Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

“Are you all right, Callie?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Flushing, I clear my throat and smile. Awesome. First day on the job, and I’m already zoning out on my kinda boss. “I’m sorry. Everyone’s so keyed up about the deal, I guess the energy’s just getting to me. You were talking about financials?”

“Yes. Well, really, both are part and parcel of the same thing, aren’t they?” She dimples prettily. From the moment I met her in our first interview, she made me think of Miranda Priestly if she was an actual decent person who knew how to smile. “Because the financials are why we needed our buyer so desperately. We simply don’t have the capital to make the big push into modern upgrades needed to survive in the digital market, and honestly, we don’t have the skillset, either. I’ve brought in a top team of young people with their fingers on the pulse of new web content, but I also wanted someone more seasoned who could take the strategic helm.” She actually blushes then, for all the world like a glittery-eyed girl as she leans across my desk like she’s sharing a secret. “That’s where he comes in.”

I blink.

“He? Care to give me a hint who you mean?” I prop my chin in my hand, toying with a pen in the other, tapping the end against my desk in a steady drum line rhythm from one of my dad’s old songs. “I guess I don’t get what’s with all the secrecy? The NDA?”

“Oh, that. That was his idea. He’s got a bit of a reputation, you see, and he didn’t want any major scandals touching our publication. So he spun off a shell company for the acquisition.” She smiles. “If you’d like to see him in the flesh, he should be arriving to meet the staff right about now.”

Standing, Matilda smooths her dress over her still-youthful frame, fluffs her hair, then beckons me with a little wink.

Okay.

She’s got me curious.

And as the new editorial head, I can’t skip out on meeting this new honcho anyway.

I stand, adjusting my less impressive but capable grey pencil skirt, and follow her from my office after snagging a notepad and pencil from the untouched stack on my brand-new desk.

The main floor’s already emptied out, and I catch the last trail of people disappearing into the conference room.

My first time using it, and I won’t even be at the helm, though as I settle into my role this will be my domain. I take it in as I find a seat to Matilda’s left.

It’s a long room full of light from rows of windows with several large presentation screens against the farthest wall. A glossy dark oak conference table with comfortably spaced leather seating completes the space.

There’s a little thrill as I imagine holding meetings here. Discussing content. Bringing in artists, managers, and reps from labels for a little chat over hors d’oeuvres.

Okay. I’m letting fantasy run away from me a little...

But I’ve worked hard for this role, dammit.

I’m allowed to be giddy that I get to spend my life reporting on the music I love, right?

If only I knew how short-lived the buzz would be.

Because as I settle into my seat, the door to the conference room swings open again. A severe-looking older woman steps inside, someone who looks like she could be Matilda’s spinster schoolteacher twin.

The entire room falls silent, the chatter dying down to a faint rustle.

“Good morning,” the woman says curtly. “Mr. Roland Osprey has arrived. I believe you’re expecting us.”

Osprey?

...Mr. Who the What Now?

Face, meet desk.

It’s a giant miracle I don’t fall right out of my seat.

Did I hear her right? Am I dreaming? Is this real life?

Osprey.

Hol-y crap.

I tried not to think about him after that bizarre confrontation in the first class lounge.

Tried to forget it ever happened.

Struggled to ignore the sense of creeping dread that screamed he wasn’t done with me yet, and somehow he might just whisper in the right ears to get me fired out of sheer spite.

Refused to give in to my insatiable curiosity and Google him to find out what bridges I’d burned, when I didn’t want to know and risk triggering a panic attack.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last twenty-four hours thinking very hard about not thinking about Mr. Osprey at all.

So the last thing I expect is for him to be the one who bought Just Vibing, our angel investor in a black vest.

He strides into the room like he owns the place.

This time, he does.

An evil peacock of a man, all dark swagger and grace.

Still carrying himself with the same regal air as in the airport. Still dressed impeccably in slacks, a tailored shirt, and a tie that looks like it was steel-cut into its press.

He’s as sleek as a shining sword, but hardly as slim. His sprawling height and wide shoulders make the narrow taper of his waist even more dramatic.