Page 11 of Silver Fox Grump

And not in the emotional way books usually hurt people.

They all regard me expectantly.

I cannot say I slipped dancing on a table, on my own. That is too pathetic, even by my standards. My dad will order me home to Mitcham and to stop working here if he thinks my apartment isn’t safe. This was a mistake.

I should have thrown a sickie.

“Nothing,” I say. “Really.”

“Was it a bear?” Vito asks, absolutely straight.

Rafe snorts with laughter.

“Bears are brown,” Vito points out.

I think of the table. “Basically, yes.”

Dad’s brows are so low he’ll have to surgically remove them from his legs. I search my mind. What can I say? That isn’t too silly, and is plausible.

“I, uh, fell.”

There’s silence.

“On the stairs.” There are no stairs in my apartment. It’s all onone level. But thankfully no one thinks of this. “It was a stupid accident.”

Dad’s expression goes worried. “I really think you should go to the hospital?—”

My boss sweeps in through the open door, totally at home in the steel and glass, as though he’s made of it. His eyes flash as bright-blue as the sky outside.

My heart skips.

Severino Blackwood is so gorgeous, it’s almost unreal. He’s like a force of nature that you can’t ignore, and he’s different to his brothers in a way that’s obvious to me. Tiny details, like the amount of grey at his temples and the lines around his eyes. His hair is cut differently, and he tends to wear a pale grey suit where his brothers favour charcoal or dark-blue.

He stops abruptly and looks me up and down. A very grumpy wonder of the world.

“A hospital visit, and no more dancing on tables, Miss Matthews,” he orders brusquely. “And you lot, stop harassing my staff.”

He glowers at his two identical brothers and my dad, and they all accept Mr Blackwood like he’s a gloomy cloud of a father figure shutting up bickering children.

He starts the meeting, but there’s white noise buzzing around me, thick as soup.

I’m floating above my body as I take a seat at the boardroom table and automatically begin to take notes. I keep my head down, but the shock keeps echoing through me.

Dancing on a table.

How did Mr Blackwood know that?

I replay the conversation again, and no. No, I’m sure. I didn’t let on about falling off the table. I said stairs. And sharks. And other silly things, but I am one hundred per cent certain that I didn’t tell anyone I hurt myself dancing on a table.

So how did he know?

“Miss Matthews?” Mr Blackwood’s curt tone breaks through my disbelief.

My head snaps up, and I’m lost in my boss’ blue eyes. Again.

“Could I trouble you to write down that address for us, Miss Matthews?” he drawls. “I wouldn’t want to disturb your daydreaming, but perhaps you could do your job, please.”

It’s hardly the worst thing he’s ever said to me. Mr Blackwood is notoriously grumpy.