Groom Gamble (Marrying the Boss)

1. Sophia

1

SOPHIA

I’m making a list of requirements for a husband. I know this isn’t usually how marriage works, but I’m a bit desperate.

So far, I have:

Tall. Over 6 foot 3.

Black hair. Touch of silver at the temples would be a bonus.

40+ years old.

Nice smile.

Short beard.

Grey eyes.

The level of delusion here is quite impressive. Twenty-three years old, and I am resorting to an arranged marriage, but I’ll marry anyone who meets these criteria, because I’m describing my boss .

Sigh.

It’s ridiculous, really, using a matchmaker. I’m a solid six out of ten, and my sense of humour is at least a six-point-five. I saw Mr Streatham hide a quirk at the corner of his mouth when I called my new filing system “witness protection for documents”. I have a degree in Business Studies, and an intact V-card. I have a job that’s amazingly paid, even if I only get the absolute minimum holiday. I swear, if my boss made me work any more we’d both have to sleep at the office.

The problem is, I’m shy. I prefer books and dogs to parties and people.

Although, I made an exception for Mr Streatham, six months ago. He is the one person I like.

His previous assistant warned me I probably wouldn’t. She said he was abrasive, and difficult, would occasionally arrive back in the office after a murder, but be fair and try not to drip blood on the carpet. He expects total commitment.

And it’s reasonable. He’s perfect, and demands perfection. He likes tradition. Paper, ink, handwritten or printed in a newspaper-style font. Mr Streatham prefers things to be in his hands, not in pixels.

My boss might be a growly, grumpy mafia boss who murders anyone who gets in his way, but with me he’s got classic chivalry. He’s never so much as touched a hair on my head. No inappropriate looks. No brushing up against me in the corridor. He holds doors for me and while he barks orders, he’s so careful. Never crass. Mr Streatham is like a sexy professor, but with an edge of danger.

I adore him, old-school ways and all. And I love that he relies on me, his assistant.

I wish he’d lose that cool and take my virginity over his desk.

Sometimes, when I’m lying in my bed at night, and I can’t sleep for longing to be back at work and have Mr Streatham rumble, “Good girl” and give me a slight smile when I’ve pleased him, I reach between my legs and imagine what it would be like to have my boss’ weight on top of me. What he’d feel like inside me.

And I will never know that, because I am going to get married to a stranger who probably has a boring job, medium height, unremarkable eyes, a sensible tolerance for failure, and a desire for children.

I add “rich” to the list, because if I’m putting Mr Streatham’s physical details in here, I might as well go all the way.

Likes me.

Good hygiene.

I cross that out and write perfect hygiene. Because my boss always smells amazing. Like black pepper and cardamom with an undertone of smoky leather. And if I have to compromise and not have a nosegasm, I at least don’t want BO.

It’s weird, but I think better on paper these days. I used to make notes on my phone or a computer, but since working for Mr Streatham, I’ve picked up on his paper addiction. He loves books as much as I do, and his office is lined with special editions of the crime novels he likes, and non-fiction books, mainly about murders and spies. I’d find it creepy, but he’s a mafia boss. I guess it’s like market research.

I add to my list.

Educated.

Loves books.

Then I think for a moment. Perhaps I’ll edit this before I send it to London MatchMakers . I’ll need to type it up into an email anyway. This could be a fantasy list of my ideal husband, and I’ll reduce it to something realistic afterwards. But given I’m going to compromise on my choice of life partner, perhaps I should allow myself to dream?

Powerful.

Kind.

You wouldn’t think a mafia boss would be kind, but Mr Streatham is good to me, in his own gruff way. He’s a member of the London Mafia Syndicate too, and the rumour is that they are behind some of the changes for the better in London. And he always pauses to stroke the stray cat that likes to hang out in the entrance hall.

Good with animals.

Good with children.

Honestly though, I’m dancing around the point here: the whole reason for getting married rather than just adopting a few cats and crushing on my boss for the rest of my life.

Wants children. At least five.

Maybe that’s excessive, but this whole impulse was triggered when I was researching the Essex Cartel for a report, and then started reading about the London mafia bosses and their marriages. The Fulham kingpin and his wife are on record saying they’re aiming for ten kids. I turned so green with envy you could have stacked me in the vegetable aisle, and someone would have put me in their shopping basket thinking I was a broccoli.

But if I want that many kids, I gotta get started. Which means finding a husband. Pronto.

