Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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MY BODY HAS THE STRANGEST reaction to his words. For once, it's not just the timbre of Mr. Griffin's voice—the smooth, sexy cadence—that threatens to weaken my steely resolve. It's the words themselves: I'm looking, Summer. They crackle along my skin, raising the fine hairs on my arms. How am I even supposed to respond to that?
AllI want is to have some space to process what I've just been told, but he's in my apartment, in my living room, encroaching on every square metre of my personal territory, and I can't breathe.
Mr. Griffin does, however, give me the next best thing—silence. A few beats of pure, sweet silence to process everything he's said. And I cherish every single one of them.
My heart thunders against my ribcage, and an incredible rush of heat and confusion surges through me. My head is spinning, a carousel of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
I'm glad I'm not the only one subjected to this . . . ridiculous attraction. I've had to push it down for the last eight months and pretend it doesn't exist. One, he's my boss. Technically, he's not anymore. The voice is back, but I bat it away. Two, he's generally unpleasant. I'm talking about an ominous black cloud at the office. He'd drift into a room, darken the mood, suck any warmth or good feeling out, and leave everyone feeling cold and drained. I'm not interested in getting involved with someone like that—an energy vampire, according to Zac. Generally unpleasant being the keyword because I can't quite describe the man who's in front of me now, sitting on the edge of my couch.
"The office isn't the same anymore. You need to come back," he adds quietly, casually, like he hasn't just removed the safety pin from the verbal grenade he's rolled between us.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
There's a live, tense charge to the air. Whatever is going on, it's minutes, maybe even seconds, away from exploding, and I know I'm helpless to stop it. To shield myself from the damage it's going to inflict.
"I do?" I exhale.
"Yes."
Mr. Griffin has an answer for everything. That's one thing I can appreciate about him. You always know where you stand—or so I thought.
"How much have you had to drink tonight?" I ask, giving him an out. Take it. Please.It's not too late. "Are you even going to remember this tomorrow? I'll come back to work—hypothetically speaking, of course—and you'll forget you were ever here, on my couch."
"Not possible."
For another long moment, all I can do is stare down at him. That odd fluttering sensation is back, building deep in my stomach. "I don't know, Max."
"Like I told your roommate, I'm not drunk," he reassures me. "I stopped drinking hours ago and know exactly what I'm doing. This . . . You—" He swallows like there's a lead ball in his throat. "Fuck. You're really not going to make this easy for me, are you?"
