Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

The Brandt brothers also warmed a billion hearts as a couple lucky ladies brought stone-faced Ward and his playboy brother Nick to their knees.

On the spectrum from billionaire players to bosses from hell, all three of those guys are up there, but they’re no Roland Osprey.

Not tortured like him.

Not a walking ambush of kindness.

Not more unpredictable than a man who makes an art out of hammering my heart to pieces without even trying.

Am I afraid?

Yes.

But am I scared witless of what might not happen if I stay home and miss this?

Very yes.

That soul-stealing kiss is easy to bury when we said we’ll never speak of it again—and by “easy,” I mean not-at-freaking-all. We’ve already proven we can’t just delete it from our heads like a bad dating match.

Sex?

S-e-x?

I think I’d need to be clubbed over the head to have a prayer of forgetting that.

It’ll change things, guaranteed.

I’ll slip up around the office in ways that scream holy-crap-she-slept-with-the-boss!

People will know, and there goes any hint of respect for my accomplishments when they’ll just decide I screwed my way into this job and any future promotions.

Sigh.

Plus, there’s a real risk Roland goes arctic once he gets what he wants. Then I’ll be extra miserable working for a tyrant in a pressed suit who used me and threw me out like tissue paper.

I can’t decide if it’s the bigger risk.

The other is that we’ll like it too much.

We’ll do it again and again and again.

It’ll start feeling like something more than it is, and after he gets sick of me getting in the way of his work and his Vance Haydn obsession, I’ll get a nice fat bite of heartbreak.

Yay, bad life decisions.

I have a rolling list of why this is a bad idea, why I can’t do this and still call myself a sane person.

And no matter how many I tick off in my mind, all of them pale against the hideous truth.

I want to.

I want that feeling, that risk, that shot to the heart that lit me up like Christmas when he kissed me to pieces.

I want to know how much more it can be. If those long hands of his are as wicked as they look, if that Army-honed body can make me scream until I can’t.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I’m turning into one of those girls who thinks with her clit, aren’t I? I definitely have a historic case of blue petals right now—the female analog of men’s blue balls.

I’m about to do something monumentally stupid with a destroyer of panties who leaves me shaking.

It’s like he knows I’m deliberating, curled up in this ball of confusion and desire, because my phone buzzes.

When I dig it out of my purse and swipe the screen, I already know what I’ll see.

A man like me isn’t used to being kept waiting, his text reads.

I narrow my eyes at the screen and punch back a reply. A man like you needs to get used to disappointment sometimes.

Roland: Will I be disappointed tonight, Caroline?

Such a heavy question.

I know what he’s asking.

Just like I know if I do walk away, he’ll still smile at me tomorrow and act like nothing happened. Maybe that’s the best outcome, preserving the friendly working relationship we’ve developed after a trial by bantery fire.

I could be absolutely fine in this job—we have a truce—and with time I’ll get over this crazy attraction.

But after a breathless hesitation I send, It depends on what you expect.

Roland: Nothing more than what you’re willing to give.

Awesome. That’s such a freaking Roland answer.

I roll my eyes and type.

And if I’m willing to give you a black eye for being such a smug, overconfident jagoff?

Roland: Some men consider that foreplay. Right down to the verbal abuse. Hit me, Miss Landry, and I’ll hit you all night. So fucking hard you’ll struggle to remember your own name come morning.

Holy mother of—

I bite back a snort of laughter. Prick.

Are you one of those guys? You know, hit it and quit it?

Roland: Let’s focus on the hit it part. Are you asking if I’m turned on right now?

I bite my lip, struggling to reply. Maybe.

Roland: A boy needs his secrets. Deep down, I suspect you enjoy them too.

I’ll admit it—I’m grinning right now.

Grinning like a keyed up, lovestruck fool.

Even with this heated question hanging over our heads, he masters my emotions effortlessly.

He always knows how to make me laugh, how to make me relax, how to curl my toes.

I thought he was dead serious at first, incapable of humor beyond that cynical, biting sarcasm.

That was before I knew him.

Before I assessed his self-deprecating wit and saw the subtle way he puts people at ease with a tongue that can be smoother than silk or barbed like a cactus.

Crap.

I so don’t need to be thinking about his tongue right now. I send him another message.