Dear Grumpy Boss (Bossily Ever After #1)

1. Sasha

One

Sasha

Deciding to quit my job is the hardest decision I’ve ever made.

The uncharacteristically sunny February day teases me as I walk around the deserted Seattle downtown after picking up burritos from a food truck. As if the city’s granting me a sunny day, tempting me to stay.

I love this city and my job and having to quit makes tears prickle behind my eyes.

But I also love my boss.

Not like I love the cherry blossoms that take over UW campus in spring or my grandmother’s crispy potato fries or even the smoky, dark donuts that are my only sin. No, this love is all-consuming.

I’m head over heels in love with my boss.

Zayn Grayson, yes, that famous tech billionaire and adventure-sports dude is my older brother’s best friend, my first and only crush, and my boss.

I’ve been working for him since I was a pimply-faced eighteen-year-old. The acne is gone, thank God.

Now, five years later, with my world limited to one best friend, one cat, one carefully curated e-book library—which includes a million book boyfriends—the crush from my teens has bloomed.

Into a boatload of pining after a man who still sees me as his best friend’s shy, bookish, ugly-ass younger sister who he gave a job to. Out of loyalty toward his friend.

Oh, did I mention I’m known as Ugly Shetty around the office? Given my last name is Shetty, it works, I guess. The first time I heard it, I googled the show Ugly Betty , then binge-watched it.

Betty’s hardly ugly and neither am I.

It doesn’t help that I wear thick glasses—anything remotely near my eyes freaks my tear ducts out. Add in my thick, frizzy hair I throw into a ponytail and my gap-toothed smile, you get the picture.

Oh, and thanks to my love for jelly-filled donuts, I’m round everywhere.

The problem is that I work at a tech millionaire’s adventure-sports magazine. The staff thinks it’s a capital crime to take the elevator. Or God forbid, eat a carb occasionally.

I shake my head as I walk into the open layout and hand out the little burrito bowls with no rice or sour cream or cheese to a few of them. Just lettuce and meat, looking lonely and sad together.

So how does a plain, curvy, shy bookworm fall out of love with her six-foot-three-inch boss who’s been described as a modern god, in looks and wealth by the media?

She can’t.

And so, I have to quit. Even if it’s irresponsible. Not like I have another cushy job lined up. Nor does my brother have more than one billionaire friend to hand out pity jobs.

But being in love with a man who doesn’t see past my frizzy hair, thick glasses, and round face is hard and I’ve had enough.

My fingers cramp as I type my resignation email. As if my body’s rebelling against the act. The screen blurs, but I forge on.

I type “ Dear Grumpy Billionaire Boss ,” and then delete it.

A bit cowardly to send my two weeks’ notice when he’s out of town and the annual work party is tonight. But I can hardly get a word out when he’s in front of me, all brooding eyes and sharp angles. What if, in my misery, I blurt out why I’m quitting?

No thank you, more humiliation.

My glasses steam up as I check my grammar and hit send.

Sniffling, I walk to the small kitchenette. This day needs two burritos, and I don’t care who sees it or how my tights cut off my belly. But first I need a pick-me-up.

Grabbing the chocolate-jelly filled donut, I chomp down with relish. Flavors explode on my tongue and I moan.

The jelly drips down my mouth and onto my pink sweater. Cursing inwardly, I dab at it and lick the remnants from my fingers. But the damn thing only spreads and I groan.

Could this day get any worse?

A sudden hush falls over the office and I realize it’s been like that for a few minutes now. My spine goes rigid as I realize the universe has answered my question.

Not only can it get worse, it just has.

Standing right in front of me, watching me suck my finger like my life depends on it, is none other than my grumpy billionaire boss, Zayn Grayson.

I wait for that twitch of his mouth that says “Oh Mouse! You’ve made another mess,” without actually saying it.

Instead, he simply strides past me, leaving me staring after him.

Still sucking my fingertip.

The freeze-state I’m thrown into at his sudden arrival lasts a whole minute.

“Sasha!” Zayn calls out, the door to his office half open.

I flinch, nearly choke on the donut. After a couple of croaking attempts, I manage to keep it down. At the sink, I fill my glass and take a quick sip as he bellows again.

“In my office. Now!”

It rings around the open layout, creeping into every nook and corner. This is as much a ritual as the call I make to him every evening at six, no matter what time zone he’s in.

But now, the way he summons me grates on me.

In the background, the radio station is belting out classic love songs, continuing its theme for Valentine’s Day, oblivious to my misery.

Heads turn toward me as if I’m a car-crash they can’t look away from. There are even a couple of gleeful smiles. “What’d you do, Ugly Shetty?” someone whispers.

I’m shy, not stupid.

Through the years, I’ve sensed a certain… envy toward me in the office. My alleged relationship with Zayn being the source. Thanks to my brother Adam dropping in whenever he likes to shoot shit with Zayn and then doing something silly like ruffling my hair or teasing me in front of Zayn, the staff thinks I have a certain leeway with him.

If anything, I have only ever worked harder than anyone else to prove, to myself and to him, that I deserve this job. Though fair-minded, Zayn is notorious for his exacting standards and grouchy demeanor.

Knees quaking, I wipe my mouth, check my teeth in the chrome face of the coffeemaker, and start the trek to his office.

“Close the door,” he barks as I drag myself in.

And yet, there’s that current pulsing through me, coalescing in the place I shouldn’t think about at work. It’s the deep timbre of his voice and the strange, feverish vibrations it always sends through me.