I check my watch—another thing I’ve changed since working for Mr Streatham. I used to use my phone, but I enjoy the elegance and simplicity of the little round face on a dainty strap around my wrist. I feel like a girl in an old movie. Five minutes until the end of my lunch break. Mr Streatham will be back soon. Anticipation and adrenaline pulse from my chest, all down my arms and I scrawl two more requirements at the bottom of the list, then look at the top items again, as though by ignoring those items I can deny that I’m such a slut that I could even think that, never mind write it down.

But honestly, if I want a baby, I should ensure my husband is up to the job, right? Maybe I’ll ask for a fertility test. There are discreet home kits. Probably.

I’m not being unreasonable.

There are quick steps in the corridor and my brain freezes. What, no, oh, gah. It’s okay, it’ll just be someone from HR or—the door opens and Mr Streatham strides in, a determined glint in his eye.

I shove my list into the out tray and pin a sunny smile on my face.

“There’s a fuck-up with Operation Calculus, Miss Berry, and you need to fix it,” he says without preamble.

Snatching up a sheet of paper, I scribble down the details as he stands before me, a shadowed mountain, one hand massaging his forehead. He rattles off payments to be made to the various Essex Cartel men he’s bribing for information, and how it is to be delivered. A mix of crypto, purchases to their legitimate businesses, and good old-fashioned cash. It still has a place in the mafia, if not the rest of the world.

“Or should I just have them killed, and not risk it?” he finishes. “No, scrap that, make hit notes for?—”

“Better to have a live asset than a dead liability,” I chirp. Those are his words. A Streatham motto, as it were.

“Mmmm.” He nods grimly, looks up, then stills.

His sharp gaze recognises something is off, despite my efforts. He scans my face, then my workspace, and presumably finds nothing amiss until he focuses on my watch. “Add five minutes onto your bonus request for this month, please, and label it, ‘The Essex Cartel screwed up our lunch break’.”

I write it into my agenda, hand shaking, telling myself this is going to be okay. No one will die today, of mortification or any other cause. Probably.

Mr Streatham gives a weary sigh and heads to his office, and I ease out a breath.

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

“The virginity thing.” He turns back.

“What?” I squeak. How can he know?! I check myself, as though maybe I have it written on my top. Nope, nope, it’s okay. A person still doesn’t have their sexual status emblazoned across their chest. Calm, Sophia .

Besides, if Mr Streatham could tell, it would be an alpha-male pheromone thing, right? He’s so big and masculine, he could have wolf-shifter senses.

“The paperwork on it.” Mr Streatham frowns at my weird reaction.

Paper. My mind springs to my list.

Oh nooooo. He must have seen it somehow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to sound innocent.

Mr Streatham gives an impatient growl and shakes his head. “That Essex Cartel auction nonsense. Did you finish it, or not?”

A report. On the virginity auctions that the Essex Cartel runs.

Yes. Obviously. He had me compile a report, with a focus on whether the young women consented to taking part.

“Yes!” It comes out a bit over-enthusiastic, because the relief is palpable. My boss remains ignorant that his assistant is a sad virgin girl with a crush on him. Phew.

The whole report may have made me inconveniently horny, and been part of why I am now intending to get married. Because as scandalous and awful and morally bankrupt as the auctions and public sex are, they’re also… Kind of hot?

“Could I have the report, please?” he asks, with a twist of sarcasm when I just stand there, unmoving. “Or is it too naughty for a London Mafia Boss?”

“Yes,” I say hurriedly, trying to remember where it is. I dive forwards and scrabble around in my files.

“It is too naughty,” he drawls. “So you’ve hidden it.”

“No!” Paper flies everywhere as I try to find the report. Printed out, of course. “I could swear it was…” Somewhere? Admittedly, I was rather focused on my list this morning, so my flustered little brain has forgotten where I filed it. There are dozens of letters and reports all stacked, it must be there.

“I’ll bring it through!” I say brightly, popping my head up.

Mr Streatham’s gaze flicks to my face, as though he was looking elsewhere. He folds his arms and narrows his eyes, confused. And no wonder. I don’t usually keep him waiting for anything. I never lose things.

“I can wait.” His voice and stance announce he will resent every moment I delay him.

My cheeks pinken and I try to regulate my breathing as I flick through more documents under his cool silver regard. “I’m sure it’s… Ah!”

The right report!

At the bottom of the out tray. Who knows why it was there? I drag out the little stack of sheets secured with a paperclip, and thrust them at my boss.

Mr Streatham’s steel eyes have a question in them as he accepts the report, but with only a slight hesitation and lowering of his brows, he turns away.

When the catch snicks closed on my boss’ office door, I sag with relief.

Now, I just need to put that humiliating list in my purse and continue with a normal day.