Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

I almost blurt out her name before I stop myself with a bitter snort.

The old me, calm and composed and in control, would never make a mistake like that.

Apparently, Callie’s shaken me to pieces.

I recover quickly, though, and give the guard a brisk nod.

“She’s correct. We’ll be on my floor, Gary. Thanks.”

The night guard—Gary—looks skeptical as hell, and I don’t blame him. He still obediently buzzes the lock for the after-hours security shutdown on the elevators.

Milah heads onto the elevator ahead of me, and when she walks, there’s no way I ever could’ve confused her for Callie.

There’s a certain Milah Holly strut that’s unmistakable.

It’s awkward, being alone with her in the elevator as it zooms to my floor. I tuck my hands in my pockets and glance at her slowly.

“Now I understand the excessive secrecy. How did you get my number?”

“My ways are many, mysterious, and none of your business,” she says tartly, a second before the elevator pings.

We step off into the shadow-shrouded space of Osprey Media’s floor.

This time I take the lead, guiding her to my office. Once she’s inside, she strips away the hoodie, scarf, and sunglasses, letting out a whuff and draping her disguise over her arm.

Underneath, she’s wearing a designer hot-pink tank top and skintight jeans. Her hip-length ponytail nearly bursts free and tumbles down her back.

“You’d better be grateful. I’m sweating half to death bailing your ass out,” she mutters, giving me a pointed look.

Not one to be accused of ungentlemanly behavior, I grab a chair for her and drag it over.

“You’re just being a tease now,” I say. “I don’t even know what the hell you want to help me with.”

Milah sits while I lean against my desk and wait—until she finally takes that bulging manila folder and plops it on my desk with a hefty thwack!

She sits back, waiting, watching me with a smirk.

Okay, then.

I’ll play her game.

I pick up the dense envelope. There must be at least a few hundred sheets of paper crammed inside. I flick the metal prongs open, dumping the bloated sheaf into my hand.

Discarding the envelope, I turn the stack over, skimming the first few lines—

Only to nearly fall off my desk.

It’s a contract.

Natalia Reynolds—aka Easterly Ribbon—and Vance Haydn.

Not the legal entity of Haydn’s production company, I notice, even as my mind fogs over with electric shock.

It’s with Haydn himself.

I snap my head up, staring at Milah.

“How did you get this?” I demand.

She shrugs one shoulder. “Natalia showed me, asking for advice, duh. A few things in there don’t look quite right to me, but I thought you’d figure it out better than I could, so...”

I suddenly feel like I’m holding a bomb.

I stare down numbly, flicking through a few more pages and scanning the legalese.

There’s a weight on my chest, and I can’t tell if it’s all excitement or something else. My gaze shifts to Milah again.

“Why are you giving me this? Why are you trusting me?”

“Trust? Oh, no, Osprey. I’m using you.” Her bluntness chokes me. Then again, this is post-rehab Milah Holly. Take-charge Milah Holly with no time to waste and even less interest in suffering fools. The way she looks at me asks if I’m a fool—or if I’ll shut my yap and accept her dangerous gift.

“Excuse me?” I snarl back.

“We aren’t that different, Captain Birdshit. You use people to get what you want. So do I.” Another flippant shrug. “What I want right now is Vance Haydn’s entire life destroyed. I want him locked the fuck up where he can never touch another girl again for the rest of his disgusting little joke of a life.”

Her eyes flick to her brightly painted nails like a tiger examining its claws.

“Our goals align then,” I say coldly.

“Yeah, I thought they might.” She rolls her eyes. “Plus, I saw that dumbass mushy op-ed of yours. Maybe there’s some itty-bitty part of you that’s not a dried-out cactus. You’re a tabloid rat, sure, but possibly a nice one.”

“Nice? I’m afraid that shoe will never fit,” I say slowly. “I’m pretty damned awful, Holly.”

“Well...good luck with that. Hope it works out for you, being shitty and all. If I were that girl, I’d nutpunch you for that stunt you pulled. I don’t need that back, by the way. It’s a copy.” She jumps to her feet, already shimmying into her hoodie and wrapping up in the rest of her disguise. “You never saw me, by the way. I don’t have a clue how you got that if anybody asks.”

“Understood.” I watch as she turns to walk away. In under five minutes, she’s upended my entire world like an angry little demon. “She’s going to be pissed, you know. For going behind her back.”

She pauses, her hand on the door, and glances back at me.

“I know. But sometimes people do bad things for a good cause. Let her hate away; I’m not hanging Easty out to dry.” With her sunglasses on, I can’t read her, but there’s something wistful in her voice, taking away the sharp, sardonic edge. “It doesn’t matter if she never speaks to me again, really. Just as long as she gets to keep her life and her career before he breaks them both.”