Forbidden Grumpy Boss (Damaged Daddies #2)

1. Leah

Chapter one

Leah

There’s nothing like a ruined childhood and a dash of daddy issues to spice up a Roman holiday.

I sigh as I step into the lobby of my hotel. Everything here screams luxury. From the crystal chandeliers overhead to the golden accents on every piece of furniture.

It’s a stark contrast to the mess I left behind back home, where I can't stand the sight of my father. I can just imagine his smug face trying to buy me back with fancy cars and checks I refuse to cash. He’s the reason I’m here, after all. Well, him, and the memories of my mom.

I can’t even cry about her anymore. It’s just this hollow ache. Like I’m already sinking beneath all the grief.

I shove those thoughts down as I step in the elevator. It’s been a long day of sightseeing. My feet hurt from walking on those gorgeous cobblestone streets, and my eyes are exhausted from trying to take in every bit of beauty this city offers.

I’m convinced Rome invented beauty. There’s a reason they call it the Eternal City, right? It feels like it has no end. Just an endless charm.

Nonetheless, I’m more than ready to collapse into my bed.

I step out of the elevator and approach my room. I pull the key card from my purse, swipe it over the door lock, and frown as it blinks red. Ugh. I try again. And this time, the door clicks open. Perfect. But as soon as I step inside, I realize something is off.

That sound, I notice. The sound of the shower running. What the hell? Who’s in my—

I almost yell out for help when I look around and realize something. This isn’t my room. What the hell? The smell. My room is all crisp linens and hotel air freshener. But this room smells like warm water and minty aftershave.

“Oh, shit,” I rasp, quickly turning around.

Before I can leave, the stranger steps out of the bathroom, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s like some kind of Roman god come to life, with a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his chest. And what a chest . He’s built like the statues I saw today—broad shoulders, a defined chest with just a sprinkling of dark and gray hair, and abs that make me wonder if he owns shares in a gym.

His hair is still wet, slicked back. But I can see the streaks of gray in the dark strands. And those eyes: sharp and ice-blue, like they can cut through marble.

He freezes, too, and for a split second, we just stare at each other. It’s like something out of a comedy sketch. But he’s way too hot and wet to be in a PG-rated one.

I’m caught somewhere between panic and admiration. I should say something. But all I can think is that this is how people get arrested; for accidentally walking in on hot older men wearing nothing but a towel.

Finally, his eyes narrow, and he says in a deep, gravelly voice that matches his hard, handsome face, “You’re in the wrong room.”

Oh. Right. I blink, my brain struggling to catch up. “Uh . . . obviously.”

He crosses his arms over that impressive chest, and the muscles ripple in a very distracting way. He seems to be old enough to be my father. But unlike my father, he’s fighting a tug-of-war with father time. Seriously. A man this old shouldn’t be this hot.

“Is there a reason you’re still here?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“I, uh . . . my key card malfunctioned, and I thought this was my room.” I wave the card at him like that explains everything.

He smirks, and it’s the kind of smirk that should be illegal. “Sure. That’s what they all say.”

“All?” I raise a brow. “This isn’t the first time someone’s walking in on you after a shower?”

“That was sarcasm.” He holds my gaze.

“Oh, you don’t say?”

He runs a hand through his wet hair and his biceps flex. I try not to stare. “Here I was, thinking you were just bold enough to break in.”

I scoff, trying to ignore how my pulse is racing. “Oh, please. If I were going to break into someone’s room, it definitely wouldn’t be one with an aging—” I stop myself, the words hanging awkwardly between us.

His smirk deepens. “Go on, I’d love to hear where you were going with that.”

“You’re American,” my brain finally settles enough to notice.

“You’re one observant lady, aren’t you?” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“You don’t have to be an asshole, you know?” I frown.

“I’m American.” He shrugs, and without warning, he removes his towel. I swirl quickly to avert my gaze, but I’m not fast enough. Thankfully, he’s wearing briefs underneath the previously tied towel.

Is that a bulge?

“You should’ve seen your face.” He chuckles, fixing the waistband of his briefs.

I glance pointedly at the towel he’s holding up. “God, you’re a fucking jerk, you know that, right?”

“Are you still ogling me?”

My face heats up. “I’m not ogling anything. I’m—”

He interrupts, holding up a hand. “Please. I know ogling when I see it.” He steps closer, and I feel my breath catch. Damn him and his stupid towel.

Realizing I’ve done enough damage, I mutter, “I’ll be going now,” and spin on my heel, marching out the door before I can make a bigger fool of myself. I make sure to glance back one last time—okay, maybe I am ogling a little. But can you blame me? It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.

My heart is racing as I find my real room. I throw myself onto the bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling. What the hell just happened?

It takes me hours to fall asleep. I keep seeing those blue eyes, that smirk, the towel . . .

***

The next morning, I grab breakfast from the hotel café—coffee and a bagel, trying to shake off the memories of what happened yesterday. But it’s not easy when your mind keeps replaying embarrassing scenes like a bad movie.

