Page 1 of Grumpy Alien Boss

CHAPTER 1

OLIVIA

" R evolution Rouge or Cincinnati Rose?" I hold up the two tubes of lipstick to my reflection. "What marketing genius came up with these names?"

The tubes mock me with their identical red hues. My hand trembles as I unscrew Cincinnati Rose. The more professional choice. Not that anyone would notice the subtle difference, but every detail counts today.

"You've got this." My reflection stares back, green eyes wide. "It's just an entry-level position at Rook Enterprises. No big deal."

Right. No big deal. Just the company I've dreamed of working for since I first read about their environmental initiatives in business school. The lipstick wavers as I trace the outline of my lips.

"Perfect." I cap the tube and toss it in my makeup bag. "Professional. Polished. Ready to change the world one spreadsheet at a time."

My tiny efficiency apartment barely fits a bed and dresser, but the rent eats half my savings each month. Worth it to be in Manhattan, where dreams are made. Or crushed. No, not going there.

Darwin Rook built his empire from nothing, turning a tech startup into a billion-dollar force for positive change. The man's a legend in sustainable business practices. His latest initiative redirected 80% of corporate profits into rainforest preservation.

"Stop fangirling over the CEO." I smooth my blazer, checking for wrinkles. "You'll probably never even see him."

The subway screech filters through my window, a reminder that I need to leave soon. My stomach knots as I gather my portfolio. The interview's with HR, maybe a department manager if I'm lucky. Just the first step on a very tall ladder.

The bus rounds the corner just as I sprint up to the stop. My footsteps echo off the concrete canyons as I dash to catch it. Thank god the driver sees me waving.

SNAP.

My left heel catches in the top step as I climb aboard. The momentum pitches me forward, but I catch myself on the fare box.

"Oh great." I fish out my metro card and swipe while retrieving the broken heel. The glossy black spike dangles by a thread of plastic.

Two construction workers in orange vests wave me over to their seat.

"We can fix, senorita. Jose has tools."

Jose pulls a metal strip and some tiny bolts from his lunch box while his friend holds my shoe steady. Their skilled hands make quick work of the repair.

"Not pretty, but strong now."

The industrial-looking metal bracket ruins the sleek designer look, but at least I can walk.

"You got this, girl." The woman across the aisle nods approvingly. "Shows initiative, solving problems on the fly. That's what they want to see."

"Darwin Rook loves that kind of thinking," adds a man in a business suit. "Innovation under pressure."

My spirits lift as more passengers chime in with encouragement. Maybe this isn't a complete disaster after all.

"Thanks everyone, really." I stand to exit at my stop.

"Hold up, honey." A gravelly voice belongs to an elderly woman in the back. "If I were you, I'd unbutton that blouse some. No one's gonna look at ya shoes if they're staring at your sweater meat."

The doors hiss shut behind me as I stand frozen on the sidewalk, watching the bus pull away.

"Sweater meat? I was today years old when I heard that one."

I round the corner and freeze. Rook Tower pierces the sky like a gleaming sword of glass and steel. The morning sun turns each window into a softly shimmering mirror, creating a dazzling display that puts every other building to shame.

My reflection wavers in the tinted glass as I approach the entrance. The metal bracket on my heel glints, an ugly reminder of this morning's mishap. A flash of the old woman's words echoes in my head.

"What the hell?" My fingers work the top two buttons of my blouse. The hint of cleavage looks... professional enough. Right?

The glass doors part with a soft whoosh. My heels click against polished marble as I step into an honest-to-god indoor forest. Water tumbles down a rock wall, its mist catching rainbows in shafts of sunlight. Ferns and tropical plants create natural walls between seating areas.

A stream cuts through the lobby floor, crossed by scattered stepping stones. Each stone lights up as my foot touches it, creating a path of soft blue light. Show-offs.

"Welcome to Rook Enterprises." The receptionist's smile could power Manhattan. "Interview candidates are gathering in room 114. Just follow the blue line."

My heart sinks as I push open the door to 114. Suits. Everywhere. Young, old, designer labels, off-the-rack - at least fifty people packed into a space meant for twenty. The buzz of nervous conversation fills the air with phrases like "MBA" and "six sigma certification."

The metal bracket scrapes against the floor as I find an empty spot against the wall. So much for standing out.

Two women in matching Chanel suits glance at my shoes. Their perfectly manicured hands cover glossy lips as they whisper and snicker. The metal bracket on my heel might as well be a neon sign screaming "doesn't belong."

The Harvard MBA next to me drones on about his thesis on sustainable economics. Another candidate mentions her summer internship at Goldman Sachs. My bachelor's from Eastern Illinois University feels like a participation trophy at the Olympics.

