Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

I’m still a hot mess when an email from him comes through around lunchtime. I make myself open it, wondering if he’s just messaging me to call the whole thing off.

To: Caroline Landry

From: Roland Osprey

Subject: This morning’s meeting.

I wanted to check in with you after the meeting and ask if you could put your editorial calendar up on SharePoint so I have access. Also, I should have warned you I’d be putting you on the spot so it wouldn’t catch you off guard.

My bad.

Everyone else is so used to the agenda I forgot this was your first time. I shouldn’t have taken you by surprise like that.

Roland

Dang.

What’s wrong with me? It’s definitely something when I shouldn’t have taken you by surprise sends my brain leaping to our lips crashing together.

There’s a trembling part of me that says yes—that’s exactly what this is, him insinuating that this one-time meeting tonight is off because he never should’ve slipped up and kissed me in the first place.

Callie.

Stop. Reading. Into. Crap.

Just handle this like work.

Maybe I really shouldn’t indulge anything with him. Because I’m afraid part of me will take it far too seriously, and then I’ll never be objective about working here again.

Part of me will fall too hard, too fast, too deep for my enigmatic boss, and it’ll probably end me.

Closing my eyes, I turn off my brain and tap out a response.

To: Roland Osprey

From: Caroline Landry

Subject: Re: This morning’s meeting.

Here’s the link to my calendar.

Don’t worry about this morning. I was a little off my game and I shouldn’t have been so inattentive. Normally I can adapt on the fly much better than what you saw, and I should have expected to be called on to speak. You don’t need to hold my hand, but I do appreciate you giving me a minute to collect myself.

Callie

As usual, his answer comes back in less than a minute. Does he ever put his tablet down?

To: Caroline Landry

From: Roland Osprey

Subject: Re: Re: This morning’s meeting.

Understood. I’m rather good at hand-holding. If there’s anything else I can do to accommodate you, just say so.

Roland

My face nearly goes up in smoke.

Dick.

He did that on purpose—I know he did—and I don’t think he just means hand-holding.

My own hands hover over the keyboard. I’m a human freeze-frame, stuck while the rest of my staff goes on without me, moving forward in time while I’m trapped in his present.

Jackass.

To: Roland Osprey

From: Caroline Landry

Subject: Re: Re: Re: This morning’s meeting.

Nope, I’m fine, thanks.

Callie

I push Send and slam my laptop shut before he responds and sucks me into provoking him like every last confused inch of me wants to.

I’m nervous. I’m scared. I’m thrilled. I’m anxious. I’m needy.

And once again, I wonder just how much of our fencing he’ll take out on me in bed if I truly give him the chance.

* * *

By the end of the day when I make it home, my nerves are shredded—and I think I’ve talked myself out of sleeping with Roland Osprey twenty times.

Right before my dirty fantasies talk me right back into it.

I know one thing. Arguing with myself is way more exhausting than arguing with my boss.

That’s almost enough to make a firm decision as I let myself into Dad’s place and pull my sore feet out of my heels. I’m just too worn out to get into something so emotionally fraught. Something I don’t think I’ll be able to detach from.

My thoughts fall away from Roland when I see Dad.

He’s knocked out cold on the sofa, sleeping peacefully, and without the dead stillness that says he’s drunk himself into a stupor.

Nope, he’s just resting, and my heart swells with relief.

He’s still pretty banged up, but he’s taking care of himself while he recovers—and hopefully not mixing liquor with pain pills.

I tug the crocheted throw off the back of the sofa and drape it over him, then leave a little note under a fridge magnet.

Hey, you. Don’t forget to eat. Doris puts too much work into cooking for you to let her grub go to waste. And if I don’t see at least two empty water bottles in the recycling by morning, you’re grounded, young man.

He’ll probably laugh when he drags himself in for dinner and reads it.

As I slip into my room, my smile vanishes.

I’m leaving him a note because I won’t be here when he wakes up.

With a conflicted moan, I bury my face in my hands and close my eyes, sinking down on my bed.

Why? Why can’t I get my head on straight?

I know it’s a terrible idea.

Sleeping with your boss never turns out well, and if it does, I think those are the one-in-a-million cases where girls wind up married to billionaire Prince Charmings. Nobody in Chicago could shut up about the real-life Cinderella slapstick romance between infamous curmudgeon Magnus Heron and his assistant-turned-wife.