Page 12 of Forbidden Grumpy Boss

By the sidewalk, I put up my umbrella, hailing a cab in the pouring rain. Thankfully, it doesn’t take me long to get one. As the cab speeds through the city, I pull out my phone, intending to do a quick search on the company before I show up.

Monarch Tech. I’ve never heard of it. I type it out, hoping the CEO isn’t a piece of shit.

But, of course, my phone chooses to die as I was typing.

“Of course,” I mutter, tucking it back into my purse and staring out at the rain-soaked streets. My heart is pounding. I gotta nail the interview. This is the best opportunity I’ve had in months! And I can’t afford to fuck it up.

I pay for the cab and leave. And by the time I arrive at the lobby, according to the sleek glass wall, I’m soaked from the dash between the cab and the entrance, despite my umbrella. Great first impression.

The building is massive, all sharp edges and glass, the kind of place that screams money. I swallow my nerves as I approach the receptionist. She, then, leads me to the elevator to go to the penthouse floor. My is heart hammering in my chest.

This is it. Please don’t let the CEO be a total creep.

“Usually, you should be meeting with H.R. for your interview,” the redhead receptionist with round glasses starts, “but since you’ll be working directly with Mr. Waverly, he wants to meet you immediately.”

Mr. Waverly.I nod, flashing the lady a smile. I hope Mr. Waverly likes what he sees. Okay, I know how that sounds, but I didn’t mean that in a creepy way. I just want to get hired. Shit.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and I enter the sprawling office. It’s sleek, modern, and exactly the kind of place that makes you feel underdressed no matter what you’re wearing. My heels click against the polished floor as I’m led to a large set of double doors.

The receptionist opens the door for me, and I step inside, my breath catching in my throat. The office is expansive, with sofas, a large glass desk, and glass windows that overlook the city’s skyline. A man is facing away from me with his phone to his ear.

I stand there, shifting on my feet, as he speaks softly into the phone. I can’t make out what he’s saying. He has broad shoulders that his fitted black suit accentuates, and his graying locks are full and shiny. There’s something about him that is—

He cuts the call. I gather myself and plaster a smile on my face as he turns around. “Hello, I am—” All thoughts dry up in my head. I take a sharp step back and a sharp breath simultaneously. “What the fuck?”

Silas.

The man who broke my heart in Rome five years ago. The man I swore I’d never see again. There he is. In the flesh.

I stand frozen, my mouth dry, my brain short-circuiting as his eyes lift from the phone in his hand and meet mine. His expression shifts—shock, recognition, and then something else. Something darker.

“Leah,” he says my name like he never forgot it.

Chapter four

Silas

The irony of lifeis that it always brings back what you’ve tried hardest to forget; like a boomerang coated in emotional shrapnel. And today, that boomerang walks into my office with her own two feet.

I stand behind my desk, frozen in my office, staring at Leah like seeing a ghost. A very real, painfully beautiful ghost from a night I can’t seem to bury, no matter how hard I’ve tried.

Leah.

I can’t breathe momentarily as my mind rewinds to five years ago. She’s different now. Older? No. More mature, maybe. Her body, still petite but with new curves, is wrapped in a black dress that skims her knees.

Her dark brown hair, which used to be lighter like honey, is now dyed a rich, chestnut color, and it’s cut shorter, just brushing her collarbones. It makes her look sharp. Like someone who knows exactly what she’s after. Except, at this moment, the only thing I know for sure is that she’s caught just as off guard as I am.

Her brown eyes widen in recognition, lips parting slightly like she remembered that night in Rome. She glances at the door, clearly contemplating bolting from this office.

I can’t let her leave. Not again.

“Leah,” I say, my voice betraying a little too much surprise.

She stops, eyes narrowing at me. "Silas. You’re Mr. Waverly?”

“And you are Leah Grayson,” I rattle the name off my head. Jim, the head of H.R., had told me the candidate’s name, and I hadn’t made the connection. I mean, hell, there’s gotta be what? A few thousand Leahs in New York?

“If I knew it wasyou, I wouldn’t have come.” Her tone is sharp. And somehow, her eyes are sharper.

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