Grumpy Boss by Hamel, B. (best non fiction books to read TXT) 📗

I could find it. They’d get another bottle though. Right now, I needed a drink.

I walked into the living room with the bottle under my arm and the glass in my hand. I wondered how the cross would look under the moonlight, and went to the sliding glass door. Before I could open it, I stopped and saw Millie leaning against the balcony, wearing a sweatshirt, and staring up at the sky.

I hesitated, sipped my drink, and took a breath. She didn’t want t see me right now, that much was clear. I couldn’t say exactly why she was pissed—but considering Modesto’s deal clearly made her angry, which only confused me. Our relationship was supposed to be fake, and although I was starting to feel some things I hadn’t felt in a long time, I wasn’t sure if she shared them.

Maybe she did, and this was her way of showing it.

I opened the door and stepped outside. She jumped and turned around, hand going to her throat. I held up my hands, bottle in the left, glass in the right. “Just me,” I said.

“Shit,” she said, sucking in a breath and letting it out. “You scared the crap out of me.”

It was nice out, not cold, not warm. She crossed her arms and leaned against the railing, watching me carefully as I closed the door behind me.

“I thought I’d be alone out here,” I said. “You can’t sleep?”

“No,” she said. “Something about a creepy painting of Mary staring down at me from the wall across from my bed is keeping me up.”

I laughed and sipped my drink, then held up the bottle. “Want some?”

She walked over and took it, then drank it straight. “I thought this house was dry,” she said, returning to her spot against the railing, bottle still in her hand.

“Found it in the kitchen,” I said, and joined her, standing close. I sipped from my glass and savored the smoky, biting warmth as it spread into my stomach. “I guess they need something to take the edge off their employer.”

That got a smile—but a quiet one. “He’s a little abrasive. And that cross.”

I looked over my shoulder. It was still there, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gold, just lying in the grass. “I know.”

“How are you even considering his proposal?” Her words came out in a rush and she turned to me, anger in her eyes. She took another sip and coughed, which only pissed her off. I smiled, unable to help myself.

“It’s not like that,” I said, shaking my head.

“What’s it like then? You’re considering it, aren’t you?”

“For show,” I said softly. “I’m not going to sign any contract. I’m not going to let him tell me who I can or can’t date.”

She bit her lip and stared at me. I could tell she wasn’t sure if she could believe me, but it was the truth. “Explain,” she said.

“If I said no from the start, he would’ve sent us home,” I said, and took another sip. She mirrored me, drinking from the bottle. “I still think I can change his mind and get his investment without making any concessions. I need him to think I’m taking him seriously, or else we have no chance.”

“So it’s all a game?” she asked, making a face. “That’s all it is?”

“You could’ve asked me, you know,” I said, tilting my head. “I would’ve told you.”

“Or you could’ve talked to me about it,” she said, biting off the words, then too ka deep breath. “So you’re not really going to do it?

“No,” I said. “And I never was.”

She sighed and leaned her head back, looking up at the moon. It was nearly full, one sliver away, and tomorrow it would shine like ice on a sunny day. “I should’ve guessed that,” she said. “You’re not the kind of man to give up control, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” I admitted, smiling a little. “But I have to ask, why do you care so much if I do take the deal?”

“Because,” she started, then stopped herself and looked toward the opposite side of the deck, where a group of chairs and loungers were gathered around a fire pit. “It feels like our deal doesn’t matter to you. Like this whole fake relationship isn’t part of your plan anymore.”

“Does that matter?” I pressed. “You’re in this for the money. Isn’t it better if you don’t have to act?”

“Maybe,” she said, looking at me, and I saw something there, yearning and angry and confused, and I knew that look mirrored my own feelings, locked up deep in my chest. I took another drink and savored it—then moved closer to her, closing the gap between us.

She kept her eyes on mine, and didn’t try to pull away.

“Maybe it’s something more,” I said. “Maybe you’re starting to feel something.”

“Rees,” she said, her jaw flexing. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” I reached out and touched her face. She leaned against my palm, then looked up into my eyes. “You can keep pretending, if you want. But this stopping being a game for me a while ago.”

She chewed on her lip and I didn’t wait for her to answer.

I turned, pinned her against the railing, and kissed her.

She kissed me back, almost right away, and dropped the bottle onto the desk.

It hit with a hollow thud—but didn’t break. We stopped the kiss and watched it roll away, spilling whisky as it went.

Then I kissed her again, and didn’t give a damn about anything else. My hands on her hips, moving up her waist, over her breasts, into her hair. My glass fell to the ground, bounced, rolled off. I moved her toward the loungers and pulled her down on top of me, and she let out a little gasp, but neither of us spoke as I stripped off her shirt, her pale skin so beautiful in the moonlight, my hands on her breasts, her bra tossed aside, her lips on mine, her skin smooth and supple—

And I knew I’d never