Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

She was wrong.

Because her smile starts out triumphant—as if to say, See? You can’t scare me, I’m here and ready to rumble—but the moment her eyes land on me, her smile fades and I’m locked on her mid-stare.

Every softening of that lush mouth. I can’t help myself.

Caroline Landry has decided I’m her mortal enemy.

Fine. In any war, I learn my opponent.

Which means etching every detail into my brain here.

I hide a carnivorous smile behind my steepled fingers.

This shouldn’t be so entertaining and frustrating simultaneously. I stand, offering the seat opposite me with a sweep of my arm.

“Good morning, Miss Landry. Are you a coffee drinker?”

There’s a pointed thump of the door sliding shut.

Wanda. A reminder to behave with this girl my EA probably thinks I want to destroy. Really, she should know me better by now.

I’m not out to destroy Miss Landry.

I’m simply making our work interactions a little more interesting.

Callie jumps at that thump, tossing a wide-eyed look over her shoulder before she clears her throat and looks at me with an obviously forced smile. Her slim hands hold the strap of the large brown leather bag tucked under one arm. It’s a flat thing big enough to hold a small portfolio—practically a staple for fashion-forward, work-focused women in this industry.

She’s come prepared.

For the job, at least, if not for me.

She hardly seems ready to say a single word, her lips sealed before she manages to part them to speak.

“I’ve already had two cups, but I wouldn’t mind a third,” she says coldly.

“A better poison than some in our industry choose.” I don’t miss her flinch when I say our. I’m polite enough to ignore it as I tip the delicate, insulated crystal carafe over the two glazed blue pottery mugs set out for us.

By sheer coincidence the mugs match her color accents.

Interesting.

“Please, sit,” I tell her. “I’d hate to make you late for your nine o’clock.”

There’s a glimmer in her eye that makes me wonder if there was ever a real nine a.m. meeting.

Or did she just want to signal that she wouldn’t flee in terror the instant I snapped my fingers?

She settles neatly in the chair, smoothing her skirt and crossing her legs, the lift of her thigh making the pleats drape.

Fuck, it’s enough to offer tantalizing glimpses beneath that skirt, heated promises unfulfilled.

Swallowing a snarl, I set the carafe down and lift the lid on the sugar tin with a questioning look. She shakes her head and raises a hand.

“Black, please.”

“Suit yourself.” I shrug, nudging one mug toward her.

Then I begin my usual coffee ritual—heaping spoonfuls of sugar into mine—which I’d deliberately filled only two-thirds with coffee to leave ample room.

Landry stares, frozen with a hand on her mug.

Her eyes are nailed to me for the next thirty seconds.

Yes, I’m fucking shameless.

“Um, how much...sugar are you planning to put in there?” she asks softly.

“Never enough. The cup can only hold so much and still be considered coffee.” I ladle in another overflowing spoon, then stir the thick mixture briskly. “It’s a dark roasted Colombian. The flavor’s quite strong. It needs sweetness to offset it.”

“Really? It sounds more like you want a coffee-flavored sugar lick. I’ll pass.” She remembers to move, breaking from her stunned pose to press her bitter brew to those delectable lips. “What did you need to see me for, anyway? Do I really need the grand tour?”

“Need, maybe not. However...” I sink down in my chair, holding the mug between my interlaced fingers, its heat soaking my palms. “You’re the type who prefers to be hands-on. Proactive. Which is why I suspect you came armed with data, fully intending to head me off at the pass.” I nod at her bag. “Show me what you’ve brought.”

She goes pale.

I suppose I’ve just ruined her little plan to get the drop on me. Blowing me out of the water with her cunning surprises. That sort of predictable thing.

I’m starting to enjoy the startled looks on her face, though.

The way her cheeks flush cherry-red with anger, bringing out the soft paleness of her skin.

The way her lashes tremble, fanning dark around those fog-grey eyes.

The way her sin of a mouth tightens like I’ve touched a finger to the corner of her lips, drawing them into a tart pink mound.

Yeah, I think I’ll have to make startling Miss Landry a habit.

The church mouse recovers quickly enough, swallowing and setting her jaw as she fidgets with her bag.

I’m right.

Not only is it large enough to carry a portfolio, it is a portfolio.

When she folds it open across her thighs, it reveals fanning compartments. Landry fishes out a sheaf of printouts so fresh the ink is still damp, wrinkling the paper over her bar graphs and pie charts, all neatly clipped together.

“What’s this?” I ask with some amusement.

“Breakfast,” she answers. “You must thrive on more than pure sugar...”