Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Her eyes widen, swirling like quicksilver.

“No,” that gorgeous mouth says, rounding into a plush strawberry. “I’m not shadowing here anymore, so you don’t have to see me at all. Remember?”

I do, and it makes me want to hoist her up, fling her against the wall, and take that mouth like there’s no tomorrow.

Knowing she’s leaving.

Knowing I won’t have a good excuse to torture myself with the sight of that mouth every day.

On the other hand, I am the damned boss.

“I still need to work with you as a member of my executive team,” I point out. “That means one video conference per week, possibly three or four. The occasional round table meeting. You haven’t banished the devil entirely, Callie Landry, so hang on to your exorcism kit.”

I think we realize just how close I am at the same time.

I feel her breath on my cheek, filtering through my stubble.

So hot, enticing me, making my blood molten—especially when her lashes lower, their dark fan a shield, hiding her from my hungry eyes.

“Do I need holy water?” she teases softly. “A magic circle?”

“Planning to cast your spell on me?”

“Wh-what?” There it is—that stutter, breaking past her confident shell. She darts me a look, wetting her lips with her tongue until they gleam. “I-I’m not p-planning on d-doing anything except reminding y-you of...of your own office p-policies.”

Fuck, she blushes so cherry-red it brands my eyes. It makes the rest of her skin that much paler by contrast.

She doesn’t need to consult a spell book.

I’m already enchanted.

I’m the one who needs to banish her from my addled brain.

“Do you always stutter around your employers?” I ask softly. “Or is that just for me?”

“Huh?” She swallows. Her eyes close, but I can see them darting back and forth in rhythm beneath her lids. She’s counting, I think. All the way to ten before she opens her eyes again and flashes me a wry smile. “I’ve always had a stutter. I just learned to control it with speech therapy so kids would stop picking on me in school. It only comes out when I’m nervous.”

I cock my head.

That heat inside me cools as I take her in, the way she looks at me like I’ve rattled her and she’s apologizing for existing.

Bullshit.

She should be proud that she pushes herself to the brink, always striving to do better, to be better.

I pull back with a small smile.

“I usually save intimidation for my worst enemies. It’s not a reaction I want from you.” I don’t dare dwell on what reaction I want from her, so I toss my head at the door. “Go whip those numbers. I expect consistent performance, not just a flash in the pan.”

Callie rolls her eyes with an exasperated yet amused sound.

“Oh, God. You really are insufferable.”

“I’m aware. And you,” I point out, “are blocking the door.”

She blinks, turns, and lets out a breathy squeak.

There’s my mouse again.

Clearing her throat, she straightens and pushes away from the door.

“Whatever, Roland. Thanks for the briefing. It was extremely informative,” she spits sarcastically. “I’ll let you know if Easterly reaches out again. I made it clear the invitation was open.”

The next thing I know, she’s fleeing onto the main floor, speed walking to the elevator without looking back. I’m left leaning in the doorway, watching her hips work.

Callie Landry really is something, and I don’t just mean that delectable ass.

So why can’t I confront what I want her to be to me?

11

Living The Blues (Callie)

I hope Roland Osprey is fond of scalding neon purple. Cerulean blue. Lime green.

Because I promise you he’ll be seeing an electric rainbow soon.

That asshat. That jerkwad. That grumpasaurus prick.

Ooh.

He makes me so mad. It’s definitely bad when I’m making up new ways to insult him, each word more grade school than the last.

But doesn’t he deserve it for taking up so much headspace?

He’s still on my mind now, days after that meeting left me flustered and confused and wondering just what the hell I was doing.

God, what am I doing right now?

Giving the stink eye to the entire Manic Panic and Nyx lipstick collections in this drugstore’s cosmetics aisle, apparently.

Putting way too much energy into unearthing new shades that will make his head pop off.

There’s no denying how he looks at me, this blue flame in his eyes that could shame the brightest stars.

There’s also no ignoring how that heat melts me like a candle.

So maybe I don’t have to see him every day anymore. Cause for celebration.

But this sick part of me wants to torment him every time we hop on Zoom for so much as a five-minute meeting.

Purely to get back at him, of course.

For what, I don’t even know.

Look. I don’t know why I’m so peeved. Why I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at my mouth like a gourmet strawberry the other day...