Page 1 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss (Coming For Christmas #3)

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.

“Consider it part of our bonus,” she quips.

We make a lap of the room, handing out checks, taking pictures with teams. Everything is fine until Thorne calls out, “One more! Classic mall shot. Elf on Santa’s lap.”

It’s on my tongue to tell him to fuck right off, but then I see the bulk of employees laughing and holding their phones up, ready to take pictures.

Mia glances at me, searching my face. She’s good at reading people. She’d step back if I said no. I could say no. I should say no.

She tips her head, voice soft enough for just us. “We can fake it. Two seconds. Or I can stand beside you and we’ll call it a day.”

Two seconds. I can do anything for two seconds.

Besides, if I veto it now, it’ll embarrass her. That’s unacceptable.

“Okay,” I say, equally soft. “Two seconds. We’re keeping it…architecturally sound.”

She laughs, light and quick. “No structural failures. Got it.”

I sit in the big red throne. She angles sideways, not actually on my lap—more like perched on the armrest, barely brushing my thigh.

Still, my entire circulatory system stages a fire drill.

All blood flows south for the winter. She smells like peppermint and sugar cookies.

They’re sweet scents, but she has me feeling anything but nice.

“Ready?” she murmurs.

“Define ready,” I say.

“Smile like you don’t hate joy,” she whispers, and I almost do. Almost smile properly. Instead, I deploy a restrained, CEO-safe smirk.

Phones flash. Someone shouts, “Whisper secrets!” She leans closer, warm breath at my ear.

“Your beard is crooked,” she says, purely practical. Her hand rises, quick as a hummingbird, straightening the fake fluff against my jaw. Her fingers graze my skin. Every neuron in my body hums.

Two seconds stretch indecently.

I need to move her without making a scene and without, under any circumstances, letting my body betray me.

I hook a gloved hand around the back of her waist—careful, steady, not a possessive thing; a respectful guide—and murmur, low enough to be ours alone, “We should switch to standing before HR faints.”

Her eyes flick to mine, pleased. “Copy that.”

I shift first, giving her space to rise without sliding. She stands, smoothing her skirt like nothing has happened and everything has. I stand with her, angled toward the cameras again. “Happy holidays,” I say in my best Santa baritone, which makes her grin and roll her eyes.

The room cheers. The moment passes. I breathe.

She turns to go manage the cocoa station, and I do the sane, adult thing: adjust the crooked beard again, accept that my pulse is going to live at an illegal speed for the rest of the night, and find Thorne.

He’s smirking, the devil. “Handled with surprising grace,” he says.

He glances toward Mia, who bends to help Suzy’s daughter reach the marshmallows. Those striped tights of hers are like a goddamn airport landing strip, leading me straight to?—

“Also, you’re unbelievably obvious,” he says, his voice low.

I heed his warning and turn my body so I can no longer see my naughty little elf.

“I am not obvious about anything,” I say.

“Pretty sure I saw her wiping drool off your chin up there,” Thorne says.

“She was straightening my beard. Crooked beards reflect poorly on leadership,” I say.

He laughs. “Is that what we’re calling it? ”

I don’t answer. Instead, I pull out my phone and type a note to myself: Order peppermint K-cups. Replace breakroom bulbs. Ask facilities about a dimmer in my office. Logistics. Things I can fix without scaring anyone, including myself.

Across the room, Mia glances back like she’s heard me think her name. I don’t look away fast enough. Her mouth does this surprised, pleased curve.

I keep my face neutral. Grumpy, aloof. At least that’s the goal.