slap you again. No fortune in the world is worth your attitude. You’re so ridiculous you can’t be honest with yourself.