Page 10 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss (Coming For Christmas #3)

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.

My much fuller, shorter, and wider frame. “Funny,” I say. “Ford wasn’t complaining earlier when he had his hands and mouth all over me.”

Natasha’s nostrils flare. “Please. He’s generous. Ford has always been generous. It’s charming that you believe this can last, but it won’t. You don’t belong in our world.” She says it like a diagnosis.

“Yet, you’re the one who’s been missing for the last year.”

Her eyes scan the room, then land on the floor between us. It makes me very aware of how long it’s been since I’ve had a pedicure. My polish is chipped and uneven. I’m regretting taking my socks off earlier.

“Mark my words, he will grow tired of you now that I’m back to remind him where he belongs.”

Ford steps in then, voice cool as steel. “Enough.” He doesn’t raise his voice; he never needs to. “You’re not invited, Natasha. Leave.”

She blinks, genuinely surprised that the script has changed. “Ford—” She shakes her head. “What do you mean I’m not invited? We’re all coming here. You didn’t want to travel anywhere, so we are all coming to you. Wasn’t that the plan?”

“Evidently, the plan changed. You should call your brother.”

She opens her mouth and closes it. Repeats this until she resembles a fish out of water.

“Since it’s late, though, Thorne said you should go to his lake house and he’ll send a car for you in the morning. The keycode is his birthday,” Ford says.

Natasha makes no move to leave, just stands there.

“Do you need a refresher on where it is?” Ford asks.

Her features harden and she glares openly at Ford. “You will regret this.”

“Unlikely. Merry Christmas, Natasha. Welcome back stateside.”

“Yes, Merry Christmas,” I add.

Her gaze darts between us—me standing there pretending my knees aren’t jelly, him solid and immovable, his hand on my hip. For a second, I see the calculation in her eyes—what to say to make him soften. Then she exhales, exasperated, like we’re both tedious.

“This is a phase,” she says, stepping into the doorway. “When he tires of playing house, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I smile, all teeth. “When you tire of being condescending, call me. I can offer some product suggestions to deal with this Texas humidity.” I let my eyes rise to her hair.

Her hand pats at her blond coiffure, then she turns and walks back to her car.

Ford turns to me, apology already gathering between his brows. “Mia?—”

“I’m fine,” I say too fast, and the lie tastes like pennies. “It’s fine. She’s…she’s just?—”

“Wrong,” he says. “About everything.”

“Maybe, but right now, I’ve got a damn migraine because of her perfume. So I can’t even storm out of here dramatically like I’d like to do.”

Without another word, he scoops me into his arms and carries me back into the bedroom. He flips off the lights as we go.

“I hate that you have a headache, but I’m glad you can’t leave. Dramatically or otherwise.” He lowers me to the bed. “Stay put, I’ll be right back.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, cataloging the precise points of pain. I twitch my nose, thankful that her expensive scent is gone.

When Ford returns, he’s got a cold bottle of my electrolyte drink, another cold eye pillow—this one is purple, and a prescription bottle. He sits on the edge of the bed next to me.

“We have things to discuss, but let’s tackle this monster first,” he says, his voice is low and soothing.

After swallowing a pill and taking several sips of the drink, I close my eyes beneath the cold weight of the pillow.

In my head I go through the steps I would be taking were it not for this untimely migraine. I’d stuff my clothes back into my bag, efficiently with zero melodrama.

Just—exit, stage left. He can say it’s real. He can mean it tonight. But Natasha isn’t wrong about the math of our lives. He’s…he’s Ford McCall. CEO, billionaire, black AmEx in his pocket, ink, and piercings on his sexy as sin body.

I am his assistant. I’m good at my job. And I have a lot to offer. Some would argue, I have too much to offer. That I’m far too soft in the places magazines call “problem areas.”

“Can I talk to you while you’re lying there?” he asks into the darkness.

His words bring a halt to the drama my brain was spinning.

“Yes, of course.” I reach for his hand, and he threads our fingers together. “But you don’t owe me an explanation. This was supposed to be a fake relationship, remember?”

