Page 5 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss

“I’ll use kindness,” he says, deadpan. “It terrifies them more.”

He steps into the hall, and I hear his voice carry—polite, even, firm. No one enters. When he returns to the sofa, he doesn’t sit. He just stands there, sleeves rolled, tattoos dark against his wrists, looking like a man who wrestles problems into submission for fun.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He nods once. “I like it when you tell me what you need before your brain attempts to implode.”

“That’s a very specific kink.”

“Don’t make me ban jokes. I’m on a roll with the fish.”

I smile under the mask because I can’t help it. He’s impossible. And careful. And, annoyingly, good.

The pain eases to a manageable throb. I breathe in time with the fake rain and the real man standing guard like an irritable sentry.

He doesn’t like me, I remind myself. Not like that. But he sees me. The lights. The drink. The blanket. The way he stations himself between me and the world and calls it logistics.

Being seen like this is heady. Addictive. Dangerous.

“Better,” I say, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath too.