Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

That includes practicing silly breathing exercises that help get my stutter under control.

No, I don’t care if that little hint of Louisiana accent slips out now and then. It’s the stutter that spells disaster if it gets off its leash.

It’s like a lawnmower run amok, and if I can’t rein it in, I end up running.

I have to remember I’m representing not just Just Vibing, but all of Osprey Media tonight. It’s practically my red-carpet debut.

Yeah, I can’t screw this up.

A reminder of just how high the stakes are comes buzzing through my phone, making me jump.

God.

It’s like he can sense my nerves with that freaky instinct even from miles away.

Roland: Were you planning to go shopping anytime soon? I’ll remind you the wardrobe for the event is covered in your expense budget, Miss Landry. And time is running short.

I scowl at the phone, tracing my fingers over the screen. How do you know I haven’t already bought a dress?

Roland: Perhaps I’m watching you for a change, Snoopy.

Ha, I answer. That would be more like stalking. And harassment. I read the entire corporate handbook, cover to cover.

His answer comes back almost immediately.

Roland: You have a boring taste in literature. Is it still stalking if watching people is my job?

I stare at the screen.

Boss dude, I’m not a celebrity. You have no good reason to watch me.

Roland: Don’t I?

I swallow something dense and hard in my throat.

...I’m not quite sure what to even make of that.

Is he really looking over my shoulder with a minion or something?

Instinctively, I glance over my shoulder, toward the window of my office.

I’m on the sixth floor, and unless he’s got cameras here I don’t know about, there’s no way he could be creeping around stalking me.

I’m just being paranoid, anyway.

It’s probably his weird sense of humor that’s as ridiculous as the rest of him.

I hate it. I also hate trying not to blush, wondering why he would even joke about watching me at all.

I start to tap out a smartass answer, but he fires first, making my phone vibrate against my palm.

Roland: Be home by 6 p.m. Wanda will bring you a stylist.

My jaw drops.

“No freaking way. I don’t need a—!”

I realize I’d started to yelp out loud and sigh. Groaning, I let myself fall, thudding my forehead against the desk before I reply.

You are such a control freak, Osprey.

Roland: I’m protecting my brand and my people, Miss Landry. That includes you. I may be a freak of nature, but perhaps a different sort of freak than you imagine.

I bite back a startled sound, eyeing the phone, my ears burning.

I know.

I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me like the raving lunatic he is. He wants to scandalize me. Drag me down to his earthworm level.

And I’m not going to dignify that innuendo with a response.

Instead, I spend the rest of the day focused on work—reviewing team assignments with the three staff members I’ve selected to accompany me to the big event since I can’t cover the entire room on my own.

I’ve got Janelle DuBois covering the Black music scene, Sasha Owen handling the teen heartthrob stars, and our staff photographer, Nathan Erwin, already fired up about getting to photograph some of his, as he called them, “Spotify faves.”

Everyone’s embracing the shift in focus without complaint, excited to try something new and different. By the time we break for the day, I feel like I can trust them.

We’ve struck up a good rapport. They came up with awesome ideas for a series of one-shot interview questions where every artist they speak to only gets to answer one important thing—making for punchy, engaging, and most importantly tweetable coverage.

Roland’s going to eat his hat when he sees the traffic I’ll bring in.

...actually, I’ve never understood that saying.

Eating a hat?

But Osprey might if it’s caked in pure cane sugar.

I suppress a small giggle when I think about how he built an entire hill of sugar in his cup. His taste in coffee is clearly as wretched as his taste for everything else.

But I’m diverted from my thoughts when my phone alarm sounds. It’s five fifteen, and I’ve got forty-five minutes to get home in Chicago traffic.

Hopping to meet his demands now, huh?

I ignore that little voice in the back of my mind and dash to the elevator, frantically summoning an Uber. It’s waiting for me by the time I step into the lobby and hit the sidewalk, and I fling myself inside, settling breathlessly into the back seat.

While I’m stuck waiting, I can’t help sending another text to Roland.

Should I worry about what you’re planning to put me in?

There’s a delay before he answers. I imagine him at his desk, looking up from whatever hellish hit piece he’s working on approving with that little pinch of concentration between his devil’s brows.