Page 48 of Grumpy Alien Boss

I break the kiss and land a firm swat on her ass through the fur. "March, little brat."

"Yes, Sir," she replies, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm.

My mate's defiant spirit never fails to stir my blood. Tonight will be a long one, testing both our limits. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

CHAPTER 19

OLIVIA

I’m hunched over my laptop at the kitchen island, humming some half-remembered tune as my fingers fly across the keyboard. Spreadsheets. Glorious, calming spreadsheets. The numbers don’t lie, don’t judge, don’t care that today is the day I’m supposed to be a blushing bride. They just sit there, neat and orderly, and I love them for it.

The sound of the front door slamming open makes me jump. Mel storms in, her arms crossed and her face a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

“Olivia McGee—soon to be Rook, I might add—what thehellare you doing?”

I don’t even look up. “Crunching numbers. You know, the usual.”

She marches over and slams my laptop shut. “It’s yourwedding day. You’re supposed to be getting ready, not pretending you’re in some corporate finance seminar.”

“Mel, I’m fine. Spreadsheets are my happy place. They’re keeping me calm. You know, avoiding the whole ‘bridezilla’ thing.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not fooling anyone. You’re nervous, and instead of dealing with it like a normal person, you’re burying yourself in Excel.”

“Guilty,” I admit, standing up and stretching. “But it’s working, isn’t it? No tears, no tantrums, just... pivot tables.”

Mel groans, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the door. “You’re impossible. Maurice is waiting, and if we’re late, he might actually combust. And trust me, no one wants to see that.”

I let her pull me into the hallway, where Maurice is pacing like a caffeinated peacock. His tailored suit is immaculate, and his hair is so perfectly coiffed it looks like it could deflect bullets. He stops mid-stride when he sees us, his hands flying to his hips.

“There you are! Do you have any idea how much time we’ve lost? Any idea at all? This is not a rehearsal, Olivia. This isthe day. The day! And you’re—what? Playing accountant?”

“Spreadsheets,” I correct him, smirking. “And I’m fine, Maurice. Really.”

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine? Fine is not the word I would use. Fine is for people who don’t have a timeline that’s tighter than a corset on a Victorian debutante. Now, move!”

Mel shoves me toward the elevator, and Maurice follows, muttering something in French that I’m pretty sure isn’t complimentary. The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside. Maurice immediately starts tapping his foot, his eyes darting to his watch every two seconds.

“Relax, Maurice,” I say, leaning against the wall. “It’s not like Dar’s going to leave me at the altar if we’re five minutes late.”

He glares at me. “This is not about your fiancé, Olivia. This is aboutperfection. And perfection does not tolerate tardiness.”

The elevator dings, and we step out into the lobby. The limo is waiting, its black exterior gleaming under the morning sun. Maurice ushers us toward it, his hands fluttering like he’s herding cats.

“In, in, in!” he commands, opening the door and practically shoving us inside.

I slide into the plush leather seat, Mel beside me, and Maurice takes the seat opposite. He pulls out a tablet and starts scrolling through his schedule, muttering to himself.

Mel leans over and whispers, “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be calm, you’re stressing out the most high-strung man in New York.”

I grin. “Mission accomplished.”

The limo glides through Manhattan, the city a blur of steel and glass outside the tinted windows. Maurice is still muttering about timelines, his tablet glowing in his hands, but I tune him out. My stomach twists, and it’s not just wedding jitters. I glance at Mel, who’s fiddling with the hem of her dress, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to decide whether to say something.

“Spit it out,” I say, leaning back against the seat. “You’ve got that look on your face like you’re about to drop a bombshell.”

Mel hesitates, then sighs. “It’s about your mom, Liv.”

I stiffen. “What about her?”

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