Page 28 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss

chapter

ten

Mia

The house is quiet in that post-tree, post-cocoa way where even the angel’s crooked halo looks sleepy. I’m on the couch under a throw, my mind running through everything that’s happened since we got to this lake house.

Ford is in the kitchen rinsing mugs, humming something that might be Bing Crosby if Bing Crosby were six-two with tattoos. And had a pierced wiener. Esme is not even going to believe me. But I can’t text her yet. Not until I know more of what’s actually happening. Is this just an affair of convenience? Scratching an itch?

A knock startles me out of my ruminating.

I sit up. “Expecting anyone?”

“Not tonight,” he calls, drying his hands. Another knock—pointed, impatient.

“Probably your family earlier than they said,” I offer.

“They have keys.” He frowns and heads for the door.

I follow because, well, nothing will make his family believe I’m his fake girlfriend like me wandering around the house in Ford’s discarded shirt.

When he opens it, the chilled lake wind blows in…and Natasha follows, all glossy hair and camel coat and perfume that smells like money and instantly gives me the start of a headache. She doesn’t wait to be invited; she sweeps inside like she’s still the lady of the manor and we’re the staff who forgot our places.

“Darling,” she says to Ford, air-kissing the space near his cheek. “You don’t answer texts.”

“Because I’m busy,” he says, voice flat. “And we’re celebrating.” He puts an arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him.

Her gaze lands on me, then slides to the glowing, decorated tree, the mugs on the coffee table. Her mouth curves, and it is not kind. “How…domestic.” She looks back at Ford. “And here I thought this farce was over.” Her accent is so similar to her brother, Thorne’s. But on her, it sounds more judgmental and cruel.

Heat crawls up my neck. I straighten Ford’s shirt and paste on a smile. “Hi, Natasha.”

“You must be Mia.” Must. As if I could be anyone else. “You sound very…helpful on email.”

“Thanks,” I say brightly. “We’ve actually met, but since you and Ford broke up so long ago, you probably don’t remember me.”

She chuckles, but her eyes skewer me like she’s making kabobs. Every place her perfectly lined and lashed gaze hits, I’m reminded how very much I’m not like her. Not posh and put together. Not British and wealthy. Not thin and poised in designer clothes.

Well, technically. Ford’s shirt is designer so there’s that.

Natasha’s lips curl in an almost snarl. “So this is the new look, Ford? Hometown wholesome? It’s very…Hallmark for you.”

“Natasha,” Ford says, his tone full of warning.

“We were about to make gingerbread,” I say. “Care to join us?”

Natasha tilts her head, feigned pity frosting her face. “Sweetheart,” she says with a click of her tongue. “I understand why you’re enthusiastic. But you do realize this isn’t…serious.” She looks at Ford like he’s a wayward child, then back at me. “He does this. He gets bored. He picks up projects. He enjoys the novelty of…simplicity.”

Simplicity. Like, I have a barcode that says budget aisle.

I lift my chin. I could probably toss out an equally sharp barb, but somehow, surrounded by the Christmas lights and Ford’s shirt, I find my thoughts lacking in insults.

Of course, that’s when Ford’s phone rings. He ignores it, sending it straight to voicemail, but it just starts up again.

“Just answer it,” I tell him. “I’m fine.”

He looks from me to his phone, then finally slides the answer and steps away from us.

Natasha’s smile is all feline. “Are you? You’re an employee, darling. And you—” she gestures to my hips, my soft stomach, the parts of me that have fed every insecurity I’ve ever tried to starve— “you know what he looks like, yes? What he can have? What he prefers?” Her eyes rake over my frame again.