Tall, Dark, and Grumpy (Grumpy Bosses)

1. Cassie

1

CASSIE

Tonight, I am going to lose my V-card.

Probably.

I’m telling myself that this doesn’t have anything to do with my gorgeous new boss who has awakened my previously snoozing libido. I’m just at a bar with my housemates, like a sane person, instead of working all night with Mr Blackwood. Again.

I tug my dress down over my bottom. Next to me, my three housemates are giggling.

“Oh my god, we should have shots!” exclaims Julie.

“I can get them,” I say eagerly. I’m keen for my housemates to like me, and help me find someone to spend the night with. Teach me their slutty ways, and to like boys in their twenties. So far all I can see is guys who are like baby dolphins: all smooth chests, wet-look hair, and disturbingly shiny white teeth.

Eeeee-eee, throw me a fish !

Not my thing.

I’m more of a bear girl. I like men who are big, slightly terrifying, six-foot-three, grizzly, dark-brown hair, blue eyes… No. I’m not thinking about Mr Blackwood this evening. I will learn to like dolphins, and be part of the conversation without being awkward. Buying more alcohol is a rare social situation I’m certain I can manage.

“My new boss?—”

Polly and Tamara catch each other’s eyes and collapse into laughter, chinking their glasses and drinking.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing, nothing.” Tamara smirks.

Polly whispers something into Tamara’s ear and I get an unwelcome sinking feeling in my tummy. I don’t fit with them. They’re effortlessly wearing their fashionable dresses, but I look like a sack of potatoes in almost the exact same thing. I swallow my discomfort.

“Well, my new boss?—”

They giggle again and clink glasses.

“He gave me a pay raise, so we can celebrate.” A very generous pay raise to go with the insane hours he expects me to work. Mr Blackwood is new to London, and he took over the Esher mafia which owns the company I work for as an accountant. I’m now the head of finance, which is crazy given I’m twenty-two.

“Sure,” Polly says, knocking back the last of her flute of champagne.

“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back with drinks!” I say brightly.

Julie isn’t listening, she’s looking around the room. Polly and Tamara are deep in conversation, leaning together to whisper.

I make my way to the bar. It’s quiet for a Friday. Well, I assume it is. I’m not great with this sort of thing.

But I’m having a good time. I am.

Probably.

I am not thinking about Mr Blackwood and what he’s doing tonight after I said earlier that I had somewhere to be, and couldn’t work late. I am not wishing I was at work, called into his office, or suddenly sensing his dark and grouchy presence behind me before he growls something like, “That light isn’t bright enough, stop straining your eyes,” or “Sit up straight.”

At the bar I glance around while I wait to be served. A few men catch my eye despite my being plain, even in this short cream dress. I have long mid-brown hair and pale blue eyes, and I’m curvy. Not special.

One guy tries to hold my gaze though. Not my type. I look down at my hands and I’m thankful when a barman approaches.

“Four shots, please.”

“What sort?” he says impatiently.

“I, uh.” I have no idea. Alcoholic ones.

I glance around for inspiration. Across the bar, there’s a group of women—all together, no one left out of the group, I note—drinking shots. One is a bit older, and the other three are all younger. The older woman has grey in her hair and is heavier around the middle, but still attractive. The younger women are full of confidence. A mother and daughters’ night out, I realise with a pang of jealousy.

It’s not that I don’t get on with my mother. I call her every week. We talk about scintillating topics like the weather, the health of my brother, and my dad’s bird watching. Sometimes she tells me about my aunt’s bunions, and I pretend to know what those are, because I really don’t want to ask. Or know.

My interactions with my parents are more surface than hand cream. I wish I had a relationship like those women, who are laughing together. One of the younger women hugs the older woman tight and whispers something in her ear that makes the older woman smile.

“Those multi-coloured shots,” I say, pointing at the women. “I’ll have those.”

The barman looks unimpressed. “The rainbow flavoured vodka round.”

“Yep. Seems fun.” I am upbeat.

At least it’s deliberate this time. The vending machine had run out of normal, extra-safe condoms, so I bought the novelty selection.

Fruit flavoured. Neon coloured.

The plum one is purple .

What man wants their dick to look like an eggplant emoji?

And this is why I’m single. I guess vegetables are as close as I’ll ever get.

Never mind, flavoured vodka will be great. My housemates will think I’m cool, and include me in their jokes. They’ll give me the secret to attracting an experienced, hot man who will blow my mind and take my virginity. Using one of my emoji condoms.

The barman pours seven shots into little heavy-bottomed glasses and lines them up on the bar. Ooof. Okay. Seven shots for four of us. This is fine. One for me, and the other girls can take two each.

“Are you adding these to your tab?” the barman asks, and I nod.

“It’s wild to me that people don’t run off without paying their tab,” I say conversationally as he checks me against the photo driving licence I gave as a guarantee.

