Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

But I’m smiling against my cold root beer. When I can’t have cinnamon lattes or chai, I need a caffeinated soda, and root beer has the bite to wake me up.

When Roland chuckles, though, I side-eye him hard.

“Why do you need to be here, anyway? You’re the CEO. This is the kind of thing CTOs and maybe digital media managers worry about. You just delegate or read the reports, or write multimillion-dollar checks. It can’t be worth it when everyone here looks like they want to take you out on the front lawn and shoot you in the face.”

“Callie, darling,” he answers in an exaggerated drawl, “don’t you know that’s the point?”

I can’t help it.

I burst out laughing, trying to hide it against my cup and failing.

Roland settles into a languid, arrogant smile—somehow not as cold and scary as it used to be, I think. But still downright intimidating.

I used to see that razor edge in everything he did.

Now, his smile looks weary and self-deprecating, quiet and sardonically amused.

“It’s okay to laugh,” he growls. “Their ruffled feathers are laughable. Did you know that half the lawsuits Osprey Media gets don’t come from angry stars, but competitors? They try so hard to take us down on anti-competition clauses, claiming we illegally obtained information. All false. Tiresome. They manufacture claims and twist the law like pretzels. It’s incredible how hard they try to intimidate me and go after their little chilling effect.”

There it is.

That carnivorous smile, wide and showing the sharp edges of teeth that could pierce someone’s jugular in one nip.

“I’m here so they know I’m anything but chilled. They’ll never rattle me,” he snarls.

Dang.

I’m starting to think this man is having a warping effect on my moral compass.

Because I actually feel admiration.

I feel this violent pulse between my legs.

Honestly, I’m wet for this egomaniac with a legal death wish.

I look away before he catches me staring at him like some moon-faced intern with a juvenile crush.

Ugh.

This sucks. And it isn’t going to stop sucking anytime soon, is it?

Staring down at my cup, watching the little bubbles fizz, I turn that over in my mind and frown.

“...what about—you know—the Haydn thing? Isn’t wiretapping without consent illegal for journalists?” I ask, whispering in such a low murmur it vanishes under the crowd’s noise.

“Technically, per Illinois law, what we did was eavesdropping. Not wiretapping since we didn’t intercept an electronic communication,” he tells me smugly.

I lift my head and glare at him. The fact that he knows the difference so well says this wasn’t the first time he’s done it.

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, he silences me with a look.

“And yes, yes, Illinois is a two-party consent state. I know. A journalist can’t create an unauthorized record of any conversation they’re not privy to—however, they also can’t record a conversation they are privy to unless the other persons are aware and consenting. It’s actually a felony.” He cuts off my protest, lifting a finger. “Since I won’t be publishing that info, there’s no legal standing. Nor do I intend to use it as evidence in court.”

I blink.

I hadn’t realized just how worried I was about what Roland would do with that recording until the weight, the fear, just lifted off me.

“I don’t understand, bossman,” I say slowly. “If you can’t publish it and can’t use it as legal evidence...what was the point?”

“Information has other uses, Callie,” he clips, turning his head to look down at me, his midnight-blue eyes thoughtful, solemn, and darker than I’ve ever seen. Heavier. “I’m trying to open a particular door, and I just need the right words to unlock it.”

I shake my head.

“I don’t speak riddle, Roland.”

A faint, sad smile flits across his lips.

“It’s better if you don’t,” he whispers.

I don’t know what to say.

It’s like for the faintest moment, the mask of cocksure arrogance drops away, letting me see the real man underneath. Someone who wears the mask of a rich, tainted scoundrel, but who carries so many hurt secrets hidden deep inside.

I can’t look away from the rawness in his eyes.

I can’t resist falling deeper into his dusk-blue gaze and wondering so much what those eyes would look like if they burst into flames.

Does that pain come out in his love life with the supermodels he no doubt takes to bed?

Does he kiss like a hurt, brooding beast, throwing his flavor of the month against the nearest wall with a rake of stubble and a nip of teeth and—

I suck in a breath so suddenly I start coughing.

“Sorry,” I whimper, pounding my chest. “A little soda went down the wrong tube. I’m fine, I’m fine...”

Oops. So much for indulging taboo sexy thoughts quietly.

I’m mortified as he looks at me with concern.

He seems to catch himself, and that sad smile transforms into a smirk, his mask falling into place.