Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Our eyes meet like stormfronts. She doesn’t look away, just purses those heart-shaped lips as she slowly opens her mouth to eject some fresh brimstone.

“You know what?” she asks softly.

“What?”

She picks up the card and holds it up to me. “Keep the card and give me the extra twenty dollars.”

“What?”

She shrugs. “You’re a billionaire. It’s your job to spend money, and you would have paid twenty dollars for an hour on the machine.”

“Fine, three twenty. Deal. Now, I’m getting drinks,” I say, amused by her obstinance even if I don’t let her see it.

Marching her in here was the best decision I’ve made all day. I’ve never had this much fun at a conference.

I go to the bar, buy a shot of brandy, and seal a collaboration with another firm in no time. I also set up a meeting with an ad firm looking for a new office design. Then I hit the bar again for a second shot, plus Reese’s soda.

When I return to our table, she’s sitting there holding her phone like a nineties kid with a Gameboy, working the keyboard with both thumbs.

I flop down beside her, holding out my hand.

“Here’s your drink. Well earned, Miss Halle,” I say, passing the Dr. Pepper over.

She doesn’t say anything for a minute. Her thumbs keep moving and her eyes don’t leave her phone, then she sets the phone on the table and smiles at me, sweet as pie.

“All done. Pay up.”

Smirking, I pull out my phone. “What’s your Venmo?”

“My cell number.”

I send the payment and leave a twenty-five percent tip.

“Sent,” I snap off.

Her phone dings a second later and she holds it up.

That bratty mouth falls open in a soft gasp before she catches herself. Not fast enough to stop the blood rushing to my cock.

“Oh, I—I see you’re a decent tipper. Who knew? Thanks, boss.”

“My pleasure.” I mean that too literally, clearing my throat as I say, “Thank you for playing secretary today.”

Those blue eyes roll in her head like marbles.

“Don’t expect it to happen again. This is a one-time deal, and you and Ward need a real EA. Did you close your deals?”

“One. I set up a meeting to close the other.” I hold my glass up, offering a salute I doubt she’ll take.

She pops the top on her soda and holds it up, clinking her can against my glass.

So maybe she doesn’t have a voodoo doll who looks just like me waiting at home.

She’s also right. This isn’t a normal CEO outing with his driver.

Then again, Reese Halle isn’t the usual stuffy old chauffeur who’s often actually male.

I’m not the average partner, either, and this combination could be lethal.

We’ve kindled more sparks today than any boss and their driver should, but I push the thought away.

“So, you said I should hire someone. Are you sure I shouldn’t just promote someone?” I ask.

Okay, fuck, maybe I haven’t completely pushed the thought away.

I want her around the office more.

I want her desk just a few feet away, where I can stop at it for meaningless chitchat whenever I damn well please.

I want her to banter me into a smoking crater.

I want that impossible kiss, that fuck hot, irresistible drink of this woman.

I even want the flaming bag of crap guaranteed to rain down on my head the second after a kiss that devastating ever happens.

Luckily for her, I’m not a complete maniac.

Let’s focus on the positive, the realistic. With no training and no experience, she’s done an excellent job here today and even managed to send the notes in record time.

“You won’t be promoting me. Being chained down in an office just isn’t right for me,” she tells me.

“You could handle it, if you want it enough.” I veer my gaze at the notebook she’s worked in all day.

“Yeah, I probably could, but I’d despise every minute. I hate desk jobs with the heat of a thousand suns,” she says, shaking a fist for emphasis.

“Are you going to spend your whole career on the road then?” I ask, suppressing a smile.

“Honestly, who cares?” she whispers more to herself than me, stands, and pushes her chair back in. “Are you about ready to go? I promised my niece I’d be over for dinner.”

Weird, but I won’t press her if she genuinely hates this crap. I follow her out of the ballroom.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

She looks at me and does a double take.

“You really want to know? Sure. I plan on dealing with everything on four wheels until I’m too old to be useful. I don’t know. I’ve heard older drivers say you get back problems from sitting so long. I may have to quit one day, or go for a cushier position, but until then? I’ll drive and pray self-driving cars never become a thing for the next forty years. It’s what I do.”