Page 1 of Summoning my Grumpy Demon Boss

PROLOGUE

Mia

“Oh my goodness!” My mother leans over the table at the restaurant to show me her phone. “Look at this. Look how adorable you were.”

Onscreen is a picture of a little girl—me, at about four or five—wearing a plastic tiara and a Pumpkin Patch dress with the words ‘Daddy’s Princess’ printed on the front. I have my hands under my chin and my best cute face on.

I look a little closer at the background of the photo. “Is that Kraken Cove?”

Mymother tilts the screen back so she can look. “You know, I think it is. Look, there's the jetty. That must have been your fourth birthday.”

I squint, trying to make out if the structure behind me is the pirate ship playground I remember from when I was a kid, but my mother is already pulling the phone away and typing something.

I remember hours spent playing pirates with the local kids. The sort of preschool friendships formed in an afternoon and forgotten just as quickly. I wanted to be one of them so badly.

Guess nothing much has changed.

I sigh and sink my head into my hand, gazing out the large window overlooking the beach. If I could run away right now, this is the place I would choose. Well, not the golf club. That’s full of middle-aged bougie Sydneysiders and I get enough of them at home. That’s who I’m running from.

No, I want to run away to Kraken Cove.

Outside the window, below the cliff, the waves roll in and crash on picture perfect white sand. The cliffs curl in like arms hugging the little town, and the locals walk backwards and forwards, stopping to chat or let their dogs sniff each other, or just nod to each other on their way.

No one in Sydney nods to each other. In Sydney, you avoid eye contact and try not to notice all the people dressed better than you, with a better haircut, or the right shade of lipstick, or whatever is that week’s must have.

My mother starts telling everyone at the table what a promising child I was. How I learned to write early and could already spell my name by the age of three. She leaves out the part where she sat me down every day and forced me topractise. Lucky for her I always loved any excuse to have a pencil or crayon in my hand. Any chance I got, I’d scribble drawings and bring them to her until the fridge was full and she told me to stop.

I’m only half listening. Through the window, a young man in a sleeveless top and board shorts comes along the path and stops to lean against the wooden railing and look down at the beach below.

I’m in the perfect position to spot the way the defined muscles in his back jump when he raises a hand to brush over his short blond curls. I can’t see his face, but the way he looks at the beach contains so much longing I can feel it for a moment.

His athletic body tapers to narrow hips and a cute bum. His legs and arms are covered in tattoos that give him an artistic edgy look which I love.

Oh my God, who am I? Cute butt? Since when do I even notice men’s bums?

When he turns, I get a look at his face and realise he’s younger than I thought. Maybe twenty. Not much older than me.

He casts a final look over his shoulder and continues on his way. It’s only then I realize my mother is speaking to me.

“Mia, honey, are you listening? Your father asked what you want for lunch.”

“Oh.” I drag my eyes away from the handsome guy and back to my mother’s cool gaze. “Um...” I really want the burger, but I also don’t want the look of judgement I’ll get if I say that. Instead I say, “Just the barramundi. Thanks, Dad.”

A ping from my phone and I glance down to see a notification.

Sandra Sinclair has tagged you in a post.

There’s the picture of four-year-old me, with the caption ‘Happy Birthday, princess. I can’t believe you’re eighteen years old today.’

I force a smile onto my face and look over at my mother. “Aw, thanks, Mum. I might have outgrown the princess thing now, but it’s a lovely picture.”

Her lips thin into a smile that carries a sniff of disappointment. “Mia, you’ll always be our little princess.”

I wonder how much that has to do with her own reluctance to admit she is old enough to have an adult daughter? I keep my wonder to myself.

“Is there anything special you’d like to do today?” Dad asks me when he returns to the table.

I shrug. “Not really. It’s no big deal. I might just take a walk and do some sketching or something.”

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