I can’t bear to look at him. Not when his room, with three walls made of glass from floor to ceiling, is drenched in sunlight and everything in my eyes could be seen.

Presenting my back to him, I close the door and count down from ten, forcing myself to breathe in between each number.

“If you’re done hyperventilating, maybe turn around and face me?”

He’s really bringing the grump and the snark this evening. Usually, I at least get a chin nod.

I turn around and am instantly pinned to the spot by his catlike eyes. He glowers at me from under devilish eyebrows. His short hair is and ruffled, the kind of thickness that really makes you want to sink your fingers in.

Really, how is it fair that he gets the best of everything from his Arab mother and Italian American father?

The thought brings instant shame to coil in my chest. For all that he has inherited beautiful genes from his parents, it’s not like he had a happy childhood with them.

“Hello, Zayn,” I finally say, straightening my shoulders to match my stiff tone. “Mira said you weren’t returning until the end of the month.” Mira’s his second assistant, responsible for scheduling his trips and overseas meetings.

“And miss your grandparents’ anniversary dinner tomorrow?” he says, raising a brow.

Worry coils through me and I rub my hands over my thighs. For as long as I remember, we celebrated my grandparents’ wedding anniversary dinner grandly. After our parents passed away, Adam and I continued the tradition. And Zayn was always a part of any family celebration. “Didn’t Adam tell you that they’re traveling? Grandpa found a cheap fare like two days ago, and they finally decided to go on that cruise.”

“Oh,” he says, and I see the flash of disappointment before he covers it up.

How could I forget that Zayn has attended nearly every annual family dinner at our house, including celebrating our grandparents’ wedding anniversary, for almost fifteen years? From that first year since Adam brought him home.

Because all I could think of in the last week was my decision. Even factoring in that I would have an empty house to wallow in, in my unemployed state and unrequited love.

“Don’t worry,” I say, instantly wanting to soothe the dark shadows in his eyes. “I told Adam we should—”

“The arrangements for tonight’s party?” he says, switching gears.

“Everything’s been double- and triple-checked,” I say, confidence and excitement filling my voice.

The annual company party is my baby through and through, and I love organizing it. Despite Mira trying to hone in on it in the past couple of years. “Music, food, gifts. There will be three childminders for the eight kids. I ordered pizza, a bunch of coloring books & crayons, and there will be cookie decorating with Miriam from accounting. I even got one of those balloon guys into the budget. You know the ones who make balloons in fun shapes—”

“Mira said you canceled the DJ she recommended?” He’s skimming through whatever is on his laptop.

“I…” Words lock in my throat. I fidget with the octopus shaped squishy I got him as a gag gift for his birthday last year. Not that he used it much.

He looks up, and just for a second, I feel his gaze snag on my breasts filling out the pink cardigan.

Not a chance he’s ogling my rack . My excitement fizzes like bubbles out of a soda can. He’s clearly looking at the yogurt stain near my left boob.

“Yes?” he says, raising that imperious eyebrow.

“He charges an exorbitant amount for two hours. Plus, he expected us to rent all the equipment he needs. The one I found, she’s an up-and-coming artist who’s open to requests and brings her equipment in.”

“Your choice has nothing to do with the fact that she’s your best friend from middle school? I’m running a business here, Sasha. Not a charity co-op.”

Anger rises through me as I hear Mira’s words reverberate in his. Ever since she started eighteen months ago as his second assistant, I had this sense of being pushed aside.

Zayn even looks at me less, if that’s possible.

Luckily for me, the anger contains the stupid tears. “Did you know that I actually had her come in and audition in front of Nathaniel?” I say, mentioning Zayn’s half brother, who knows his music.

Nathaniel is older, co-owns the Grayson empire, and is generally a lot more approachable. Really, the brothers complement each other perfectly. The only similarity they share, with different fathers and coloring, is that they are both entirely too good-looking and have the world arranged to cater to their every whim.

Every time they visit the premises together—which only happens a handful of times each year, thank God—the entire office goes into a hormonal, swoony frenzy.

Zayn leans back and considers me. “Why?”

“Why what?” I say belligerently. The act of writing that email and sending it off has filled me with a certain recklessness that seeps into my tone now.

Something flashes across those catlike eyes. “Why did you have her audition with Nathaniel?”

“I wanted the best DJ within our budget and Nathan’s opinion of her would be objective and weighty. Also, because you’ve trained me, and all your staff, to seek a second opinion when one’s not the subject expert.”

A sudden smile spreads those lips wider. The sheer sparkle of his smile strikes me deep in my chest as if it’s Cupid’s arrow. My heart thuds, as if it has been shocked by one of the defibrillator things I keep seeing in medical dramas. “Feeling grumpy today, are we?” he says, that smile carving a dimple in his left cheek.

“I take offense at your comment that I abused the little power I have in my position and also your belief in Mira’s spurious claim.”

That smile still lingers, but something else touches its edges. Something…hot. I want to both smack it off his lips and lick it for myself. But as urgent and all-consuming as the urge is, I refuse to hide myself away like I used to.

“Little power, Mouse?” he says. “I didn’t know you wanted more.”

Shock, both his and mine, fills the room. I loathe the pet name my brother coined for me when I was four and terrified of cats. That Zayn uses it warms me and provokes me to no end.

“We both know that ever since you hired Mira, without telling me where I have fallen short in my duties, she’s been trying to take over more and more of my work. But don’t worry,” I say, tears coating my throat. “I’m mature enough to make this easier on both of us.”

The handle to his door turns in my hand just as he says, “Why the hell are you sending me a resignation email?”