Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

When she talks about her niece, it’s hard to imagine a tough bone in her body—or a switchblade waiting for my neck.

“Careful. You’re not so bad when you let your guard down, Reese,” I say.

“I believe you mean Miss Halle.” She raises the privacy screen.

Shit. Tough crowd.

I’m used to this, though.

Life as Nick Brandt means if you fuck up once, it’s seared into the fabric of history forever. The internet means people never forget.

Reese nearly got caught up in the whirlwind Carmen spun, along with me, and she’s not used to that.

She told me a few weeks after the hell-night that the real reason she hadn’t resigned was because she thought it would be too hard to find another job with a Google reputation assembled by Roland Osprey—if Osprey and his minions had successfully nailed her identity.

They didn’t.

He’s a motherfucker regardless.

I could march into his office this second and punch him in his lying face. It might even be worth getting locked up for assault.

Still, I don’t blame her for being pissed. But it’s been six frigging months.

How long can a firestarter like her carry a grudge?

When Ward was afraid to commit to Paige, I thought he was just being a little worm. I realize now it’s the Brandt curse.

Mistakes come easy to us. Fixing them when your entire life’s entertainment fodder, that’s harder. He’s lucky Paige handled it as well as she did.

I pull out my phone and start flipping through emails. The privacy screen is up, and she can’t see me. I wipe the worried look off my own reflection.

I’m not taking any chances with her finding me stewing in the back seat because she won’t talk to me.

She pulls up to the office without ever lowering the screen, thankfully.

My mind should be anywhere but Reese as I head inside to launch a brand-new company. But you already know it’s not.

Damn.

I think I’d give up all the Brandt Dreams if this porcupine of a woman would just give me a chance to make it right.

* * *

The meeting goes well.

My team has appointments galore with businesses and wealthy Chicago families to discuss interior design opportunities. I have no doubt we’ll be poaching clients left and right soon.

A business becomes legit when it becomes profitable. That’s when everyone feels accomplished, and nothing motivates people like success.

This is my bittersweet project. I don’t need Ward or even Grandma paving my way. I just wish I had a few crumbs of Ward’s newfound confidence in the future.

My phone pings as we’re wrapping up.

I open the new text message and instantly scowl.

Still taking your vow of silence, Mr. Brandt? If you’d ever like to comment on your...ahem, dirty little video, you know where to find me.

Human scum.

No matter how many times I tell him to fuck off, Roland Osprey never leaves me alone. He’s a scandal-chasing wolf with a taste for blood, and mine must be a favorite by now.

Unfortunately, I know how relentless he is. I also know exactly what video he means.

This is why I don’t share Ward’s confidence. He never fucked up enough to render his life beyond repair.

I have.

What I do today doesn’t matter, because everything I’ve done—every juvenile, drunken slip—will be carved in stone on glowing screens until I die.

There’s no redeeming me, even when I haven’t gotten properly sloshed in...has it really been almost nine months?

I wish it mattered. If I’d kicked my affair with the bottle sooner, I wouldn’t have a dragon breathing down my throat.

Why the fuck did I make a sex tape with a woman I can’t stand?

Better question, how the hell does Osprey know about it?

Carmen must’ve slipped and tipped him off somewhere. It’s the only explanation.

Muttering to myself, I pull up the message again and start punching a response. I’ve told you to lose my number. I’m reporting you for cyber-stalking.

My phone pings almost instantly. I swallow a groan.

I’m trying to help you out by giving you a chance to respond, Mr. Brandt. I’m a fair man and The Chicago Tea is a fairer publication than anything else you’ll find in this industry.

Liar. I wish I could snarl through the screen as I text back, Like hell you are. You’re bluffing. If you had the video, you would’ve already published it.

Gritting my teeth, I hope I’m not wrong, because it’ll be a world of hurt for everything Brandt if I am.

My phone pings again.

Roland: Perhaps. But you don’t know that for a fact, do you? For your sake, I hope you’ve made a lucky guess. Also, Miss Seraphina remains so moonstruck over you I’m not sure why you ever let her go.

Nick: She loves publicity, you dolt. Do a few vanity pieces and she’ll be eating out of your hand like a trained pigeon. Hell, she’ll probably date you.

Roland: I have better sense. I don’t mix business with pleasure, no matter how magnificent you’ve said Miss Seraphina’s ass is in past public statements.