Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

“...you’ll never know,” she says with a nervous giggle.

Another big mistake, pushing her like this.

The playful taunting in her voice drives me crazy in all the wrong ways. If she weren’t an employee, I’d be hearing that laugh after hours. I’d convince her she needs a drink tonight, followed by a nightcap of my infamous charm, sans every scrap of clothing hiding her sweetness.

“I’ve enjoyed your company today,” I say.

She’s quiet for a moment before she says, “Likewise, Mr. Brandt.”

At first, I think it’s all she’s going to say.

Then she clears her throat. “I know a lot more about you after today too...”

“Like?”

“Like you’re more than just a billionaire bad boy who makes a lot of headlines. You’re not so bad, I guess. Behind the hot rake cut—”

“Hold up, Halle. Did you say ‘rake’ cut?”

She giggles, redness splashed across her cheeks.

“My bad. Abby made me binge-watch Downton Abbey. Point is, I know you’re not what they say you are now. Behind the muscle, the good looks, and work hard, play hard attitude...there’s a sharp mind and a beating heart. Honestly, I wasn’t sure at first, but now...it’s nice knowing the real you, bossman.”

Snorting, I shake my head. “I could get stuck on the fact that you find it so hard to believe I’m not a vodka-blooded numbskull, but I’d rather focus on everything else you said. Tell me about the looks,” I growl, stabbing my gaze at her.

Those soft red cheeks glow like cherries.

“...I didn’t say anything else.”

“You said I’m a hot billionaire playboy with hair that drives you wild. There are worse things to be.”

She glares into the rearview mirror. “I did not! I said you had good looks, which five billion people would find pretty obvious.”

I nod. “Good to know you approve of my hairstyle personally, Miss Halle.”

She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks look like they might start a reactor meltdown in this car.

“I do not approve of your hairstyle, Mr. Brandt. It’s the current cover cut, that’s all.”

“Cover cut?”

She groans. “The in-kind that’s on the cover of all the magazines right now. I’m sure it’s no accident you have that cut.”

I touch the back of my hair and beam at her.

“I’ve worn my hair like this since I was twelve years old. Grandma will happily prove it with old photos. What you mean is, I’m a trendsetter, and I think you like the OG more than all the copycats.”

Those blue eyes almost roll right out of her head. She’s redder, shifting in her seat, so mortified she might keel over.

“Reese?”

“Yes?” Her eyes flick back at mine nervously, probably terrified we’re almost on a first name basis.

“You’ve seen me on my best behavior—”

“And your worst.”

I nod. “I want to promise that since you’ve seen me on my best behavior—the real me, just like you said—I won’t let you down again.”

“Really?”

“Really. Unless teasing you isn’t good behavior, in which case you’re shit out of luck.”

She snickers. “As long as I never have to lug a shirtless client around again after he’s drunk...”

“Absolutely not.”

“And you won’t get in my car missing your shirt?” Her eyes narrow at me in.

Someone honks at us. Typical Chicago nice.

“Shouldn’t you be watching the road?” I say. “Don’t worry. You’ll never see an inch of skin below my neck again.”

“Thank you,” she says, a hint of disappointment in her voice. “I promise you I won’t send my sister pictures of your ass anymore.”

I perk up, breaking into a shit-eating smile.

“My ass? You really did?”

“Who knows?”

“You do. And apparently, so does your sister.”

“I’m not telling, and she’s not a narc so...let’s just keep the mystery, okay?”

I push out an exaggerated sigh. “Damn. If I’m going to be on my best behavior, I’m going to require yours as well.”

“My what?”

God. What have I got myself into?

“Your best,” I repeat. “Give me that and I’ll never ask for more.”

“I’d never give you less,” she says firmly.

“Reese?”

Again, her eyes look panicked. She clears her throat.

“I prefer Miss Halle. How about we keep it that way? It’s weird if the other Mr. Brandt keeps calling me that and you don’t...”

Whatever. Weird is Ward’s middle name.

Is she freezing me out again? Already? Have I pushed her too far?

Before I can test any boundaries, she pulls up to my penthouse.

“Thanks for the ride. As always.” I open the door, about to step out of the car.

“Wait. Nick?”

“Shouldn’t that be Mr. Brandt?” I whip around and stare at her.

“Right, right, right. Sorry.” Her playful tone is gone.

Immediately, I regret my words.

“What’s up?”

“I’ll be on my best behavior. No more frigid conversations unless you’re being a total ass. And, um, no more Snaps of your ass—”

“Ah-ha. You admit it,” I growl.

She shrugs, fireball-red blood returning to her cheeks.

“Reese?” Again, her name slips out. That one word proves how overly comfortable I’m being. “Miss Halle,” I correct sternly.