Obsessed with My Grumpy Boss

Chapter 1

Hazel

I hate my boss.

Sometimes, I fantasize about slamming him hard against the wall right after he barks one of his insane orders at me. In my head, it goes seamlessly, even though I”m 5”4” and he”s over a foot taller. He”s also a wall of muscles, nicely tucked under a top-dollar Italian designer suit.

But back to my fantasy—I put him in his place, splaying my hands over his chest, pressing my palm against his heart, and feeling it beat its way out of his impressive chest. A small smile forms on my lips, the pang of triumph finally running down my spine. Oh, yes. After a year of working for him and putting up with all kinds of bullshit, things are coming to a head.

My contempt. My frustration. My… crazy hot arousal.

He groans, obviously shocked I have the nerve to put a man like him in his place. But it”s been a long time coming… So I give him a once over and press my body against him, tipping up my chin to get a glimpse of his dark blue eyes. Eyes that almost darken to black when he”s upset. Which is often. The man is miserable.

Sexy as hell and miserable like the devil. What an unfortunate combination.

I wish I could?—

”Hazel.” His deep voice sends prickles to every nerve in my body. He pops his head out of his office and steps toward my desk.

I immediately drop my pen and close my journal. I shove it inside the drawer, the second one from the top, and raise my gaze to his. When my coworker, Emma, recommended journaling to relieve stress, I don”t know if she meant it like this—at work, when I”m on the clock. I also may have omitted to tell her I”m attracted to my boss, but if I share my obsession with her, the whole office will know the next day.

”Yes?”

He narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side. ”My office.”

I stand, smoothing my hands over my sensible black blouse and pants ensemble. ”Of course.”

I make my way to his office, counting the ten steps to his heavy, dark wood open double doors. As usual, the view of downtown Dallas greets me, as does the skyline displayed on the glass wall behind the man sitting at the desk.

His space represents him well: austere, sophisticated, and lacking in emotional and personal touches. A few photographs stack the shelves, mostly of him with influential people and the awards he”s won in the travel industry. A set of leather sofas, a coffee table, and a wet bar occupy the large right corner of the space.

He clears his throat, bringing my attention back to him.

The man. The devil himself. Archer Cromwell.

The forty-two-year-old CEO and founder of Cromwell Travel.

”Let”s go over your daily mistake,” he says sarcastically. ”I asked you to send flowers to Allegra.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. Shit. He”s right. I”m highly efficient at organizing his professional life. I”ve ”accidentally” gotten dates or places wrong for the past few weeks at least once a week. Call it my way of passive-aggressively telling him I”m fed up with keeping tabs on his romantic shenanigans.

”Yes, done. This morning.” I somehow pull off an innocent expression. I should have joined the drama club in high school.

He tilts his head to the side, then shoves his fingers through his dark brown hair. The style makes his handsome face striking, and his evil stance is alluring. ”Really? Because Allegra called me and said the card was addressed to Payton.”

”Oh.” I feign surprise and touch my lips. ”I”m terribly sorry.”

”As you know, Payton was the woman I dated before Allegra. So now Allegra is mad and won”t see me.”

I shrug. A small measure of female pride travels down my spine. ”Isn”t the strong bond you two share enough? I mean, you”ve dated her for three weeks. Isn”t she impressed?”

He clenches his jaw and stares at me in silence for a moment.

I square my shoulders, and a wave of concern washes through me. Is he reading between the lines? I clear my throat. No, he can”t. He”s too self-involved to think about anyone but himself. Besides, I need this job. The incredible health insurance covers my dad”s many health problems. Also, this is the reason I don”t quit, especially after Dad”s last hip replacement. That shit adds up.

”Hazel, are you fucking with me?” he asks at last.

I widen my eyes. I wish I could fuck him. You know how some people say they can drink you under the table? I”m pretty sure Archer could fuck me under the table, or on the bed, or over his desk. A shiver travels through me. ”I wouldn”t dare.” Heat fills my cheeks, and I glance down like he”s discovered my secret. ”I”m sorry, Mr. Cromwell. Really, I am.”

He squints his eyes, giving me a once over as if he”s wondering if arguing with me will be worth his time. ”Let”s go over my schedule.”

