Page 24 of Dear Grumpy Boss

It’s the most ridiculous hope ever because this woman is a whole fucking sun around whom the rest of us should be orbiting.

“You did something different with your hair,” I say, fingering the edges of the silky strands battling me to claim the spot over her lush bottom. I’m also jealous of the slinky fabric draping sinfully against curves that belong to me.

Her brown eyes, made up with glittery gold makeup, are stunning. If I look too long into them, I might drown and disappear. Which isn’t a bad fate for the rest of my life. I just need my wits about me for this night.

Her hands hang loosely over my shoulder, instead of lacing around my neck.

She’s short enough that she’d have to stretch herself to do that and unfortunately for me, I know she’s not that comfortable with PDA. Especially among the same staff that has mocked her.

But at least I get to hold her, and that soothes some part of me.

“Mariska came over and did my hair and makeup. I usually don’t bother because it’s a lot of work. For tonight, I wanted to look beautiful.”

“I meant what I said earlier, Mouse. You don’t have to straighten your hair or wear contacts or dress differently to look beautiful. You always are.”

“You truly think that,” she says, mouth slack.

“I do,” I say through a gritted jaw, wishing I could undo years of society’s unfair commentary. “I always thought so.”

She blooms like a sunflower at the simple truth, her smile full of joy. I realize, with a hard swallow, that she’s happy right now.Here, with me.

Every inch of me craves to nurture and protect that happiness.

My hands tighten just a bit on the tight indent of her waist and she presses her cheek to my chest. Our thighs meet and part easily, as if our bodies know each other already. A sultry jazz tune fills the air and the simple truth that I could spend entire nights like this with her floods me.

Around us, the ballroom shines like a pretty snow globe brought to life. In each swirling fairy light and shining decoration, I see my girl’s heart.

As we circle the dance floor slowly, I’m mobbed by my staff—half of whose faces I don’t know—about how fun the party is, how much they appreciate the thoughtful, personalized gift cards, the food, and the best of all—the arrangements for their kids to enjoy the party.

With each compliment, I see a little smile stretch Mouse’s mouth. But not once does she take or ask credit for it. She put in so many hours—negotiated with me like a badassover the budget—because she wants everyone to feel seen and appreciated.

It’s that generous heart of hers that keeps me hooked, year after year. Even before I began thirsting for her in a different way.

Now, as I feel her curvy body sway against me in a tantalizing push-and-pull rhythm, I’m amazed by my own stupidity in not realizing how much she might have been starved for my praise, or even just attention. She’s a girl who thrives when she makes others happy. And there were so many instances when she pretzeled herself to please me.

For the first time since this morning, I consider if my company is the right place for her. Like she said, I can’t watch over her all day unless I tie her to my desk. Which has its appeal.

I tuck my chin over her head, pull her close and sneak a look at my watch. My heart thunders in my chest at the prospect of stealing her away from this crowd. Neither she nor I are social animals, and all I wanted was to shut up the asses who called her that name, anyway.

It’s the only reason I’m on the dance floor.

Ignoring her giant-ass brother waving his arms from near the exit is easy. “You did a phenomenal job with the party, Mouse. Thank you.”

She looks up at me and nods.

“I should have shown up more at these events in the last few years, huh?”

“I don’t hold it against you. I know how allergic you are to people.”

I throw my head back and laugh. She pulls back from my tight hold and her fingers come up to my mouth. Every inch of me stills, anticipation a tight fist in my stomach. With a huffy breath, she begins to pull her hand back.

I circle her wrist with my fingers but don’t pull or push.

“Touch me.” My words are a whispered demand.

She looks around, shoulders bowing with self-consciousness. “I…I want to keep this between us, Zayn. For tonight at least?” Her gaze pleads with me when it should command. “It feels like my very own delicious secret.”

I nod, slightly mollified.

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