Page 1 of Dear Grumpy Boss

Sasha

Decidingto quit my job is the hardest decision I’ve ever made.

The uncharacteristically sunny February day teases me as I walk around the deserted Seattle downtown after picking up burritos from a food truck. As if the city’s granting me a sunny day, tempting me to stay.

I love this city and my job and having to quit makes tears prickle behind my eyes.

But I also love my boss.

Not like I love the cherry blossoms that take over UW campus in spring or my grandmother’s crispy potato fries or even the smoky, dark donuts that are my only sin. No, this love is all-consuming.

I’m head over heels in love with my boss.

Zayn Grayson, yes,thatfamous tech billionaire and adventure-sports dudeis my older brother’s best friend, my first and only crush,andmy boss.

I’ve been working for him since I was a pimply-faced eighteen-year-old. The acne is gone, thank God.

Now, five years later, with my world limited to one best friend, one cat, one carefully curated e-book library—whichincludes a million book boyfriends—the crush from my teens has bloomed.

Into a boatload of pining after a man who still sees me as his best friend’s shy, bookish, ugly-ass younger sister who he gave a job to. Out of loyalty toward his friend.

Oh, did I mention I’m known as Ugly Shetty around the office? Given my last name is Shetty, it works, I guess. The first time I heard it, I googled the showUgly Betty, then binge-watched it.

Betty’s hardly ugly and neither am I.

It doesn’t help that I wear thick glasses—anything remotely near my eyes freaks my tear ducts out. Add in my thick, frizzy hair I throw into a ponytail and my gap-toothed smile, you get the picture.

Oh, and thanks to my love for jelly-filled donuts, I’m round everywhere.

The problem is that I work at a tech millionaire’s adventure-sports magazine. The staff thinks it’s a capital crime to take the elevator. Or God forbid, eat a carb occasionally.

I shake my head as I walk into the open layout and hand out the little burrito bowls with no rice or sour cream or cheese to a few of them. Just lettuce and meat, looking lonely and sad together.

So how does a plain, curvy, shy bookworm fallout of lovewith her six-foot-three-inch boss who’s been described as a modern god, in looks and wealth by the media?

She can’t.

And so, I have to quit. Even if it’s irresponsible. Not like I have another cushy job lined up. Nor does my brother have more than one billionaire friend to hand out pity jobs.

But being in love with a man who doesn’t see past my frizzy hair, thick glasses, and round face is hard and I’ve had enough.

My fingers cramp as I type my resignation email. As if my body’s rebelling against the act. The screen blurs, but I forge on.

I type “Dear Grumpy Billionaire Boss,” and then delete it.

A bit cowardly to send my two weeks’ notice when he’s out of town and the annual work party is tonight. But I can hardly get a word out when he’s in front of me, all brooding eyes and sharp angles. What if, in my misery, I blurt out why I’m quitting?

No thank you, more humiliation.

My glasses steam up as I check my grammar and hit send.

Sniffling, I walk to the small kitchenette. This day needs two burritos, and I don’t care who sees it or how my tights cut off my belly. But first I need a pick-me-up.

Grabbing the chocolate-jelly filled donut, I chomp down with relish. Flavors explode on my tongue and I moan.

The jelly drips down my mouth and onto my pink sweater. Cursing inwardly, I dab at it and lick the remnants from my fingers. But the damn thing only spreads and I groan.

Could this day get any worse?

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