Page 9 of How to Marry the Boss

Quickly opening my purse, I grab the spray can of mace. I turn on my toes with my arm stretched out, ready to spray. My finger on the trigger.

“Don’t spray, it’s me,” a familiar male voice yells, covering his face with his hands. Jake?

I feel relief wash over me, followed by a sense of frustration, as I put the can back into my purse. “Jeez, Jake. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

He rests his arms at his sides. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just wanted to talk to you.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “About what?”

“When I’ll be moving in.”

I roll my eyes. “Look, you’ve made your point. You don’t need to stretch this joke any more than you already have.”

“That wasn’t a joke. When I said I was your roommate, I meant it.” His voice is serious.

What the hell? “Why would you?—”

“Jonathan and I figured since he’ll be now…occupied, you’ll be needing someone to look after you.”

I stare at him skeptically. “And you’ve decided you’re the man for the job?”

He shrugs. “Someone has to make sure you stay out of trouble.”

Ugh, how many times do I have to tell my brother? I’m not a kid anymore. Using his best friend as a way to keep track of me is going way too far.

And given that Jake seems to be going along with this, his views of me seem to have stayed the same as they were all those years ago.

As if I need reminding.

I scoff. “That’s great and all, but last I checked, I’m not twelve anymore. I can take care of myself. So break your lease and take back your apartment.”

He shakes his head. “No can do. My old place just sold yesterday morning, I put down a deposit for your place yesterday, and all the paperwork has been finalized.”

And I’m just finding out about this now? “Are you fucking crazy?”

“Language.” He lowers his voice to the octave I’ve become familiar with every time I curse in front of him.

I ball my hands into fists.

God, he’s so aggravating.

There’s no getting out of this, and he knows it.

I sigh deeply. I really don’t want to do this, but…

“There will bestrictground rules.”

“I’m listening.” He leans against my car.

“Don’t be a slob. I expect you to clean after yourself. I’m not your maid.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says in that sultry voice of his.

This man is all but asking me to bitch-slap him.

“Stay in your own lane. Unless there’s an emergency, you don’t bother me, and I don’t bother you. Your business is yours. Mine is mine.”

He nods absently, remaining silent. Why do I feel like that isn’t a good sign?

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