Page 2 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss (Coming For Christmas #3)

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 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.”

The door shuts again. Ford crosses back and, without looking at me, powers off the lamp with the bright bulb—click, silence—then replaces it with the dimmer one he installed last spring after I complained about the fluorescents.

I didn’t ask him to replace every light on the floor, but he did.

He flips the switch on the tiny white-noise machine on his bookshelf. Rainfall laps at the room.

“Pressure?” he asks.

“Left side. Eye. It’s…starting.”

He nods, then crouches in front of me—still not too close, like he’s learned my radius. He offers the cool eye mask. “May I?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out small. He sets the mask over my eyes with careful hands, like I’m fragile.

“Five minutes in the dark,” he says. “Breathe.” Then, as if he can’t help himself: “Did you eat?”

“You mean the salmon massacre in the breakroom? No.”

His mouth twitches. “I’ll ban fish. Consider it done.”

“You can’t ban people’s food,” I say, even as I sink deeper into the sofa. “That’s tyrannical behavior.”

“I prefer efficient.” A beat. “Besides, people can eat their damned fish at home or at a restaurant. No one needs to smell that being reheated. I’ll merely label the microwave with guidance.”

“You mean a threat in twelve-point font. Bold and red.”

He doesn’t deny it. Paper rustles; a blanket—where did that even come from—settles over my knees. “You run cold,” he says, like he’s stating the obvious.

“I’m fine,” I lie again, softer this time.

“Mm.” He doesn’t push. He never pushes. He just makes the room quieter around me.

“It’s just because of the cold pack on my head. Feels great up there, but makes the rest of me chilled,” I admit.

Outside, the office hums through the wall. In here, rain hushes from the speaker, and his breathing is a slow metronome somewhere to my right. He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t hover either. I picture him on the edge of the sofa with his laptop open, pretending to read numbers so I don’t feel watched.

The pain crests and then steadies at a sharp, mean line. I breathe through it. He waits me out.

“Better?” he asks eventually.

“A little.” I peel the mask up just enough to see him. He’s sitting on the low table, elbows on his knees, tie loosened. Grumpy face, yes. But his eyes are careful. “You know you’re not very good at hating me,” I say.

His brow ticks. “I’m excellent at many things. Hating you isn’t cost-effective.”

I huff out something like a laugh and immediately wince. “Ow.”

He stands. “Lie back.” Then, dryer: “You’re allowed to boss me around later to restore the natural order.”

“Later, I’m making you put a ‘No Fish’ sign in Comic Sans.”

His mouth almost, almost smiles. “Monstrous.”

He grabs my phone from where I must’ve abandoned it on the armrest and slides it into my hand. “Text your sister and tell her you’ll call her this evening. I don’t want Esme showing up with a shovel because you didn’t answer.”

“You talked to my sister?” I ask, startled.

“She talks to me. Through you. Loudly. And frequently.” He gestures to the drink. “Finish that.”

I sip. The electrolyte taste is ridiculously comforting. Of course, he stocks it. Of course, he remembers.

He checks his watch, then the door. “I’m going to tell the floor we’re not to be disturbed for the next thirty minutes.”

“Don’t threaten anyone,” I say.

“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.