Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

I’ve never seen him this pissed off, this ready to dismember someone.

I get it. I don’t belong here—certainly not in the middle of this dog fight—but it’s a little hard to ignore the bimbo jab.

Before I can step in and defend myself, Nick stabs a finger at her.

“Knock it off. She’s no skank and we broke up a long time ago. People move on. Why can’t you? The only thing humiliating tonight is how you’re acting,” he snarls.

Oh, crapballs.

I recognize her now. She’s even more otherworldly in person, without all the layers of makeup and digital filters.

Carmen Seraphina.

She starred in like a dozen slapstick teen cheerleader movies when I was a kid, before moving into more serious roles. She’s been all over numerous gossip blogs, usually linked to Nick.

She’s the one they call Brandt’s Dream Lover.

Seductress. Scandal. Sex cupcake. His destiny.

Oh, crud.

Hot tears sting my eyes, but I won’t cry. Not here.

It doesn’t even make sense. It was pretend for one night, one measly chance to get my feelings hurt for no good reason.

Too bad I understand why I’m here now, and it hurts.

I’m bait.

To make Nick’s “girlfriend” or Dream Lover or whatever-the-hell-she-is jealous.

But why would Carmen Seraphina—the woman who has it all, including millions of followers who worship her and her own fashion line—be jealous of a short stack brunette driver with no past and a bland future?

If he thought it would work, not only is he a jackass, but he’s stupid.

Then again...she’s closing the distance between them, isn’t she?

And when she slaps him again on his other cheek, and the whole room gasps, there’s no denying the murderous jealousy blazing in her eyes.

“Come on, you prick. The same old song and dance? Again?” She turns her nose up in disgust. “We always break up, and we always get back together. We belong together, Nick. You know that. One of these days, you’re going to stop playing your stupid games and accept it. We’re going to live in West Hollywood with a big family, big smiles, no big assholes chasing us, and...and happily ever after.”

Nick looks like he could knock down a redwood with his bare hands. His face twists like a grimace when he opens his mouth.

“You’re drunk, Carmen,” he growls in a tone that’s barely human. “Go home.”

“I am not! Fuck you! You just don’t want to admit you’re playing me. Who is this whore, anyhow? You know she’ll be everywhere tomorrow, so you’d might as well tell me. I’d rather hear it from you,” she screams, jabbing a finger at his chest.

I’m going to vomit.

I blink again, surveying the room, looking for an exit.

When I find one, I start shrinking into the crowd, taking lunging steps as they part for me. I’m not going to keep it together much longer.

Then a strong, warm hand surrounds mine, pulling me with practiced control. If only it weren’t attached to a man who’ll never be comforting again.

I look up to see Nick has moved around her, caught up to me, and has my hand.

He leads me away, shepherding me like a secret service agent guarding the First Lady.

“Sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. She’s a tornado. Destructive and dramatic. Let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t want you dragged into this,” he whispers.

I bite my tongue—hard—and wait until we’re out of the crowded room to respond.

“Not to be a smartass, but it’s way late for that. I’m smack-dab in the middle of...I don’t even know.” I throw my head back and look at the black sky.

The stars that were coming out earlier are drowned now by dense Lake Michigan clouds.

I should’ve known this would happen.

This is Nick Brandt. A tactical drama bomb. Tonight must be par for the course with a man who lives to make headlines, whether or not he’s trying.

I was stupid to ever agree to this.

“I knew there was something wrong with this. I shouldn’t have come,” I say, my voice a broken whisper.

The cool night stings my bare arms, my cleavage. I’ve never felt more naked, more vulnerable.

Hugging my shoulders, I avert my eyes.

I wish he’d just disappear. Fuck off. But of course he does the opposite.

The towering idiot takes off his blazer and drapes it around me.

God.

I want to hurl it back in his face. I want him to know I need nothing from him. But it’s too stinking cold to care about making a point, or even a well-deserved grand gesture.

“This was a m-m-mistake,” I whisper through chattering teeth.

“Why?” I hate how he sounds genuinely confused.

Where do I begin?

Because orphans don’t go to billionaire’s balls, and drivers don’t fake-date big shot bosses. They definitely don’t hold up well when screaming rich ex-girlfriends come in swinging. There’ll probably be a price on my head before sunrise.

“Y-you know why.” Stupid teeth. Stupid chattering.

Stupid man.

Nick waves the valet over. “Get the Brandt town car. Now.”