Page 25 of Boss Unyielding (Boss 1)

“Neither,” he finally answered, and he was thankful when she didn’t pry. He knew she could always sense the kind of mood he was in, and could always handle him like no one else could. This woman was a saint, and God, he loved her for it.

He sure as hell didn’t want to admit why he was really here. After spending weeks, agonizing fucking weeks of avoiding Farren, he had finally gotten the opportunity he’d been waiting for. A project no one else in his company was capable of handling with the level of skill and finesse that she was notorious for.

It was all he could do to wait until she had arrived that morning to offer the project to her, for them to work on together. What was worse, nothing turned him on more than seeing the cogs in her mind at work. Her intelligence was a fucking aphrodisiac like he’d never known, and fuck how young she was. No woman his age or even older had held a candle to this young woman’s mind that she was so modest about.

Then he had walked her out that night to find some hormone-ridden, young fuck waiting for her. Now, here he was, with a lot of thinking to do.

Elaina bent down to lean her elbows on the bar across from him, catching his attention.

“Where’d you go?” she asked. “You looked like you were a million miles away just now. Is something bothering you?”

He sat quietly, pensive, for a moment.

What the hell, he thought.

“You ever want something that was so off-limits, you knew you’d be fucked the moment you held it in your hands?”

She nodded. “Maybe… but Rogan, when have limits ever been able to stop you?”

Yep, she knew him too god-damned well.

He was quiet for a while, so she rose from the bar and went back to her busy work, pouring another drink when he had finished the one before it.

After a while, she walked around the counter and sat on the stool next to him. “I was visiting his grave the other day,” she said, quietly.

He tried to swallow a knot down that had formed in his throat at the mention of her words.

“I see,” he said.

“You’ve been there, too.” She knew he had. It wasn’t a question, but an observation.

“How do you know?”

“Who else would leave a five-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch at the foot of a gravestone?” she accused.

And he was guilty as charged.

Fuck, he thought. Between the ghost of Craigan and the ghost of Farren haunting his thoughts tonight, he knew he’d need several more drinks if he was going to get any sleep.

SEVENTEEN

Farren woke the following morning with plans to take Gramma to a doctor’s appointment. There was just one small problem. She had woken with a raging storm ravaging in her stomach. She was so nauseous, she could barely move for the way it would jostle her and set her off again.

She felt miserable.

“Farren, are you okay, dear?” Gramma called through the bathroom door.

She had to pull it together. She knew Gramma was depending on her, so she would have to somehow get control of herself.

“Yes, I’m okay, Gramma. I’ll be out…”

She was cut off by another violent heave.

“I’ll be right out,” she clamored.

She couldn’t tell if Gramma was still outside the door or not, but didn’t hear a response. She stood and splashed water on her face, rinsed her mouth, and leaned against the bathroom wall where she could see herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were red and splotchy, but underneath, she was as pale as a reanimated zombie.

Thinking the worst was behind her, she finally opened the bathroom door to see Gramma approaching with a small glass of light-green liquid.

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