Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

She shakes her head, silky auburn hair wavering with disbelief.

“Why?”

“Why not?” I ask mildly. “Wouldn’t any sane person be interested in stopping a predator from using his power to hurt young women?”

“Anyone, sure. But that’s not—I mean...” She makes a flustered sound, clearing her throat and looking away, fiddling with the pretty blue silk ribbon tying the neck of her blouse closed. “Frankly, it’s not how I pegged you, Mr. Osprey.”

“You think you know me, Miss Landry. You do not.”

“...yeah. I’m starting to realize that.” With a faint smile, she flashes me a thoughtful, troubled glance. “But even if I might be wrong about a few things, I don’t think I’m wrong in saying you don’t want to be known.”

I snort, leaning back in my chair.

“Very astute. We’ll make an insightful reporter out of you yet.” It aches how right she is, but I can’t let her know. “So do you have any other questions about the job?”

She bites her strawberry lip while she thinks—a sinister distraction—her mouth so obscenely wet and plush and pleading. Then she shakes her head.

“I’ve got the basics down, I think. I’ll be doing my job, but I’ll be doing yours, too.”

“Correct. Also, the job I’m asking for isn’t too complicated. We aren’t stepping in to fix the world’s problems. I’m no Woodward or Bernstein. One girl. One man. The rest is at your discretion.” I lean forward and stare at her. “Your magazine is still yours. You report to me, and I’ll trust your judgment when it comes to covering the event from an artistic perspective. Leave the dirty part to me.”

I don’t have time to stop my awful innuendo.

“Oh, God,” she whispers before catching herself. Her mouth quirks as our eyes meet again. “Aren’t you worried I’ll like...produce something too puritanical for your taste?”

“Surprise me.” I arch a brow.

With a curt sniff, she tilts her head up, her eyes flashing with challenge and quiet laughter. “What if I decide, instead, that I want to write an expose on you? It seems only fair since you’re so obsessed with exposing everyone else’s ugly truths.”

“It would be a very bland expose, when so many have tried. I have no dead bodies in my closet or three a.m. drug runs.” I shrug. My secrets aren’t mine, and there’s little to tell about me personally. “Do your worst. Tell the story of a very rich, intensely dull businessman who only makes people furious and uncomfortable because he’s a little too good at a sordid job exposing equally sordid affairs. Dig as deep as you like. Scratch around for a whiff of my blood, Snoopy. You’ll find nothing.”

“Snoopy again! You’re still using that pathetic nickname, huh?” With a perk of her brows, she smirks.

“If the name fits...”

“I could take that as a challenge,” she throws back.

“You’d be disappointed if you did.” I swivel my chair around, idly toying with the handle of my mug, watching her intently. “Do you want to see me exposed that badly, Miss Landry? It isn’t even personal yet.”

Her eyes widen. Her smirk vanishes. She mumbles something, then stutters, “N-n-no, th-that’s not wh-wh-what—damn.”

She stops with a loud inhale of breath.

Pity.

The way she loses control of her words when she’s flustered is cute, even if it’s also a serious vulnerability she clearly hates.

She gathers her wits, taking a deep breath before she says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything inappropriate. I didn’t mean to get personal.”

“You didn’t. I did.” I have mercy on her and glance at the clock mounted on the wall rather pointedly. “Better hurry. You’ll be late for your next appointment.”

“Oh!”

She looks up and jumps to her feet, reaching over to gather her folder into her portfolio purse, setting her half-empty coffee mug down. The imprint of her glossy lipstick on the blue ceramic reaches through my eyes and stokes an unwanted fire in my veins.

“So,” I say slowly. “There really was a nine o’clock?”

Landry freezes, giving me one of those wide-eyed looks before turning away with a toss of her hair and a half-smile. She slings her bag to her shoulder on the way out.

“If I didn’t want to see you, Mr. Osprey,” she tosses back lightly, “I’d tell you so, instead of making excuses.”

Then she’s gone, her heels clicking, her skirt swaying playfully as she struts pridefully from the room. I hold in my smile until the door drifts shut in her wake, leaving me alone.

Damn.

It seems I was right.

My little mouse is definitely part wildcat today.

How the hell would she react if I pulled her tail?

* * *

It’s been a long day.

More lawsuits to field. Stories to vet. Contracts to sign. Contacts to pursue.

My office feels like a subway turnstile, people passing through in swarming cycles over and over again, the stream never-ending.

But it’s finally quiet.

Everyone’s gone home, leaving only me, the soft golden glow of the lamps, and the glittering Chicago nightscape looming out the window. I’m always the last one out of the office, the last one to go home, and the first one here the next morning.