Page 28 of Silver Fox Grump

“But you hate paper and say printing is a waste,” I ask, confused.

“I say it’s afuckingwaste, yes, but I do not care how many trees you murder, Maisie. I will poison those fuckers with bleach myself and pulp their green shoots with my heel. Print off a stack of paper—or find one of those towers of dead trees that you like so much—and meet me downstairs. You have nine minutes left.”

I’m absolutely speechless, and frozen for a second. My boss is… I mean, perhaps he’s finally lost it. The raving about tree death certainly supports that theory.

“Now,” he snarls, and I scurry away, my heart pounding. It’s only when I reach the elevator, thankfully open, that I look back at him.

He is gazing after me, pulling his hand through his silver-streaked hair, and his blue eyes are electric with intensity.

A shiver goes down my spine as the metal doors close.

I don’t have to print much. I grab up piles of technical drawings and plans, and some lengthy reports. The clock ticks down in my head and when Trish from accounts asks what I’m doing, I just pant out, “Documents for Mr Blackwood.”

She gives me a sympathetic, if baffled, grimace.

“You’re late,” he says when I get to the lobby less than ten minutes later, my arms full of a stack of paper almost a foot high.

He lifts the documents from me and turns without another word. I follow him out to a car, and I think my brain breaks when we pull up outside a restaurant.

I peek up at him curiously.

“My favourite Italian restaurant. Yes, even I have to eat,” he replies to my unspoken question as he ushers me inside.

“I thought you drank the blood of innocents and avoided garlic,” I mutter, “but this smells delicious.” There’s the scent of garlic, yes, but also salty butter, fresh bread, herbs, and olives. My mouth waters.

“I like both garlic and have an interest in the blood of innocents. I contain multitudes and no, you can’t stake me,” he says dryly, but there’s a spark in his eyes.

A waiter appears with menus and greets Sev like an old friend, leading us to a discreet table at the back. There are red and white tablecloths and paintings of Italian landscapes on the wall. The bistro-style chairs have cushions and Sev slams down the pile of papers so hard that a couple of our fellow diners look around.

“Sorry,” I say, giving them an apologetic smile. Sev glares and the one remaining guy who was eying us curiously turns away guiltily.

“She’ll have the alfredo,” Sev says as the waiter comes to give us menus. “And I’ll have a steak, rare.” Drinks are dealt with in the same arrogant fashion, with Sev ordering my favourite without any reference to me.

“I’m allergic to dairy, you know,” I say when the waiter hustles away.

“No, you’re not.”

I snort with laughter. He’s right, I’m not. And he knows that because I’ve made creamy pasta alfredo at home, pawing over the online recipe.

“But why did you order that for me?”

It’s not as though I expect him to confess his stalking, but there’s a frisson between us as he regards me across the table.

This is beginning to feel like our game. Does he suspect that I know? Does he want me to?

“It’s the best thing on the menu apart from the steak, and I didn’t think that was your taste,” he lies smoothly. “And the drink? That’s what all teenagers are drinking, isn’t it?”

“I’m twenty-three,” I remind him.

“I’m five years out, so shoot me. You’re only about ten minutes from being a child, whereas I’m a sixteen-hour trip in an aeroplane, three-hours in a car, then thirty minutes on foot.”

“Still know what a young woman likes though, don’t you?”

There’s really hardly any innuendo in my words, but Sev hears me exactly.

His gaze drops to my lips.

“I know what youneedMaisie,” he replies, so low I barely hear him. “Scatter some of those documents over the table,” he directs at normal volume, with a flick of his fingers.