Fortunately, Rome distracts me soon enough.

The morning is beautiful, the sun casting golden light on the ancient buildings, the scent of fresh bread and coffee in the air. I walk around till I’m at a museum, admiring the grandeur of it all, lost in the magic of being in such a historic place. It’s like stepping into another time.

And then everything shifts.

“Tourist, no?” A man comes to me with a bag filled with hats, postcards, and other memorabilia. His mustache twitches as he flashes me a bright smile. “Buy this, no?”

I shake my head, but he persists. “American, no? Tom Cruise.” He mimics holding up a gun. “James Bond.” He grins.

I want to tell him that James Bond is about as American as biscuits and tea, but I stay quiet. He raises a couple of hats to me, waving them in my face. I notice a scene being shot in the corner of the museum, and I wonder what that’s all about.

“Um, I’m not sure I have—” I ruffle through my purse for some change, and luckily, I find some, “Oh, here you go.”

The man seems pleased as he places the black hat with the Italian flag on my head. He leaves me alone, finally getting some much-needed quietness. I stare at some paintings as I hear the director quietly saying action and cut in the background. He looks American.

I’m getting a little bored with the art, and my stomach’s growling. Perhaps it’s time to go back to the hotel and—

“What the hell?” I mutter as I feel a vibration. Everywhere goes quiet, so I know I’m not the only one who feels it. Movements stop as we all look at each other, wondering what will happen next.

And that’s when it hits.

At first, it’s a low rumble, like distant thunder. But it gets louder, and before I know it, the ground beneath me lurches. People are screaming and running, and then the walls shake. My legs buckle, and I hit the ground hard; my breath is knocked out of me as something heavy crashes down nearby.

Everything’s happening too fast.

The building cracks, dust filling the air, and I can barely breathe as I try to pull myself out from under what feels like a ton of rubble. My leg is pinned, and panic surges through me.

“Help!” I yell at the racing strangers. “Somebody help! I’m—” I try to shove the massive wood on my leg. “I’m stuck! Help!”

Is this how it ends? Is this how I die? Alone in the middle of Rome, buried under a museum?

I hear people shouting and feel the earth tremble with the mainshock. My heart’s pounding in my chest, the sound of my own breathing echoing in my ears. My thoughts are a mess, everything blurring together. I think of my mom, of how I never really said goodbye. I think of my father, and I’m furious that my last thoughts are of him. No. I won’t let this be it. Not like this.

And then, through the dust and chaos, I hear a voice.

“Move when I tell you to!”

I can barely make out the figure moving toward me. But when I see those ice-blue eyes, everything slows down.

It’s him.

“ You? ” I croak out, coughing on the dust. Of all the people to find me here, it had to be Towel Man.

“Hold on.” His voice is steady, and somehow, it calms me. He’s pulling debris off me, his strong arms working quickly. He’s still dressed sharp—dark jeans, a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a leather jacket over his shoulders. How is he still attractive during an earthquake? And why the hell am I still noticing that in my situation?

“Can you move?” he asks, eyes scanning me for injuries.

I try to shift my leg, wincing at the pain. “I’ll try.”

Without hesitation, he moves to lift the rubble trapping me; his jaw clenched with effort and his shirt clings to his muscles.

“Now!” He raises the large wooden structure. “Move!”

I crawl out from under the rubble as he raises it just enough for me to make my way out. When I’m safely out from under it, he releases it, and it crashes against the marbled floor.

He pulls me to my feet, steadying me with a hand on my waist. I sway a little, still shaky from the shock. People are still running around even after the rumbling is over.

“You okay?” His voice is softer now, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I think so, yeah,” I say, moving my leg to see if it’s not injured. Luckily, it isn’t. “We gotta get out of here.”

The museum’s pillars buckle as another rumble rocks the building. My eyes widen as I realize what’s going to happen. “This place is going to collapse!” I yell as I grab his arm and start pulling him away.

“Ezra!” he yells into the collapsing structure, barely noticing me pulling him. “Ezra! Where are you?!”

“We have to go!” I yell. “We’re going to die if we stay—"

“My brother!” he cuts me off. Towel Man looks around, panic flashing in his eyes for the first time. He’s scanning the chaos around us. “I can’t find him. I can’t find Ezra!”

The dread in his voice sends a chill down my spine, and I see real fear in those sharp blue eyes. The building isn’t waiting around for him to find his brother. I feel another vibration through the ground as another rumbling prepares to hit.

I know he felt it too because he looked at me.

“Maybe he got out already,” I whisper. He tries to turn away from me, but I grab his face to look at him. He saved me. I can’t leave him here. “We’re gonna die here if we don’t leave now!”

For a second, he looks like he might tell me to go. Structures fall all around us. The earth rumbles and quakes beneath us. My eyes wildly hold the gaze of the man who saved me.

“Your brother made it out,” I say with such conviction that I hope he believes it as I grip his arm.

He says nothing else as we both run out of the collapsing museum.