“I asked you to pretend. I was never pretending.”

“Ford,” I say.

“You said I could talk. Which means you listen.” He squeezes my hand.

“Okay, talk. But know that you’re taking advantage of my weakness. If I were feeling better, we would not be having this conversation.”

“No, we wouldn’t. Because I’d be stripping you naked and licking you again until you scream my name so loudly, Natasha can hear you in Thorne’s house.”

“And how far away is that?” I ask.

“Only two doors, but that would still be impressive.”

“Fair enough.”

“The truth is, I should’ve been honest with you sooner.” He breathes out, the kind that shakes a little. “I love you.”

The room tilts, despite the fact that I’m horizontal with my eyes closed. “What?”

“You heard me. I love you, Mia,” he says again, like he’s choosing precision over poetry. “Not the idea of you, not the novelty. You.”

He pauses for a few breaths. “I said I was obsessed. I meant it. I chose that word for a reason.” His voice moves closer as if he’s lying down next to me.

His hand threads into my hair and rubs at my scalp.

“As much as I hate those brightly colored page flags, I make sure your desk is always fully stocked because you love them.”

“Only to annoy you,” I admit.

“I’m aware. I love you and your color schedule. I even allow myself one day a week to match my tie to your shirt. I don’t think you’ve ever noticed, but I was trying not to be so obvious. Thorne says everyone knows how I feel about you.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I loved how every time you have a migraine, you try to keep working and take care of everyone around you.”

“You’ve made that pretty impossible now. Always whisking me away into your office for darkness and drugs.”

He chuckles. “You make it sound so seedy.”

“Keep going,” I say.

“I changed the lights in the building because your pain makes me feel useless. I went to a neurologist and used all your symptoms to get a prescription for your medication so you never run out. I have bottles stored in my car, my office, your office, my house, and obviously brought one here.”

“I think that’s illegal.”

“Obsessed,” he repeats. “I stock your drink because I’m ridiculous. I’ve been in love with you and trying to hide it.”

“Behind grumpy words and banter,” I say.

“Evidently. The moment I realized the truth, I should’ve moved you so you no longer report to me,” he says, the confession rough. “That’s on me. I’ll even make you CEO if you’d rather not have a boss. Then you won’t have to report to anyone.”

“That’s your job,” I say.

“Which you obviously know how to do.”

“Ahh, but here’s the stinker. I don’t like beer,” I admit, like it’s my deepest, darkest secret.

“I know you don’t like beer. It’s why we’re developing a cider line.”

I sit up abruptly, displacing my eye pillow and finding Ford in the darkness next to me. “It’s not good business to make decisions like that.”

“See, you’re already a better CEO than me,” he says.

“I don’t want to be CEO.”

“Then what do you want to be?”

“Yours, Ford. I just want to be yours.”

“I’m so relieved to hear that because I’m not letting you walk away from me because someone with good cheekbones called you simple.”

I choke on a laugh. “She said a lot more than that.”

“I heard enough,” he says, eyes dark. He pulls me down so I’m lying on his chest. Then resettles the eye pillow back over my face.

“I hate that her words found purchase. But they’re lies.

You’re not simple. You’re not less than.

You and I definitely belong in the same world because you are my world. My whole goddamn world, Mia.

“So if you don’t like this world, let me know what to change so you do.

I want you, present tense. I love you, present tense.

Not because it’s easy or because I’m bored or because I have a kink for office supplies.

Because you’re it. Because the moment you showed up in my life, I finally started living. I love you.”

“Say it again,” I whisper, because I’m greedy.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too,” I say. “Though I do have a confession.”

“What’s that?”

“I do have a kink for office supplies. Sticky notes and highlighters and colored pens, oh yeah!”

He chuckles against the top of my head. Then, kisses my forehead like a promise. “And for the record, if you ever want to leave the Limestone Brewery, it won’t be because someone else decided you don’t fit. It’ll be because you decided you wanted something bigger, and then I’ll help you build it.”

“Don’t make me cry. Crying makes headaches so much worse,” I say.

“Shit, I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”

“Stop being so nice to me.”

“Never.”