Page 70 of Forbidden Grumpy Boss

“Silas. Is any of it true? Did you—”

“Don’t finish that fucking sentence.” My voice sharpens, cutting through the air like a whip. Derrick should know better than to ask that; the fact that he even had to makes my blood boil.

If someone whose known me for decades is asking this, what are the people who don’t know me thinking? Hell, I don’t have to wonder. Their thoughts are plastered all over the internet.

“I had to ask, Silas. Iamyour lawyer! We need to start creating a narrative in case this ends up in court. We can’t—”

“It’s fucking bullshit, Derrick. That’s all it is. It’s Harvey trying to ruin my public image, so there’s no way this ends up in court.”

“I’m just saying that—”

“Derrick?” I cut him off.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need a fucking lawyer right now. I need a P.R. firm. We need to cut this off at the legs before it spreads even more, okay?”

“Right. Sorry,” he mutters, and I can hear him shuffling on the other end, probably straightening papers on his desk. “I’ll get a PR firm on it.”

“I shouldn’t have had to tell you that before you did it, Derrick. This is what I’m paying you for.”

He mumbles something, and I can hear him unwrap a piece of gum and pop it into his mouth. Derrick’s diabetic, but that doesn’t keep him away from sugar. His wife, Karen, is also a sweet tooth, so it tracks.

“One other thing, Silas.”

Great.“What is it?”

“The company stock is already taking a hit. This is bad.”

“I know.” My head is throbbing now. I’m barely holding on to the phone, and the temptation to hurl it across the room is too strong. “Just fix it.”

He hangs up, and I sit there momentarily, the silence in my bedroom suddenly suffocating. The blackout curtains keep the room dark, but a sliver of light sneaks in at the edges, reminding me it’s morning, and I’ve got a disaster to handle.

The massive bed feels too big, cold, and empty without Leah.

I throw back the covers, stepping out of bed. The cold hardwood floor stings my feet, grounding me in a way I need right now. Stripping out of my briefs, I head into the shower, letting the water pound against my skin, hoping it’ll wash away the tension knotting in my shoulders.

Nope.

No amount of scalding water is going to burn away the fact that Harvey’s coming for my throat. And if I don’t play this right, he’s going to ruin me. Not just me—Caleb too. This is all for him, after all. The last thing I want is for my son to get caught in the crossfire of whatever war Harvey’s declared.

I scrub my face, leaning against the tiles. I can’t let this derail everything. The deal with the Caldwells is already on shaky ground, and if Henry Caldwell gets spooked by this smear campaign . . .

The thought barely crosses my mind before my phone buzzes from where I left it on the bathroom counter. I grab it and stare at the name on the screen: Henry Caldwell—the older man doesn’t do courtesy calls.

I grab a towel, swiping the phone on as I dry off.

“Henry,” I say, keeping my tone as steady as possible. “I was just about to reach out—”

“Silas,” Henry interrupts, his voice a scratchy rasp, even more hoarse than usual. He’s sick. Everyone knows it. But his pride is still stronger than any illness. “I don’t like being the bearer of bad news.”

“Let me guess,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re having second thoughts.”

There’s a pause. “We’re . . . reconsidering. Given the . . . circumstances surrounding you and Ms. Grayson, it’s . . . not ideal.”

“Are you okay?”

He stops. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

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