Page 1 of Bourbon Wishes
Chapter One
Constance
"No."
My hands ball into fists as Bastian Grayson, my pain-in-the-ass boss, rejects yet another of my proposals with a casual flick of his wrist. He doesn't even look up at me. Instead, he flips to the next page, his green eyes scanning intently across the page.
Yet another rejection falls from his lips approximately two seconds later.
"Definitely not."
"Murder is illegal," I mutter.
He glances up at me, his penetrating gaze boring into mine. And for a split second, I forget that the man is completely infuriating. All I remember is the way he gripped my hair in my dreams last night while he was driving into me.
That's it, Constance. Work your hips just like that for me.
I woke up with the sheets twisted around me and his name falling from my lips. Kind of like it wants to do every time he looks at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all day.
Bastian is a mystery to me. The man is beautiful, brilliant…and a total nightmare. But sometimes when he looks at me, his eyes soften for a split second, and he almost seems human. Approachable.
I am not crazy enough to fall for it. Even his own family thinks he's a holy terror with a stick up his butt the size of a redwood. They aren't wrong. He could give an actual dictator a run for his money, and the only thing he's running is a vineyard. A ridiculously lucrative vineyard, but my point remains. The man is out of control.
I think he was born with that domineering attitude and that unholy glower fully formed. It's hot as hell, don't get me wrong. Actually, everything about him is gorgeous, from the way his dark hair swoops over his brooding forehead to the reading glasses perched on his Roman nose to his full lips and angular jaw to the way his impeccable suit stretches across his muscular body.
He's got the face of an angel and the body of a warrior god.
The disposition of Satan should ruin the effect, but apparently, perpetual grump is my type, and bossy as hell is my kink. You learn something new every day, right?
I certainly didn't know I had a type before I took this job three months ago. And if I had known, I don't think my boss is who I would have pictured. The man is my exact opposite in every way.
I'm short and curvy. Leggings and oversized sweaters are my happy place, and comfort is the name of my game. I think complete world domination is his.
I live for sunshine, good vibes, great wine, andeasy.
He's surly times one thousand.
I don't think I've ever actually heard him laugh. He smiles sometimes. Usually, when he's doing something that he knows his brother and cousins will freaking hate. I think he gets off on making them dance on his strings.
Which is just further proof that, even if my subconscious hasn't gotten the memo, the two of us would never work. Forget about the fact that he's my boss. He's a literal terrorist of fun.
And something about that makes me desperate to add a little chaos to his neatly ordered world. I want to flip it upside down, spin it inside out, and push every button he has. I am dying to make this man crack.
Just so we're clear, thatisn'ta good thing.
I actually love my job here. I don't want to lose it because he makes me homicidal and horny at the same damn time, and sleeping with my boss has disaster written all over it.
"What was that?" he asks in that voice that's somehow smooth as whiskey and as rough as sandpaper at the same time. It's deep, dark…sexy as hell. He speaks, and my clit tingles. It'sthatkind of deep.
"Nothing," I say sweetly. "I was just contemplating the legalities of strangling you with your own tie."
And that's the other reason the two of us could never, would never work. My mouth and the things that come out of it. I have a filter. Sometimes, I even use it. But it checked out about the time he glowered at me the first time.
Honestly, I don't know why he tolerates my mouth. But I'm pretty sure his entire family has forbidden him from firing me because they love me—or they love that I stand up to him—so I push my luck all day, every damn day. It keeps me from day-drinking the fancy wine we sell here.
His impenetrable gaze flickers to the tie in question—silk as black as his soul—and then back to me. He doesn't say anything for a beat, and then his lip twitches. It'snota smile. It's that thing he does when he wants to bend me to his will but holds back. He does that a lot…holds back. There's always a rough retort right on the tip of his tongue. It's right there in his eyes—the desire to make me behave the way he thinks I should. It makes him crazy that he can't control me like he does everything else in his muscadine kingdom. But he never says a word.
I think I could tell him to go fuck himself with a rusty pole, and he'd just…look at me like he is right now. Like he's dying to get his hands on me and spank my ass until I swear I'll be a good little employee. But that would be against the rules. And Bastian Graysonneverbreaks the rules.
