Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

I don’t dignify the teasing spark in her eyes.

We stomp up the metal stairs into the luxurious interior of my jet. Callie stops in front of me so abruptly that I barely avoid banging into her back.

Behind me, the attendants with our luggage do a quickstep to stop from bumping into me.

Callie stares, her eyes wide, locked on something in the cabin that renders her so speechless it makes me smile.

“Hol-y crap. This doesn’t even look like a plane...” she says, strained, and glances around. “It...it looks like a luxury hotel. Or a casino. Or something.”

My smirk blooms into a genuine smile.

And here I thought I’d tried to be subtle and tasteful with the design.

The main cabin doesn’t have the usual lines of double rows with an aisle cut down the center. Instead, comfortable leather seats—bolted to the floor for safety, of course—are arranged in intimate clusters around work areas, a small dining area, and small tables fixed in place that double as ottomans. She can’t even see the private sleeping area cordoned off by a curtain as velvety blue as the carpet.

Maybe the glossy oak liquor cabinet against one wall is a bit much. But when you spend eight figures per year on top of the nine you paid for a private jet, you’re allowed to be a bit much.

I didn’t buy this bird to impress anyone but myself.

Even so, I can’t help a little pride at her adorable confusion, her awestruck stance.

Callie tries to take it all in, rooted to the spot until I murmur, “I’m sure the other passengers would like to enjoy the flight, too. Surely stepping onto my plane didn’t render you boneless?”

Fuck my mouth.

As soon as it’s out, my mind instantly goes to far filthier ways I’d love to turn her into jelly.

Also, I regret sounding so harsh.

I can see the moment when shame flashes across her face.

I almost feel guilty. Like I’m depriving myself of her adorable sense of wonder.

With a muffled squeak, Callie stumbles forward, looking lost as she drifts to the center of the open space like she’s unsure where to sit.

I head for our usual group workspace. She glances up and slips a little closer to me while a few other staff come traipsing through the hatch behind the flight attendants. They’re so accustomed to the plane that they don’t even mute their rowdy conversations as they cluster around the worktable.

I start to join them—until Callie’s fingers snare my sleeve, stopping me in my tracks.

Consider my heart stopped, too.

What now?

I look down at her. She’s not looking at me.

Head bowed, face turned to the side.

Her voice is barely a whisper as she says, “...I thought it would just be us.”

Holy shit, I was wrong.

This woman isn’t just giving me an oral fixation I can’t shake to save my life.

She’s murdering me in slow motion.

I glance at my executive team and frown.

None of them have even glanced at Callie or acknowledged her, despite the friendly relationship she’d developed while shadowing them. To be fair, I didn’t hire them for their manners, but that’s pretty fucking rude.

I wonder if that’s what has her feeling shy.

I can’t let myself dare think that it might be because she wanted to be alone on this plane with me.

I also can’t keep up my aloofness when she looks so troubled.

After hesitating, I cover that hand plucking at my arm, resting my palm over the soft bundle of her fingers.

“It’s better if they learn hands-on without needing a secondhand briefing. Just like you. That’s why I brought all my best people,” I say. “Don’t think that just because you’re new here, you don’t belong, Callie.”

I look at her and instantly regret it.

Her pink tongue darts over her lush green lips.

Then she rips her hand away, her cheeks flushed, still avoiding my eyes.

“Thank you, Roland,” she murmurs.

A second later, she’s gone, darting over to one of the attendants. I watch her steal one of her smaller bags before it disappears into a luggage compartment. She tucks herself away in one of the more casual seating areas.

Alone.

I don’t have a good reason to call her over and make her part of the discussion, either.

I tear my eyes off her and join my team. We talk about the next print issue during takeoff and for most of the flight to Austin.

It’s not something that involves her, and it would probably make her feel more awkward and out of place to be shoehorned in, sitting here while people talk over her.

So I focus on work, only occasionally glancing up at her when I can’t help it.

I refrain from pointing out that the seat she’s chosen for herself is right next to the lounge chair I always claim during downtime.

She’s settled with a book, lost in her escape. Before long, she’s dozed off, her face peaceful, her tablet clutched against her chest like a stuffed animal.