"Did you see her shoes?" The whisper carries just enough for me to catch it.

My cheeks burn. The resume in my portfolio suddenly reads like a bad joke. Student council president? Laser tag champion? What was I thinking including that?

The old familiar fire rises in my chest. The same one that got me kicked out of ballet for correcting the instructor's form. That had me organizing a protest when the school board tried to cut art funding.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like my mother's whispers: "Just smile and nod. Be agreeable. That's how you get ahead."

My fingers clench around my portfolio. The sharp edge of the leather digs into my palm.

No. That's not me. Never has been, never will be. I'd rather fail as myself than succeed as someone else.

The rent notice pinned to my fridge flashes through my mind. The dwindling balance in my checking account. The credit card bill from moving to the city.

Being true to yourself is great and all, but it doesn't keep the lights on.

The Chanel twins titter again. One of them points at my blouse with a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

My spine straightens. Screw it. They can mock my shoes, my degree, even my "sweater meat." But they can't touch who I am.

The question is: will Rook Enterprises want who I am?

The door crashes open, making me jump.

Holy. Shit.

Darwin Rook fills the doorway, all six-foot-something of him. The pictures don't do him justice. That mohawk should look ridiculous on a CEO, but somehow it works with his sharp features and powerful build. His presence commands the room like a general surveying his troops.

Chanel Twin Number One practically leaps from her chair. She stretches her face into a smile as she grabs his hand.

"Mr. Rook, what an honor! I've followed your career since your first startup. Your work in sustainable technology is revolutionary. The way you've transformed corporate responsibility..."

He lets her ramble, his expression unreadable. One eyebrow arches slightly as she continues to gush about his achievements. The silence when she finally stops stretches just a beat too long.

"By standing up and talking before I even had a chance to speak, you're seeking to assert dominance and make yourself stand out from the other candidates. This and your heaping endorsements are all part of that plan, yes?"

The blood drains from her face. Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.

He gestures to her abandoned chair.

"Sit down. I'm conducting this interview, not you."

That voice. Deep, commanding, with an edge that makes my thighs clench. She starts to protest.

"You're not in charge." His eyes flash, hard as steel.

She scurries back to her seat like a scolded schoolgirl. Those three words echo in my head. You're not in charge. My mind wanders to decidedly unprofessional places, imagining that voice whispering those same words in very different circumstances...

Personal assistant? My stomach drops through the polished marble floor. Not entry-level marketing like the job posting said. The Chanel twins' snickers feel like daggers in my back now.

I should leave. Just stand up and walk out before I embarrass myself further. My broken heel scrapes against the floor as I shift my weight.

No. I didn't come this far to quit. Mom always said my stubbornness would get me in trouble, but it's also gotten me everything I've ever achieved.

Rook's fingers dance across his tablet's screen, his red eyes scanning whatever's displayed there. The harsh overhead lights catch the sharp angles of his face.

"So many qualified candidates. Ivy league degrees. Internships at Fortune 500 companies. All so, so..."

"Impressive?" Some guy in an Italian suit preens, adjusting his Rolex.

"No." Rook's voice cracks like a whip. "Worthless! I can't get a measure of your fighting spirit from a resume! I don't want simpering sycophants, I want...no, I demand briefcase WARRIORS. Soldiers willing to march to my orders right into Hell and back."

The words bypass my brain and go straight to my mouth.

"Fuck yeah!"

Oh god. Did I just say that out loud?

Fifty heads swivel toward me like synchronized robots. The silence feels thick enough to cut with a knife. Rook's piercing gaze pins me to the wall, and I fight the urge to slide down it and melt into a puddle of mortification.

His finger points straight at me, and my heart stops. Those red eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.

"Say that again."

My throat goes dry. "Um... fuck yeah?"

One dark eyebrow arches up, and something dangerous flashes in his expression. A challenge. My pulse quickens.

I square my shoulders, channeling every ounce of that fire that got me kicked out of ballet class.

"FUCK YEAH!"

The smile that spreads across his face is pure predator, all sharp edges and promises. My knees go weak, and I'm grateful for the wall supporting me.

"Good. Keep that fire for the challenge portion of the interview and you will succeed."

The Harvard MBA's hand shoots up like we're in grade school. "Challenge portion?"

The smile vanishes from Rook's face as if it never existed. He turns toward the door, his broad shoulders blocking the light.

"Follow me."

The command in his voice brooks no argument. The room erupts in squeaking chairs and shuffling feet as fifty candidates scramble to comply. I peel myself off the wall, my metal-bracketed heel clicking against the floor as I fall into line with the others.

Whatever this challenge is, I'm ready. Bring it on.