Page 8 of Tall, Dark, and Grumpy
“Does that meet with your approval?”
I nod. I didn’t realise glass could do that.
“Thank you.”
His brows pinch together, and he takes a breath. For a second, I’m convinced he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t, and neither does he move.
“I’ll justify the trust you’ve put in me,” I add earnestly, filling in the gap. I’m eager for my boss’ approval.
Dropping his gaze, he turns abruptly, and walks out. No goodbye. No further comment.
And my stupid heart thuds.
The next day, I’m set up in my new office. A team of sinister looking but very polite Italian men brought all my stuff from my cubicle downstairs and all I had to do was tweak their positions. Then I started getting to grips with my new job, which was easier than it sounds because honestly, I was doing everything for my old boss except giving the presentations. The analysis, the reports, everything was written by me. I was in until late lastnight though, and I’m in early in the morning, determined to make a good impression.
Mr Blackwood has emailed overnight, and there are messages on my phone too. He’s asking for an update by the end of the day.
When I’ve figured out what I need to do, I grab another coffee and when I check the time, I’m shocked to discover it’s after twelve, so I unpack the sandwiches and chocolate bar I bought on my way into work, and put them at my elbow to eat while I work through lunch. I unwrap the chocolate first, because why not, and get back into the spreadsheet.
“Miss Meadows.”
My head snaps up, mid mouthful. Mr Blackwood is standing in the entrance to my office, having magically stealthed his way in and I am stuffing my face with chocolate.
“Mr Black…” Oh god. I cover my mouth and cringe. So much for looking professional.
“You’re eating at your desk, Miss Meadows.”
My heart skips a beat, not getting the memo that he’s my boss and not a sabre-toothed tiger.
“Yes. I was keen to keep working on…” I gesture at my screen.
His eyes narrow. “What are you eating?”
Oh no… Not this. Please not the “eat less sugar and you’ll be slimmer”. I can’t cope. Or rather, I can, but not without risking being shot for shouting at my boss.
“A sandwich and a small treat,” I chirp. He cannot murder me for eating something he doesn’t approve of. This isn’t a bible story. I refuse to believe it.
“You should eat more healthily.”
“It’s healthy,” I protest. “There’s?—”
“That isn’t good enough, Miss Meadows.” He picks up my crumpled budget sandwich and scowls at it.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll bring in food from home.” Ugh, I was looking forward to buying lunch rather than making it now I’ve had a pay raise.
That seems to incense him even more. “No more eating lunch at your desk.”
“But—”
“It’s not good for you not to take a break,” he interrupts in a stern voice that causes an unexpected throb in my clit. “Get up.”
It shocks me so much I don’t point out that most of the reason I’m working hard is because he gave me a promotion, and rise from my seat trying not to squirm.
I’m turned on by him being stern and commanding. What is wrong with me? My heart leaps as he strides around the desk and cups my elbow. He practically frog marches me out of the office, the door banging behind us. There are curious stares from the executive assistants working in the foyer as he leads me to the elevator, and out of the building.
He doesn’t let go of my elbow until we’re in a restaurant with white tablecloths and the best pasta I’ve ever eaten. Mr Blackwood grumbles about the lack of authenticity of the Italian food, questions me constantly about work, and watches me clear my plate like a hawk tracking a mouse.
Probably I shouldn’t have eaten as much as I did, never mind agreeing to dessert—tiramisu—but honestly it was delicious and why should I hold back? It’s not like this is a date. Though, saying that, it’s not like I have any experience of dating, so what would I know?