Page 9 of Tall, Dark, and Grumpy
He pays with a wedge of cash tossed onto the table that makes my eyes bulge and when we’re back on the top floor, he stalks to his office without so much as a, “Hope you had a good lunch.”
“Thank you,” I call from the elevator where he’s left me for dust.
He doesn’t even turn. But he pauses, one hand on the door, and rasps, “From now on, if you need to have a working lunch, you have it withme.”
Mr Blackwood is as good as his word. He takes me out for lunch to the Italian restaurant three days that week, usually stomping into my office or ringing about the task he gave me only a few hours before and that needs the whole day.
After the fateful Monday morning meeting, he’s done nothing but growl. I don’t know what level of supervision is normal in a new job like this, but I think he’s checking up on me too. Usually, he phones as soon as I get into the office in the morning to check on the progress of whatever I’m working on. Then at some point during the day he’ll appear at the door, or phone and say, “Come to my office, Miss Meadows,” in that rough, deep voice of his. And every time my heart lifts in a silly way. I thought it was nerves at first, but… No.
On Wednesday I arrive at work with damp hair after walking in the rain, and when I’m called in to see him, he takes in my appearance and demands an explanation. I protest that I like the exercise, and it’ll be dry in half an hour, but he overrules me. I end up with a chauffeur driven SUV to take me to and from work.
And I kinda like it.
On Thursday, he zeros in on my pink keyboard. And okay, yes, it was a bit dirty. I should have cleaned it, and the “a” sticks sometimes. The new ergonomic one that arrived a few hours later is easier to type on. But it’s not pink.
On Friday, I don’t hear from him at all except an email first thing about a report he needs by the end of the day. At quarter tofive, I’m going through the last details when my neck prickles. I stroke the hairs back down, and refocus.
Then the scent of citrus and sandalwood catches at my nose and I stop typing.
It’s him.
The air crackles with electric tension. I can hear him breathing. He’s watching me, and he knows that I know.
But Mr Blackwood makes no movement to announce his presence.
I can’t move. Creaky like the tinman, and as lacking in courage as the lion. I’m fixed in place. His gaze, now I’ve realised it’s on me, is hot as the summer sun.
“I’m nearly done with the updated projections you asked for,” I croak.
“Good.” The single word is clipped. “Because I’ve realised the ones you sent yesterday aren’t broken down by month and I need them to review over the weekend.”
That snaps my head around. “By month? But you asked for quarterly!” It’ll take forever to redo that.
I could bite off my tongue as my eyes meet the bright blue eyes of my billionaire kingpin boss. Oh. Shit. His eyes are a summer sky, but his expression is thunder.
“Is there a problem?”
“It’s fine!” I smile. “I’ll work late.”
He gives a single nod. “Tell me,” he begins, without a thank-you, to ask for complex details about the previous financials of the company.
The way he listens as I reply is what makes me think I’m losing my mind. Because although his brows remain low, there’s an intensity in his attention that shimmers across my skin.
There must be something wrong with me, because grumpy and sour and difficult and objectively terrifying as my boss is, Ithink I like him. I enjoy his blue gaze on me, and the way he concentrates on me. He takes every word I say seriously.
I don’t want to disappoint him. So, when we seamlessly move from what he asked about to a new topic, then another, I don’t complain.
The massive pay increase doesn’t hurt, and that’s a good justification for why as the sun sets, turning the sky pink through the massive windows of my office, I don’t mention that it’s late, on a Friday.
What else do I have to do with my Friday evenings? It’s not like I have a boyfriend or invitations to go partying.
By the end of a month, I’ve come to a conclusion: I have to lose my virginity.
Pressing my thighs together all day might be good for my inner leg muscle strength, but it’s a disaster for my concentration. I might be tempted to quit, but for three things:
One, my predecessor in this role didn’t leave voluntarily, shall we say, and I prefer to remain alive. Especially because it seems Mr Blackwood hates me, and considers me the cause of the permanent rain cloud above his head. That is the only rational explanation for how he grumps at me all the time.
Two, objectively, I have a great job. All the salary and benefits perks, plus some I didn’t realise I needed, like regular working lunches with my thundercloud boss.