Page 2 of Silver Fox Grump

“Really?” I glance around the room. Half of them are wearing T-shirts. “Oh fuck.”

A tickle of recollection comes to me. Florence begged me to do something about the high turnover of staff at Morden.

“But there was a…” She coughs awkwardly. “Slight issue with retention of the younger personnel that you ordered us to employ to grow Morden Company’s online presence. We tracked it down to workplace comfort expectations of Gen Z, compared to previous generations. Due to technological changes and economic uncertainty, they have different values.”

“Values,” I mutter under my breath.

“This welcome event has reduced the need for new hiring by twenty per cent.” Florence preens slightly. She has the confidence of a Morden employee who has survived years in my company and knows I respect hard work and results above all. “This provides a chance for our newest staff to bond so they feel like valued members of the team.”

Sounds like the kind of thing I agreed to when I was feeling tired of the mafia aspect of my business and imagined if I threw myself into the legitimate part I’d feel magically better.

My lip curls.

Wonderful. If this attempt to fix my mood is a failure too, I’m left with nothing but phoning one of my brothers or Wes, and drinking copious amounts of whisky.

“What do you think?” I ask, turning to the terrified audience. “Does this help you feel like a ‘valued member of the team’?” I don’t bother to keep the cynicism from my tone.

The cotton-clad children stare at the floor.

I roll my eyes. “Relax. I won’t throw you into the dungeon for talking in my presence.”

Someone titters.

That wasn’t a joke, and I remain stone-faced. They’re all aware I’m a mafia boss, as well as the CEO of this company that fronts up Morden’s darker activities. You’d have to have been hiding under a rock the size of Manchester to not know.

“I mainly kill people for being stupid, and presumably you all have bits of paper saying you have qualifications,” I drawl. Unlike me. I have scars to prove my suitability for the job of Morden kingpin. “So you can’t be totally brainless. So speak up.”

“That’s not reassuring,” someone mutters, almost inaudibly.

“I’m your boss, not your therapist,” I snap back.

Behind me, there’s a gentle sound of pain.

Florence. Right, yes. This was supposed to increase staff retention by showing we value them as individuals and I’m a reasonable employer. Well, one out of two isn’t bad.

This was a mistake. I am not a good boss, I am a cantankerous, sarcastic, scarred arsehole and I should let these young people—I will concede they aren’t children, just—alone to enjoy their party and be effective members of staff when they’re done.

“Glad to see morale is high.” I spin on my heel and chatter starts up as I head to the door.

It must be a voice that makes me stop and look around.

At the side of the group, previously hidden by a tall man, there’s a girl. Quite an unassuming little thing, with short black hair and a smile that’s like looking into the sun in June as she offers the person next to her a cupcake from a clear plastic tub.

She has sparkling brown eyes. She’s tiny, barely tall enough to reach my shoulder. She’s wearing dangly earrings, a blue skirt that is utterly flick-up-able, and a white blouse. There’s a subtle gold necklace around her neck, and no rings on her left hand.

My heart lurches as a middle-aged man takes a pale-pink iced cupcake from her stash. It has swirls of buttercream. I glower as he bites into it, anger and jealousy burning in my throat.

Thatis for me.

I’m across the room and in front of her in a second. She blinks up into my face.

“What are those?” I ask abruptly.

I mean to have a bit more tact and open my mouth to say something more, but then she turns her unexpected weapon on me.

Fuck, her smile. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She’s like I’ve been living in black and white, and suddenly there’s colour.

I stare at her.