Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Not me.

My engagement, right now, is very much at one hundred percent. And there’s something growing like a magic fucking beanstalk, all right.

This woman scrambles my head, and I’m not even sure she realizes it.

I blame myself.

This is what happens after living like a monk for decades, so obsessed with work and justice that I barely bothered with a few anonymous liaisons here and there to let off steam. Even those flings became less frequent as my public profile—and my reputation—exploded.

I have iron control, but I’m still a man.

A man whose self-imposed repression returns to bite him in the fucking ass like a great white shark right now.

I can’t imagine the look on my face—and there must be a look.

Because when Callie’s eyes rake over the room, she falters the moment she sees me.

Her cheeks bloom scarlet, and she stops mid-stride, that sexy little strut of hers slipping and her voice cutting off.

Her lips part, but several seconds pass before she continues. “Well. A-as I was s-s-saying, we c-can...”

Dammit, I know that stutter.

I’m making her nervous with my eyes like loaded pistols.

Time to stop watching like I want to devour her—and that shouldn’t be so hard.

Get a damned grip, Osprey.

Taking a deep breath, I shove everything rioting inside me down and offer her a small, confidence-boosting smile.

Ignore me, for the love of God, I try to beam into her head. Keep going. You’re doing great.

She meets my eyes again, hers dark and heavy, before she answers my smile with her own. It’s faint and thoughtful and it seems to steady her.

I can almost see her counting, using the trick that helps tame her tongue.

She lifts her chin and continues. “We can use SEO for more than just keyword stuffing. With the latest tracker we’ve implemented at Just Vibing, we can pull more detailed reports that tell us what our readers are searching for, along with who’s filling that need if it isn’t us—and then make sure it is.”

There we go. There’s my girl, I mouth, stopping on the last word.

My girl? Wishful thinking.

She’s not my anything.

That doesn’t quash the pride I feel in her anyway.

She’s a woman after my own heart, always sideswiping obstacles and rising to new challenges.

Always wrestling with her inner demons—even if hers are puppies compared to the bloodthirsty wolves inside me.

The rest of the meeting goes smoothly. I’m more present after that tacit reminder that my failure to let go doesn’t just affect me.

I was distracting her, making her uncomfortable. That glaring fact may be what I need to help me put this aside and move the hell on.

Still, there’s something in the air when the meeting ends.

Everyone files toward the door except for Callie.

She remains seated, flipping through a binder marked with rainbow-colored Post-it tabs, scanning over notes.

Yet, her eyes won’t quite focus; her posture stays tense, and I realize what’s happening.

She’s stalling.

Frowning, I push my chair back, rising and crossing to the door. I close it after the last man exits, then turn to her with a frown.

“What’s wrong?” I demand.

She bites her lower lip.

I’m instantly riveted, though the nervous air around her pushes my fuckery back, keeping my rampaging hormones at bay.

“I...well...” Callie makes a frustrated sound, then sighs, lifting her head and looking at me with those clear stone-grey eyes so open, so vulnerable. “Are you mad at me, Roland?”

I recoil a little.

“Mad? Why the hell would I be?”

“I don’t know.” She fidgets with the rings in her binder, clicking them open and shut. “It’s just the way you were glaring, I guess.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I thought we were handling this pretty well until then.”

This.

Such a vague word for our dirty little secret.

This insanity we should never mention, and that makes me feel like I’m shouting it from the rooftops every second I look at her.

“Callie,” I say softly, settling on the edge of the conference table a few seats away from her. “I wasn’t glaring. I was—”

I stop, pressing my lips together, looking away.

I can’t say more.

We had a deal, dammit.

Also, I don’t want to ruin this other 'thing' between us that I might call friendship.

“Never mind,” I finish.

Then a light, warm hand falls on my knee, turning me to stone.

“Please,” she pleads quietly. “If something’s wrong, tell me. I don’t want any weirdness or tension making work harder for either of us.”

Fucking hell.

I curse my own stupidity seven ways from Sunday.

What happened to that perfectly impenetrable suit of armor Barry wrote a song about?

Why am I so naked with her? Why can’t I hide what I want around this girl when my mask never faltered before?

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Implying you did?” She shakes her head slightly with a small confused sound.

I am not a creature of impulse.

Still, it’s like I have no self-control.