Page 3 of Grumpy Alien Boss

She scurries back to her seat like a scolded schoolgirl. Those three words echo in my head. You're not in charge. My mind wanders to decidedly unprofessional places, imagining that voice whispering those same words in very different circumstances...

Personal assistant? My stomach drops through the polished marble floor. Not entry-level marketing like the job posting said. The Chanel twins' snickers feel like daggers in my back now.

I should leave. Just stand up and walk out before I embarrass myself further. My broken heel scrapes against the floor as I shift my weight.

No. I didn't come this far to quit. Mom always said my stubbornness would get me in trouble, but it's also gotten me everything I've ever achieved.

Rook's fingers dance across his tablet's screen, his red eyes scanning whatever's displayed there. The harsh overhead lights catch the sharp angles of his face.

"So many qualified candidates. Ivy league degrees. Internships at Fortune 500 companies. All so, so..."

"Impressive?" Some guy in an Italian suit preens, adjusting his Rolex.

"No." Rook's voice cracks like a whip. "Worthless! I can't get a measure of your fighting spirit from a resume! I don't want simpering sycophants, I want...no, I demand briefcase WARRIORS. Soldiers willing to march to my orders right into Hell and back."

The words bypass my brain and go straight to my mouth.

"Fuck yeah!"

Oh god. Did I just say that out loud?

Fifty heads swivel toward me like synchronized robots. The silence feels thick enough to cut with a knife. Rook's piercing gaze pins me to the wall, and I fight the urge to slide down it and melt into a puddle of mortification.

His finger points straight at me, and my heart stops. Those red eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.

"Say that again."

My throat goes dry. "Um... fuck yeah?"

One dark eyebrow arches up, and something dangerous flashes in his expression. A challenge. My pulse quickens.

I square my shoulders, channeling every ounce of that fire that got me kicked out of ballet class.

"FUCK YEAH!"

The smile that spreads across his face is pure predator, all sharp edges and promises. My knees go weak, and I'm grateful for the wall supporting me.

"Good. Keep that fire for the challenge portion of the interview and you will succeed."

The Harvard MBA's hand shoots up like we're in grade school. "Challenge portion?"

The smile vanishes from Rook's face as if it never existed. He turns toward the door, his broad shoulders blocking the light.

"Follow me."

The command in his voice brooks no argument. The room erupts in squeaking chairs and shuffling feet as fifty candidates scramble to comply. I peel myself off the wall, my metal-bracketed heel clicking against the floor as I fall into line with the others.

Whatever this challenge is, I'm ready. Bring it on.

CHAPTER 2

DAR

The scent of her hits me first - vanilla and something spicy underneath. My scales itch beneath this human glamour as I lead the candidates to the lobby.

"Three lives each." I pick up a laser tag vest, letting the familiar weight settle in my hands. "Last one standing gets the job."

"This is ridiculous." The Harvard graduate's cologne reeks of desperation and overpriced mediocrity. "We're here for a business position, not some arcade game."

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