Obsessed with My Grumpy Boss

Chapter 2

Hazel

I hate my boss.

He”s the worst. Why do I even feel the slightest attraction for him? That honestly says more about me than him. I mean, the guy is a filthy rich man-whore who can get away with murder. And every day, it becomes harder to keep my thoughts to myself.

The snarky ones, anyway.

The sexy ones won”t ever make it past the dark corners of my mind.

But damn.

The idea of attending a dinner party with him sends thrills of excitement to my pussy. Obviously, this isn”t anything but overtime. He”d never go romantically for someone like me. I”m not sophisticated or rich, and I have a big ass—the reason I favor blouses and suit jackets that hide my butt.

I”ll have to leash all my fantasies not to let any hint of lust slip through the cracks.

If he knew I was into him, he”d laugh. And possibly crack a brutal joke, which would make the whole thing awkward. I can”t lose this job. So, my only option is to attend this dinner party and come out unscathed.

I grab my journal and jot down the thoughts jumbling my mind.

If I close my eyes for a moment, I can imagine what it”d feel like… to have him caress my thigh under the table while others surround us. I”d look at him, and he”d give me a shameless wink. Of course, this would be highly inappropriate, but neither of us would care.

We”ve had too much alcohol to do the right thing.

He kisses my bare shoulder. The intimate kiss sends ripples of awareness down my spine, and goosebumps rise on my skin. I look at him, and he looks back at me. We share that moment, recognizing the desire in each other”s eyes.

”I want to fuck you,” he whispers in my ear, his voice low and growly.

I look around the table to ensure no one else hears us. ”Me too.”

He cocks his head in the direction of the restroom, and I blush.

Then, he?—

”Hey, girl.” Emma pops into my field of vision. She”s wearing a cute purple skirt with a white blouse that works for her. She always accessorizes well and looks flawless.

I close the journal and slide it into the second drawer of my desk, which no one else except me ever opens. We have this floor all to ourselves, besides a couple of offices down the hallway—the CFOs and CMOs. But they”re always busy, and their assistants keep it to themselves.

When I first started, I always hid the journal in my bag. Then it occurred to me: Why would a man-baby who doesn”t even order his coffee look for things at my desk? The idea amuses me. To be on the safe side, though, I usually take my journal home on weekends.

I look at Emma. ”What”s up?”

She cocks her head to the door. ”Let”s go get some lunch.”

I check the clock on my monitor. ”It”s ten to twelve.”

”And?”

”And he may need me,” I say, like a repressed helicopter mom afraid of letting a family member care for her newborn baby while she takes a shower. Yep. That”s what my life has become.

Emma rolls her bright green eyes. ”Can you hear yourself? You”re talking like a hostage.”

I feel like a hostage… a horny one. One that has no common sense or pride. ”No, he asked me to work on some stuff.”

She waves me off. It”s easy for her. She works at the main reception in the lobby with two other girls. ”Tell him you”ll finish later. C”mon. My landlord asked me out, and I need someone to talk to.”

I sigh, looking at the heavy doors to his office, which are closed as usual. He”s probably busy. He”s not a toddler. He won”t notice if I”m gone for thirty minutes. I jolt down Be Right Back on a Post-It note and attach it to my monitor on the off chance someone else needs me. ”Okay, fine.”

I get up and follow Emma out to lunch with a coworker. I”m allowed, right? Especially after he said I was lucky to still have this job. Anger simmers inside me. I need food.

Besides, Emma”s right.

I”m not a fucking hostage.