Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Ice water hits my nerves, breaking the weird spell Roland Osprey has over me.

I jerk back quickly, putting distance between us, my feet as clumsy as my stuttering tongue.

I can’t talk. My words are knots, anxiety turning every attempt to speak into a stop-and-start sputter.

Always the same malfunction ever since I was a little girl.

I can only stare at him helplessly.

All while I realize with flaring horror that I’ve been standing in full view of everyone, practically letting him press against me.

Way to make a first impression, Callie.

He watches me with his head cocked to one side, studying me with a detached curiosity before an arrogant smirk draws his lips to one side.

“I won’t accept your resignation. Don’t worry. I’d never ask you to do a thing that bends your journalistic integrity.”

The way he stresses journalistic makes me wonder if he could tempt me to bend my integrity in other ways.

I’m not finding out.

I hate the way he scrambles my emotions—angry, compelled, defiant, confused, even amused.

I hate him.

I want to tell him that.

But my mouth is frozen, and he glances away as I hear Wanda’s voice outside, murmuring something about his afternoon meeting. A change comes over him, his demeanor shifting and his posture straightening.

He adjusts his vest and then glances at me.

There’s something different about him now.

A withdrawal, the hunting hawk gone to the endless sky.

Now, there’s just a cool collected man in a gorgeous suit. As if the monster he let out to torment me got tugged back on its leash.

“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Landry,” he mutters. “We both have appointments to keep. I hope that with time, you and I will find some middle ground as we spend more quality time together.”

He strides past me then, a sweep of liquid motion. But he pauses just past me, turning a single cutting blue eye over his shoulder.

“Also, you should work on your art skills,” he growls. “The devil wouldn’t be caught dead with such tiny horns.”

I.

Oh my God.

I clutch my notepad to my chest, but it’s too late.

He’s already seen my grade-school doodles in the margins.

And he leaves me gawking, wide-eyed and wrecked, as he calmly walks away, vanishing from the room.

* * *

As I step out of my Uber on the sidewalk outside Dad’s townhouse, I idly wonder what would happen to Just Vibing if someone murdered Roland Osprey.

It could happen.

Google says he’s one of the most hated men in the whole muckraking industry—the subject of dozens of grudge lawsuits. Heck, there’s almost as much tabloid fodder about him as there is by him.

Though apparently, the stories aimed at him are never based on anything personal. Just so many rumors that slide off this man like phantoms.

I guess I’m lucky I’ve never encountered him until now.

Before, I was safe, inhabiting the upright side of journalism.

But now I have to work with him.

For him.

Blech.

And he’s already set the tone for this joke of a relationship by making my first day a disaster.

I still haven’t recovered from that anxious outburst that turned my tongue into wood, leaving me fumbling through meet-and-greets with my staff, an orientation meeting, a few calls with the printers and some freelance photographers.

I could hear myself in every interaction, faltering and weak, this mask of someone less competent than I really am making people think I’m timid, soft, tongue-tied.

A church mouse.

I’ll do better tomorrow.

Walk in there with a sunny smile and let everyone know they can believe in me.

For now, I just want to collapse into bed and sleep this nightmare off.

It’s not even my own bed. It’s a guest bed, but hey, at least I have my father for company while I find my footing at home in Chicago, and hopefully a place of my own.

But I don’t think I’m meant to see what I find when I let myself in and step through the tall, soft-lit foyer into the living room.

Doris, the housekeeper who stays on for a pittance—out of loyalty? Pity?—when Dad can hardly afford her anymore.

She’s on her knees, hastily gathering what must be dozens of crumpled beer cans off the floor into a trash bag.

We both freeze—me in the doorway, her on the floor, fingers clutched in the big black plastic garbage bag until it rustles in protest.

“Doris...?”

“Oh. Evening, Miss Callie.” She stands, dusting herself off and looking around with a desperate, shamefaced stare. “Terribly sorry about the mess. I haven’t had time to come in this week, and well...”

“No.” I shake my head, taking a step closer. “I mean, I was here this morning—just for a few minutes—but it wasn’t like this. Don’t apologize, just tell me...” I bite my lip. I’ve found my voice that Osprey stole, only now it hurts to speak for very different reasons. “He drank all of this today, didn’t he?”

Doris won’t look at me.