Page 8 of Dear Grumpy Boss

I freeze as a new thought strikes me. In a blink, my body goes from freezing to a full-body flush. Heat zings through my veinsand I feel like that avatar again. Unlocking a new level in my quest to understand Sasha.

I’m her boss and she gluts herself on that particular theme in romance. I squint at one of the subtitles and then another.

I’m actively unhappy here, she said. Now that I mull it over, it’s such a specific statement to make. And she’s definitely not leaving for another man. I’m sure of that.

Is she quitting because of what she feels for me? What type of feelings are they?

Is my shy, bookish, curvy—and apparently very horny—assistant attracted to me? My heart makes a leap.

The idea of figuring out what Mouse wants from me makes my cock thicken painfully in my trousers.

Four

Sasha

The party startsin three hours.

I should be overseeing things at the ballroom of the luxury hotel across the street from our office, checking the arrangements are in place and the caterers have everything they need.

But here I am, standing at the sink in the luxurious bathroom attached to the penthouse apartment that is exclusively for Zayn or Nathaniel’s use, scrubbing jelly from my cardigan. As if to match my mood, the sun has disappeared in a matter of minutes and a fierce downpour has begun.

I feel wired, and it’s not the good kind of wired, like from sugar.

I knew Zayn would feel inconvenienced by my resignation notice.

He’s a man who thrives on order and structure and doesn’t like any deviations. But his interrogation about my reasons—the pointed “was I leaving him for another guy”—twists my belly.

Did I imagine the near-possessive glint in his eye? Have I fallen completely off this plane of reality and into fantasyland, like my friend Mariska is constantly warning me?

Then there’s the way his gaze drifted over the stain I’m now scrubbing from the cardigan. Lingering on my chest area.

With a sigh, I hang the cardigan on the towel rack and grab the hair dryer from under the counter. I turn it on. Regrets fill me, as loud as the whirring buzz of the dryer.

Maybe I should’ve waited until the summer. Maybe I…

The door slams open, nearly hitting me in the butt, and is caught by a corded forearm, preventing it from slamming back again.

“There you are,” says Zayn, his short, wavy hair disheveled.

His V-necked henley sticks to his chest, and there’s coiled tension in his lean body, even though he’s clearly worked out in the state-of-the-art gym on the ground floor.

He pushes his body to the extreme when he’s feeling unsettled or is unable to calm his brain.

Clearly, he’s more than just bothered by my leaving. He’s upset. And that I’m causing him pain messes with my resolve.

“Zayn?” I whisper his name, desperate to remove that harassed look from his eyes.

His wild amber gaze barely meets mine before sliding down my neck and my torso.

Myhalf-nakedtorso.

Okay, maybe not half-naked, given I’m wearing my favorite bra. A blush-pink lacy thing that’s merely window dressing because nothing this flimsy can restrain my boobs.

Which are straining, and even jiggling slightly, with my rushed breaths.

My skin heats at his continued perusal. I feel the blush climbing up my chest, as if it’s his fingers drawing patterns there. For a second, his gaze sweeps down, over the thick curve of my belly, my belly button ring, and then down to my hips, where my leather skirt sits snugly.

Then it comes back up, hitches for a second on the ring, and lands on my chest again.

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