Page 1 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss

chapter

one

Ford

Fourteen months, three weeks, two days. That’s how long it’s been since my life developed an inconvenient Mia-shaped glitch.

Julia—my then-assistant and organizational deity—taps on my office door and pokes in her calm face. “Your new assistant is here, Mr. McCall.”

“Send her in,” I say without looking away from a spreadsheet that makes more sense than most people.

A feminine throat clears.

I look up. And forget how to breathe.

The woman in the doorway is not the matronly woman, wielding a paper planner like it was the Magna Carta, as I’d been expecting.

Nope.

This woman is sunlight and curves poured into a black pencil skirt and a pale blue blouse that did not try to be scandalous, yet somehow still draws my gaze to her amazing tits. I should have sent myself to Human Resources that very moment.

Big dark eyes. Dark hair, which I absolutely did not imagine fisting in my hand. A mouth made for starting fights in boardrooms and ending them in the bedroom.

I stand. Miscalculate the chair’s wheels. Do a completely undignified stumble before untangling myself from my chair.

She laughs. Not in a mean way. No, her giggle is made of pure delight. Like I’d performed a party trick only she could see.

“Hi,” she says, stepping forward with a hand out. “Mia Morales. I brought pens, a notebook, three kinds of sticky flags, and a sincere desire to terrify your calendar into compliance.”

I take her hand. Warm. Steady. If I hold it one second too long, no jury will convict me. “Ford,” I say, and then remember I’m allegedly in charge of things. “Mr. McCall. Welcome to Limestone.”

“Do you prefer Ford or Mr. McCall?” she asks.

“Depends who’s listening,” I say. It comes out drier than intended.

She smiles like she’s been issued a puzzle. “Noted.”

That was the moment; the glitch. When the part of my brain that makes smart choices filed for an immediate sabbatical and fled the country.

Two months later, I made an unwise decision involving red velvet.

The company holiday party is at the taproom: towering tree in the atrium, garlands along the rafters, carols performed by the local high school choir. For morale, bonuses were to be delivered by yours truly in a Santa suit that fit a little too well. As if I hid a G-string underneath rather than my standard boxer briefs. I don’t usually do costumes. But morale.

And yes, that meant Mia—my assistant, and the unfortunate object of my carnal obsession—was the elf. Green dress, white trim, striped tights. Not overtly sexy, which somehow only made it worse. She could wear a garbage bag and make it look sexy.

Thorne, my in-house counsel and closest friend, sauntered over with two glasses of cider and an expression that promised trouble. “I’m merely the messenger,” he said, “but the line for photos with Santa wants authenticity. The crowd is clamoring.”

“The crowd is you,” I say.

“And accounting,” he adds. “And the marketing team. And quite frankly, me again. Because I won’t lie about not enjoying this.” He motions to my velvet-encased person with his glass.

Mia appears at my elbow, cheeks pink from cold air and laughter. “The crowd has spoken, Bossman. Photo op time.”

“Bossman?” I ask, trying for unimpressed. She can likely hear the affection, though. I never seem to strike the right balance when it comes to this woman.

She places a red velvet bag of bonus envelopes in my gloved hands. “You’re doing great. Very jolly. Only a little like a lost Chippendale.”

“Shit. I was worried about that,” I say.