Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

He wants me to help him drag a shirtless drunken man to his hotel room?

I stare at him with an open mouth, mentally tallying all the ways I don’t get paid enough for this, even with an awesome salary.

Nick shrugs, staring me down with this grumpy expression.

“I get it, it’s not part of the job description. I’ll remember this when the time comes for quarterly bonuses. Impress me, get paid, and we can get drinks on me,” he says matter-of-factly.

Yikes.

Yeah, no way is that happening. Not for any bonus. I do have principles.

I also don’t drink with my boss, especially now that I’ve seen what happens when he drinks.

But he’s waiting.

Giving me the sternest look ever as a shiver finally rolls through me.

“Idiot,” I mouth quietly before climbing out of the car.

The bulky coat surrounds me like a cloak, hiding me and keeping me warm.

Thank God. Right now, I don’t want this dumbass to figure out I’m a woman, and I appreciate the extra cloth between me and Man Boobs.

Nick hooks one of Jorge’s arms over his own shoulder. I do the same, and together my shirtless boss and I drag his equally naked client through a fine hotel lobby, up an elevator, and down a hall to his room.

“Jorge? Where’s your key card?” the boss asks.

Jorge leans against the wall and doesn’t answer, grunting and batting his eyes.

Lovely.

“Do you have your key?” he asks again, his voice steady and surprisingly calm.

He’s way too patient. I’m ready to slap this guy if he doesn’t move his butt in the next three seconds. Then again, Nick’s about to make a bazillion bucks off the big man, and I’m not.

Jorge says something but his speech is so slurred neither of us understand him.

“What?” Nick asks.

“Svbackic. Pocket.”

“Huh?”

“Pocket!” Jorge snaps.

Nick might be a patient drunk, but Jorge isn’t.

His eyes connect to mine.

I shake my head. This is where I draw the line. No freaking way am I reaching into a strange man’s pants pocket to pull out his room key.

“I’ll give you a raise,” Nick bites off. “Do it.”

I shake my head. Lines have been drawn and I’m not crossing them.

“Damn,” he mutters. “Which pocket? Jorge?”

“Svbackic.”

“What?”

“B-b-back.”

Nick sticks his hand into the back pocket closest to him and rummages around.

“Not that one.” He reaches over, slides his hand into Jorge’s other back pocket, and his eyes light up. He pulls out a sleek white plastic card.

A second later, he waves it in front of the card reader. We both shuffle-haul Jorge inside and tumble him down on a California king bed.

“Our work here’s done,” Nick says, dusting off his hands.

I swallow a groan.

The worst part is how casual he is. Like he’s used to this sort of thing.

If this is a regular night at Brandt Ideas, I wonder what I’ve signed up for. Because we’ve already dragged this guy through a hotel, to his room, and my boss had to frisk him for the key.

I’m still marinating in the client’s club-sweat.

Yeah. I’m officially not sure how much more I can take.

Taking an hour-long shower the second I get home excites me more than any fat paycheck.

A chill rolls down my spine when I imagine how late it’ll be after I scrub myself clean.

“Halle, you okay?” Nick snaps, shifting into no-nonsense mode. A hint of concern flashes in his eyes.

I sink my chin down into the coat, pull my cap down, and nod, following him out the door.

“Some days we really earn our pay, right?” he mutters, stabbing at the elevator button once we’re inside.

Whatever you think, dude. I hang back, not even wanting to share oxygen with this prick.

I need this night to end.

The steel doors ding open, and we march through the lobby.

I try to forget I’m wasting my night away with a gorgeous bare-chested man who happens to be my boss, and who still thinks I’m a man.

I’ve gotta love the confidence boost. It’s always been my dream to play mistaken identity. That’s why I run my butt off every day, wear makeup, get my hair done.

All so this self-absorbed maniac can cut me down every time he cracks a terrible man joke or calls me by my last name like I’m just another guy.

I cross my arms in front of my chest as we head outside.

“You okay?” he asks again.

I’d be a lot better if you quit asking. Somehow, that doesn’t seem like an appropriate line for your boss, but God, do I really want to chuck it at his head.

Ninety thousand dollars.

Ninety. Thousand. Dollars.

That’s what I’m going to be chanting in an asylum with my arms pinned to my sides if I don’t get home soon.

We finally make it to the shiny black town car, waiting loyally on the curb right where I left it.

“Is this yours?” the doorman asks.

I nod.

“You’re lucky. You already have a parking ticket. We were just about to have it towed.”