Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

If anything, it only brings a lazy smile to his lips.

“Then dress like it,” he tells me.

I narrow my eyes, donning my defenses, and hoping I’m not redder than a Door County cherry.

“I’ll bite your face off one of these days. I promise.”

“Oh? And what color lipstick will you leave on what’s left of me then?”

I hate him, I hate him, and—oh, right—I. Hate. Him.

“Maybe I’ll tie you to that chair and change colors for each bite. You’ll die with a pretty rainbow painted on your stump,” I say.

“Shame.” He sighs. “My death will be worth it, I suppose, if I’m destined to become a work of art.”

“...God, you’re an idiot.”

But I’m smiling like a bigger one, painfully aware of how much space he takes up in this big room.

I glance back at him while I pile a few more things into my arms—and freeze.

He’s still watching me intently.

“What?” I ask harshly.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “It’s just the first time I’ve seen your bare face since the lounge in New Orleans.”

I scowl. “Well, sorry if I don’t always glam myself up to artificial perfection.”

“No,” he says softly. “That’s not what I was thinking at all, Miss Callie.”

Holy Ohio.

I try to swallow, but I can’t.

Not when my heart lunges up my throat and stays there like a cat in a tree.

I don’t know what to say back when his eyes are dueling flames, glowing with mischief.

So I don’t say anything at all.

I just turn and flee, escaping into the bathroom and accidentally slamming the door behind me.

Yikes.

You’d better believe I twist the lock for good measure.

It’s not that I don’t trust him.

It’s more like I’m trying to keep my own wayward thoughts in order, locking the door to shut them out of my head.

I dump my clothes on the counter, strip, and step into the shower, turning the heat on full blast.

I’m only in there for a few seconds before there’s a faint thump outside the door.

It’s easy imagining his weight settling against the wall next to it, while his voice calls through, thoughtful and slow.

“So you want to know about the tattoo?”

Yes.

No.

Maybe?

Those thorny symbols inked on his skin are a better place for my thoughts.

Far better than the fact that I’m naked and touching my own slick body while my annoying, handsome, deliriously sensual boss stands right outside the door.

“Um. Sure,” I barely squeak, shoving my face into a soaking wet shower pouf.

“My father practically strong-armed me into the Army when I turned eighteen. He believed in giving back to the country that gave us so much, no matter what we’d become. I was supposed to learn discipline. Somehow, I came out an Army Ranger.”

I lift my head, blinking the droplets off my lashes as I stare at the door.

What the what?

This monumental jackass had the strength, the maturity, the grit to be a flipping Ranger?

His faint laughter comes through, so close it’s like he’s whispering in my ear.

“I’ll be honest—Dad made the right choice. My Army stint was necessary. I’m sure you think I’m an unholy terror now, but as a boy I was a straight-up little fucker. A troublemaking brat. My father always intended to leave me Osprey Media, but not until Uncle Sam’s finest drill instructors beat some duty and responsibility into me...”

I flatten myself against the wall, holding my breath, too stunned to even giggle.

“Looks like it worked!” I call back. “You must be proud.”

“No room for pride in war,” he growls back. “Frankly, I don’t know how I was such a wretch from day one. Barrett was my exact opposite from birth. Sensitive. Kind. This lost dreamer, the family artist, always looking for home.”

Barrett?

I frown. I’m barely aware that I’m scrubbing my hair, caught by the sudden soft pain in his voice, so raw and honest.

If I didn’t know it was Roland Osprey outside, I’d think I was talking to someone else entirely.

“Barrett?” I venture carefully.

He doesn’t answer.

No movement. No sound. Not even a rasping breath.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says coldly after forever. “Do you want to stop for brunch before we hit the road, Miss Landry?”

There it is.

We’re back to Miss Landry.

That defensive wall I have no way of pushing past.

Nor do I have any right to push, I guess.

So even though I have ten thousand questions, even though I wonder about the brother who Dad also mentioned...I let it go, for his sake.

I don’t want to pick at his wounds.

I don’t want to care.

I hate that I think I’m starting to.

All I say is, “C’mon, Roland. We’re back to Miss Landry now? You’d gotten so comfortable calling me Callie.”

“Only because it made you uncomfortable,” he fires back—and if I’m not wrong, he sounds almost relieved for a chance to needle me. “I’ll switch it up to keep you off guard. It’s more fun for both of us that way.”