Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

But she’s not another woman, Roland, a syrupy voice whispers in my head. She’s your employee.

Damn, that’s right.

As an employee, she’s derelict in her duties.

By the time lunch passes, I’ve refrained from sending yet another text or email—but the question of where the hell is she lingers.

It digs at my brain even after the day’s wound down and my floor empties out, leaving that familiar quiet that tells me I am, as always, the last one here. Alone in this building, sealed in my office, reviewing the docket for next week’s publication.

There’s an old record player on a polished wooden shelf lining my office. To fill the silence while I wrap up, I slip a perfectly preserved Peggy Lee vinyl out of its cover and set it gently in place, easing the needle onto the shining black disc.

Slow music pours out, sassy notes and winding, sad thumps of bassline melody. Miss Peggy lilts in her heartstrung voice about when she was a little girl and her house caught fire.

It’s a song about how even the big things don’t seem so big, so insurmountable, up close.

Everything you lose is just material, in the end...and what does that matter? Just as long as the dancing goes on.

Except it matters a whole hell of a lot.

What I lost wasn’t purely material.

Up close, my big things, my catastrophes, have no easy answers.

They’re so fucking giant I can’t see the sky.

I grip the edge of the shelf, closing my eyes, letting the music soothe the fiery knot in my gut.

I’m not expecting a second voice to join in, throaty and soft and drifting from the doorway.

“Is that all there is?” she whispers.

An odd weight pinches my chest—a seizure, a prickle, a shock.

It’s like some dark thing inside me opens its eyes and sees light for the first time in ages, and that unexpected brightness hurts.

Holy shit.

I clamp down my emotions before I turn to face her.

Caroline Landry leans in my open doorway, her shoulder propped against the frame like a blessing waiting for the sin of my kiss.

Damn her for showing up when I least expect it.

Damn her again for giving me forbidden thoughts.

Today she’s all trim curves in a black dress with a pink leather belt, pink wrist bangles, her mouth a magenta candy begging to be sucked and owned.

The shit I’d do to that mouth if I had half a chance—it scares me.

Her eyes are framed in cats-eye fuchsia, her pumps the same glossy pink as her belt.

Then there’s her hair—entirely too fistable. A black ribbon bundles it up, her high ponytail fanning out over her shoulders in cinnamon strands.

She cocks her head, looking at me through thoughtful eyes before this bashful redness hits her cheeks.

“At least you have good taste in music, if nothing else...”

For the first time in a long time, I’m speechless.

There’s just something in this moment, that rolling ghost voice pouring over us, the solitude around us heavy with something more than the absence of other people.

I need it to stop right now.

Quickly, I lift the needle off the record player, silencing it without a scratch before I turn back to settle at my desk.

“Two choices, Snoopy. We can keep quarreling over my other tastes that are none of your business, or you can tell me why the hell you’ve been ignoring my messages all day,” I say coldly.

“I thought we were playing spy games?” She pushes away from the door, letting it drift shut behind her. Her steps are slow and too loud, swaying, almost playful. Her mouth looks riper the closer she gets, devilish amusement glittering in grey eyes. “And doesn’t the first rule of corporate espionage say you never put your secrets down on paper?”

My eyes dagger her. “That’s why you haven’t bothered responding? You’re worried about leaving a paper trail?”

“Nope.” Her playful air disappears with a sigh, and she sits—brazen as you please—on the edge of my desk, crossing her legs. Her skirt skims down the sides of her thighs and her toes point at my crotch like they just know. “There was trouble with the printers. It caused a massive issue with a short run special issue hitting the local market tomorrow.” The stress in her voice is clear, the trouble, the exhaustion.

I almost feel bad as I glare at her.

Almost.

She looks beyond me to the city view through my window, her eyes unfocused.

“And?” I snap.

“And I’ve been way too busy in crisis mode all day to even think about talking to you, your highness. Sorry, boss.” As usual, she flings out that last word like a curse.

Goddamn.

An acceptable reason, sure. Only, I’ve been so irritated all day I’m not ready to relent.

“You could have asked for help anytime,” I point out. “I could’ve sorted out a simple printing matter with a single call.”

“Yeah, but I’m a big girl and I didn’t want your help, Osprey.” She laces her fingers over her knee and smiles at me, weary but wistful and sweet, her eyes bright. “I wanted to do my job, so I did. It’s fine, the magazine’s fine, and we’re fine. We’ll hit print on time.”