Page 12 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss

I stand from my desk and make my way over to the door that separates his executive suite from my outer office. I wipe my palms on my skirt and open the door. My steps falter when I find him sitting on the leather sofa that’s housed by the wall of windows.

The only thing that feels normal is the fact that he’s frowning at me.

“Frown confirmed,” I say. “The universe still spins.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he murmurs, patting the cushion again. “Sit before I change my mind, and I promise you’re going to like this impromptu meeting.”

“Okay,” I say, letting myself extend the end of the word.

“Mia,” he says again.

My name just rolls off his tongue easily, naturally, as if he says it at all hours of the night. Well, that’s a dangerous thought. I briefly close my eyes and take a cleansing breath. It took me nearly three months to get over my unfortunate and inconvenient crush on my grumpy boss. I do not need to entertain those thoughts again.

Only stupid women crave the attention of men like Ford McCall. Yes, we’ve established that he’s a decent human being, but that doesn’t mean he’s relationship material.

Don’t be toxic, Mia.

“Did you need something?” I ask, still standing near the door.

He pats the couch cushion. “Come sit.”

I put my hand to my throat. Oh, no! He got bad news on that phone call. That has to be what’s happening. I swiftly make my way across the room and lower myself to the sofa.

“Do I need to sign a waiver? Or call in someone from HR?”

“Only if you plan to be difficult,” he says.

“That’s… likely.”

“So, not different than usual. Noted.”

“Is it one of your parents? Or your sister?”

The lines furrowing his brow deepen. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Is someone dying? Oh God, is it you? Do you have a brain tumor?”

“What in God’s name are you talking about? No one has a brain tumor,” he says. “Well, presumably some people do, unfortunately, though that is. But I do not,” he adds dryly. “And for the record, I have excellent brain health.”

“Debatable,” I mutter. “Exhibit A: voluntarily talking to me without coffee.”

“I’m reconsidering that part.”

“Well, something must be terribly wrong. You’re using my first name, and you invited me in to sit instead of just barking orders at me.”

“I do not bark orders,” he says.

I give him a sideways glance.

He exhales slowly. “I probably do speak abruptly at times.”

“Sure, we can go with that description.”

“I need a favor.”

“I’ve never been tested for bone marrow or anything, and I’ve heard that’s rather painful. I’d give you a kidney, though. Probably.”

“What?” He shakes his head. “I don’t need a kidney. In fact, please stop offering me any of your organs.”