“Trust and consequences.” He shrugs. “It’s common in Blackwood-controlled parts of London. We’ve only been able to do it since the takeover, and haven’t had any trouble. Because who’d want to mess with a Blackwood?”

Well, it depends on what you mean by mess, because I wouldn’t mind getting messy with my boss. I also feel a silly glow of pride that he has increased security in his territory, but agree politely rather than over-share that Mr Blackwood is my boss.

I turn to the table where I left my housemates, but find it empty. Odd. It takes me a moment to scan around the bar to where the little dance floor of the bar has filled up… with three familiar girls in tight dresses.

Oh fiddlesticks. They didn’t wait for drinks and now they aren’t looking my way at all. How am I going to get the shots over in one journey? I can’t leave them unattended, as I’ve heard about girls having their drinks spiked in London and Blackwood territory or not, I’m not risking that.

“Are you going to do all those shots?” a voice asks from behind me.

I swing around to find a man who was on the other side of the bar looking me up and down, lingering on the neckline of my dress where my breasts are far more on show than usual. He’s not even subtle and his regard is like a cheap plastic raincoat on my bare skin.

He has light-brown hair and is wearing a white shirt that doesn’t fit him somehow, and has creases in odd places as though it’s just out of a packet. Well. I say man. I suppose he has been through puberty, but he’s not a man like Mr Blackwood is a man. He’s shiny, thin, and new where Mr Blackwood is solid, rough, and life-worn.

And while I said my aim for tonight was to sleep with someone, I instantly know this man is not it. I prefer the idea of a more experienced man. Taller. Bright blue eyes. Darker hair.

Gah, I’m thinking of my boss, again .

“I’m sharing them.” I hop up onto a stool. “My friend will be over in a minute.”

“Mind if I join you? I wasn’t having any luck getting the barman’s attention over there, but I think you might be my lucky charm.” The man smiles and it’s so oily you could fry eggs with him.

I glance over at my housemates, who are dancing with some other young men now. The dolphin man lounges at the bar next to me, and out of the corner of my eye I can see him checking out my chunky thighs.

Ohhhh noo. I tug at the hem of my dress again, and wish I hadn’t listened when Julie said I should wear it.

The man edges closer, and I realise he’s going to speak to me again. Yanking my purse open, I pull out my phone.

“Are you sure they’re coming?” the man asks, a sarky tone to his question.

“Yes,” I lie. I check over my shoulder at my housemates, who still aren’t looking at me. They’ve probably forgotten I exist.

I’m on my own, stuck at the bar with seven vodka shots and a man I’m feeling increasingly uncomfortable with.

I open my messages, press the top contact blindly, hyper-aware of leaning away from the man next to me. Tapping something out, I hit send before my brain catches up with what I’m doing.

Cassie

Hi

And I realise I’ve messaged my boss .

“If I were you, I’d just down those shots and have a good time with who’s here,” the man says suggestively, as I stare in horror at my phone.

What have I done? Can I…? Cold horror trickles down my spine.

If I delete the message, it will still show up as having been sent and then deleted. Mr Blackwood is going to know.

“If you’re short of company, you can join me,” the man continues. “Who are you texting?”

“My bo…boyfriend.” The word just pops out.

I nearly said boss. That’s even more tragic than a made-up boyfriend, isn’t it? Texting your boss on a Friday night? Never mind that we text often. Exciting conversations like, “Come to my office,” and “I’ve finished the report you asked for”.

“He’s stood you up on a Friday night, huh?” the man scoffs.

“No.” I can’t manage this intruder, and I cannot fix that I messaged my boss. I’m a failure. Can this night get any worse?

Alcohol is supposed to improve everything, isn’t it? I reach out and grab one of the shots. It’s a blue the colour of Mr Blackwood’s eyes—how appropriate—and I knock it back in one. The vodka burns my throat, and I cough.

“That’s it!” The man next to me laughs.

I ignore him, slam down the glass and type “Sorry” into the messaging app. Then I stop. Because how many times over the last month has Mr Blackwood messaged me at all hours? Sometimes early in the morning, as though he can’t sleep.

He probably hasn’t even seen it. He’ll be having a sophisticated dinner with a blonde woman who talks to him about quantum physics or something. Or makes him laugh.

He won’t be looking out for a message from me. I bet on a Friday night he?—

The tick changes colour, indicating he’s seen the message.

Oh. Shit.

That was super quick. I didn’t think he… Scrap that. I didn’t think. I felt threatened by the man next to me, and my body messaged the person I contact most often. And, if I’m honest, the person who makes me feel safe. Mr Blackwood.

But it’s okay. He’ll ignore it. I glance down at my phone.

Boss

…

The three balls bounce. My heart stops. He hasn’t just seen my message casually. Whatever I thought I could get away with, I was wrong.

Because my boss is texting me back.