Page 99 of Forbidden Grumpy Boss

Silas

He blames me.

Caleb sits slumped at his desk, shoulders drawn up to his ears, a permanent scowl etched onto his face. He’s bent over his textbook, refusing to look at me as I stand by the door, feeling like some hapless school principal who knows his student is about to fail. Not in school, maybe, but in life. And it’s all on me.

He hasn’t been the same since Leah left. Hell, I haven’t been the same since Leah left. But I think I’m the last person he cares about right now.

“Caleb, look. I know it’s been hard. You miss her. I do, too.” I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, taking a slow, deep breath. “But there’s nothing I can do. The whole thing just got a little too complicated, and we had to go our separate ways.”

Nothing. Not a flicker. He’s stone-faced, his pen scratching over his notebook like I’m not even here.

“Right.” My tone is clipped, bordering on harsh, as I shake off the sharp sting of rejection. I tap the doorframe lightly to get his attention. “I’ll be at the office. Do you need anything? Because I won’t be back till evening.”

“No,” he mutters, barely a glance in my direction. “I can’t wait to leave for Livingston. At least, then, I won’t have to see you or be in this house with you.”

The kid sure knows how to hurt me. I stare at him, a knot tightening in my chest, but there’s nothing left to say. With a tight nod, I turn on my heel and head to my room.

In there, the bourbon is smooth, with just enough of a burn to feel like a well-earned punishment. It’s been a week since Leah and I went our separate ways, and bourbon’s been my biggest comfort.

“Hmmm,” I grunt as I take another sip.

It’s 8:00 a.m., and I’m already on my second glass. No wonder my son won’t talk to me. I wouldn’t talk to me either.

I look at my reflection in the mirror as I pull at my tie, tying and retying it as if it might fix everything falling apart. But all it does is bring my tired face into sharper relief—bloodshot eyes, lines deeper than they should be, lips set in a grim line.

I look like a man on the verge of redemption or ruin. And I know which is likelier.

I drain the glass, the bourbon settling like fire in my chest. And in a few minutes, I’m out in my car, giving my driver a curt nod. My phone buzzes just as I settle into the backseat—Jean, my director, wants to know if we’re taking the same flight to Rome for the film festival in a few days.

Suddenly, Rome looms over me like a bad omen, a city haunted by memories I can’t shake. Ezra’s laughter and Leah’s smile were both lost to the streets of that place. And now Caleb’s empty stares and sharp words echo in the back of my mind.

How much more will I lose?

I bite back the urge to snap at him. Same flight, different hell, I think, shoving the phone back into my pocket. Rome is a place I’ll face alone, regardless of who’s on that plane.

When I arrive at the company, my HR manager, Laura, corners me by the elevator, a clipboard hugged tightly to her chest like she needs to have something between us. “Mr. Waverly, I was just wondering if you would come around today—”

“What do you want, Laura?”

“W-we, uh, have some candidates for the PA position since Leah quit, and I’d like you to take a look—”

“I don’t care, Laura.” The words spill out more forcefully than I intended, but I don’t bother correcting them. “Hire a statue for all I care. Just get it done.”

“But, sir, they’ll be working directly with you, and it’d be best if you—”

“Did I stutter? I don’t care who replaces Leah.”

She blinks, thrown off, but nods and steps back. I leave her standing in the hallway, watching after me like I’m some loose cannon ready to explode as I step into the elevator.

I may as well be.

The news is everywhere that Leah and I broke up. Harvey’s made sure of that. This is what he wanted, and he’s gotten it at the end of the day. Now? He’s just taking his victory leap.

In the conference room, I’m greeted by my board members, four men in pressed suits who wear ambition like it’s cologne. This is the last thing I want to do, but I can’t put my life on hold because my heart is broken. I’m not some doe-eyed kid in high school.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I say, followed by a chorused greeting.

There’s Marcus—a fifty-year-old manchild who likes to remind everyone he’s third-generation wealth and couldn’t navigate a bus route if his life depended on it. Beside him is George, who tries to pull off “relatable” by wearing cheap tweed despite beinga millionaire and dropping golf anecdotes, which makes him anything but relatable.

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