Mid-eye-roll, I stop. I can”t be obvious. I hate the man, sure, but I also need this job. I was lucky to get it—his longtime assistant retired and moved out of the country, and he had a revolving door of temps until I showed up. Of course, he never told me any of this—I heard courtesy of Emma.

”You have that dinner at Malcolm”s in a couple of days,” I say, remembering how excited he got when he told me to pencil that in digitally.

He rocks back in his chair, rubbing his eyes in annoyance. ”Shit, that”s right.”

This type of event I won”t fuck up. I know better than to mess with his professional stuff. Regardless of his shitty people management skills, he’s excellent at his job.

”This isn”t an overt business meeting; it”s a networking situation. I asked Malcolm Hayes to invite me to this party because I heard that Brooks Harrington, the founder of Sugar Silk, would be there. I need to pitch my collab idea to Brooks. The man is hard to get a hold of.”

I nod. He”s been making calls, but this Brooks guy is busy. The thought of someone snubbing Archer gives me a twisted sense of joy. I hear my thoughts and bite the inside of my cheek. Shit, I may need therapy. Maybe the journaling isn”t enough to heal these uncontrollable emotions I nurture toward my boss.

”I can”t show up alone. Everyone else has dates. It”ll be too obvious if I”m there by myself.”

”Well, you have two days.” That”s longer than most of your relationships, I add inwardly, biting my tongue.

He sighs. ”I don”t have time for this bullshit. That”s why I’ve been dating Allegra for the past three weeks. So we”d have some rapport, and she could attend it with me.”

Aren”t you the last romantic? I bite my tongue again.

”And you ruined it,” he says, his eyes as cold as a frozen lake.

”But Mr. Cromwell… I accidentally wrote the name of the woman you dated four weeks ago. A week before Allegra came into place.”

”Exactly. You made a mistake. You”re lucky to still have a job.”

I shift in the chair. Now, desire is gone, and I wish I could throw this man in a snake-infested lake. Damn it, though, he”s right—I”m lucky to have this job. But he can”t keep weaponizing my needing a job to make me feel like shit.

”Which is why you”ll go with me,” he says, bringing me back to reality.

I tilt my head to the side, ensuring I heard him correctly. ”With you?”

”As my date. Think of it as a regular business meeting. Only at night.”

As his date? I swallow the sharp knives in my throat. ”What do you mean?”

Since I started working for him, I’ve attended countless events and trips with him. After all, he”s the CEO of Cromwell Travel, a well-known travel website, and he goes places—figuratively and literally. I”m constantly introduced as his assistant, and my position is obvious to anyone in the room. But to go somewhere with him as his date? That sounds… personal.

He shrugs. ”You”ll go as Hazel Dillon. My date.”

”What if Brooks finds out later that I”m your assistant?” After all, I”ll contact his assistant and so forth if he lands the collaboration. Though I doubt a guy like Brooks would care about the fine print of our relationship. Something tells me the man who founded Sugar Silk has different morals than the rest of us.

”Oh, that”s easy. We didn”t work out as a couple, but a position was available at my company, and you took it.”

I set the iPad aside. His lack of regard for anyone but himself never ceases to surprise me. ”What if I have plans on Saturday night?”

”Cancel them. I”m your priority.”

He”s my priority. A wave of frustration rolls over me. I knew having a life outside work would be challenging, but for him not to show zero appreciation like that… I shake my head. ”What if my boyfriend doesn”t like the idea of me going out with my boss and pretending to be his date?”

He chuckles. ”What boyfriend?”

The nerve! I upgrade my mental punishment from a snake-infested lake to a rough sea filled with white sharks—though I bet the bastard would feel right at home. He”d simply be visiting his family.

”If I had one, I”m sure he”d be appalled,” I say, anger welling inside me. I want to grab my journal and throw it at his head. Asshole.

”If you had one, I”m sure he”d understand that you fucked up at work, and you”re making up for it. Simple,” he says, unfazed.

I suck in a breath. ”Okay, fine.”

He gives me the slightest wink and says in a voice as smooth as chocolate and as deadly as poison, ”Good girl.”

A current of lust travels through me. I cross my legs so tight that my thighs clench and my clit throbs in response. My underwear is wet, and my nipples tighten against the restraints of my no-underwire bra. Fuck.

Even though he’s fucked up, I still want him.

There”s obviously a lot wrong with him… and, sadly, with me too.