Page 3 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss

chapter

two

Mia

Several months later…

Ford McCall is the bane of my existence.

Dramatic, right? But here’s the truth: my boss is an arrogant, grumpy, sexy as hell, tattooed, pierced bad boy in an Armani suit. Dangerous to hearts and lady parts everywhere, which I try very hard to ignore.

Some days I’m even partially successful.

I’d be a big, stupid liar, though, if I said that since working here, I’ve had to invest in rechargeable toys because I was going through an alarming number of batteries.

I’m drafting an email when the first warning hits. Small silvery balls—like mercury—flickering and flashing at the edges of my vision. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. When I re-open them, my computer monitor’s brightness needles my skull. I try squinting; sometimes that helps, not often, but sometimes. In this case, it does nothing.

I blink. Sip water. Blink again.

“Ms. Morales,” Ford says as he stops, voice low and clipped, “status on the Pack & Save contract?”

“Ready to sign,” I manage, keeping my smile pinned in place. “And I also have⁠—”

My words falter as a sharp pain stabs into my brain. I press my thumb into my temple like I can hold my brain in.

His gaze drops to my hand. One beat. Two. He doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. He just tilts his head, reading me like a spreadsheet. “With me.”

“It’s fine,” I lie, because I am brave and stubborn and also allergic to showing weakness in front of men who look like sin in cufflinks. “I can⁠—”

“Now, Mia.” Softer. Please without saying please.

He opens his office door, and the low light in there feels like mercy. He waves me in, shuts the door, and crosses to the windows to drop the shades. The room slides into dusk. He hits a button; the softest hum of the air purifier kicks on. He pulls two things from the credenza like a magician: my electrolyte drink—the exact brand—and a cool eye mask he keeps in his personal fridge.

“Sit,” he says, already nudging the leather sofa pillow upright. “Head back.”

“You know, most bosses are demanding with tasks, not resting,” I mumble, trying for a joke as the pain hammers behind my eyes.

“I like you functional,” he deadpans, handing me the drink. His fingers brush mine—cool, steady, not lingering—and he’s back to business. “Two sips. Slow.”

I obey.

“Nauseated?” he asks.

“Minimal.”

“Rescue medication?”

“I’m out. Used my last one two days ago,” I admit.

“Then it’s a good thing I keep extras.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a prescription bottle. “Hand.”

I hold my hand up to him. “How did you get that?”

“Later,” he says.

After I swallow the pill, he moves to the door, cracks it an inch. “Thorne,” he calls to someone in the outer office I can’t see. “I’m in a meeting. If anyone knocks, I will institute mandatory Saturdays for everyone.”

A muffled laugh from the hall. “Copy that.”