Crushing On My Grumpy Billionaire Boss

Chapter 1

Adaline

Rain is my favorite scent in the world, earthy, clean, carrying a little magic in the air. Which is wildly inconvenient, considering I’m stranded on a dead road with a dead car and a dead phone.

The engine coughs one last time and goes silent, leaving only the storm. Thunder splits the sky, sharp and violent, and rain needles my skin as I stand on the narrow country road just outside Rose Hills, the small town I’ve pinned all my hopes on.

“Please don’t do this to me now,” I whisper, palms pressed to the hood because desperation makes you superstitious. I was so close. So close to arriving before my phone died, before the storm swallowed the road. If the car doesn’t start, I’m stranded, alone, soaked, and invisible to the world.

No one is coming looking for me. That thought crawls down my spine like ice.

A gust of wind whips my hair into my mouth, reminding me to keep moving; it's getting darker by the minute.

I try to check under the hood anyway, because apparently, I enjoy suffering. I squint at the mess of metal and tubes. Definitely not fixable by someone whose mechanical expertise stops at pumping gas.

My teeth chatter. I’m wearing a knee-length work skirt and a blouse that’s clinging to my skin like damp tissue paper. When I turn to climb back into the car, something yanks hard at my skirt.

I freeze. Slowly, I look down. A branch jutting out of the roadside bush has hooked my skirt. When I pull away, the fabric tears straight across the hem.

Fantastic. Dead car. Dead phone. Dead dignity.

I finally climb into the driver’s seat, slam the door shut, and let out a breath I’ve been holding since Brooklyn.

The storm outside drums on the roof in angry, relentless waves.

The road is empty, pitch-black countryside, no headlights, no houses in sight.

For all I know, Rose Hills might just be a myth the agency made up to trick desperate nurses.

I rub my palms together, trying to warm them. This wasn’t how my fresh start was supposed to begin. New town. New job. But right now? All I feel is cold. And stupid. And wildly unprepared. Water drips from my hair onto my cheeks, and I swipe it away.

“Great job, Adaline. Truly thriving.”

The wind howls outside, and I curl into the seat, hugging myself as another wave of thunder rolls over the hills.

For the first time since accepting the live-in position, I wonder if moving to Rose Hills was a huge mistake.

I rest my head on the steering wheel, hope draining away.

With no signal, no tow, and no better ideas, my last, humiliating plan is to sit here and wait, hoping some passing car takes pity and stops to help.

Then I hear it.

The sound grows louder, fuller, rolling through my chest like thunder with an attitude.

I jolt upright—a motorcycle.

Its headlight cuts through the dark like a blade, bouncing off puddles as it approaches. My pulse leaps with something close to hope mixed with fear.

A stranger on a lonely road at night.

But freezing to death in my car is not high on my to-do list, so I shove the door open and stumble out into the rain, waving both arms like a malfunctioning windmill.

“Hey! Please. Stop!” The rider slows, engine rumbling under him like a living beast. For a second, I think he might ignore me, but then he pulls over, gravel crunching under thick black tires.

He’s massive. Tall even while seated, shoulders broad beneath a soaked leather jacket, long legs braced on either side of an absurdly powerful bike.

The storm reflects off his dark visor, hiding his eyes completely. Not even a hint of his face shows, helmet securely in place, giving him the vibe of a grumpy, unapproachable storm god.

Great. Exactly the energy I needed tonight.

“Car trouble?” His voice is low, rough, like gravel dragging over steel. No hello. Zero warmth. I mean, he didn't even ask if I was alright. If voices could scowl, his definitely does.

“Yes, please, it just died, and my phone too, and I…”

I gesture helplessly at the sad hunk of metal behind me. He swings off the bike in one fluid, annoyingly confident motion. Up close, he’s even more intimidating, towering over me by at least a foot.

Rain is pouring off his jacket, dripping from his gloves, yet somehow he looks unaffected, like he was built for storms. Without a word, he strides past me toward the hood of my car. Okay. No small talk, then. He pops the hood, leaning in as the rain hits the engine.

His shoulders tense, muscles shifting beneath his jacket as he inspects wires and belts like he’s done this a thousand times. I stand a few feet back, hugging myself, shivering.

“Any idea what happened?” I try again, maybe hoping he’ll be less terrifying on the second attempt. He doesn’t turn his face toward me.

Fine by me.

Not that I can see his face anyway.

“Yeah. It died.” Wow. Incredible diagnosis. Truly groundbreaking. His tone is so blunt, so dismissive, I bristle despite everything.

“I figured that part out,” I mutter. Still no reaction. He continues checking the engine, silent, purposeful, and maddeningly composed, like the rain, the dark, and my spiraling panic are none of his concern. And the helmet stays on. No reveal. No face.

Just a tall, storm-soaked wall of a man helping me whether I like it or not. My luck is unreal.

But right now, I’m grateful he’s here—grateful I’m not alone, soaked and stranded, grateful I’m still alive.

He finally steps back from the engine, rain sliding off his gloves as he tugs one of them off. A dark line catches my eye, a tattoo, inked and intricate, a wild rose curling along his wrist. Unexpectedly beautiful. Unexpectedly gentle for someone who looks like he head-butts thunderstorms for fun.

He wipes water from the edge of the hood.

“It’s not fixable. Not here.” The bluntness hits like a punch.

“Oh.” My voice is small, swallowed by the wind. He turns toward me, helmet still down, unreadable in every possible way.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

I hesitate, because telling a giant, storm-drenched stranger where I plan to sleep tonight seems… unwise. But what choice do I have?

“R-Rexon Mansion,” I say, rain dripping from my lashes. He goes still. Just for a moment, but enough that I notice. Then, without a word, he straightens, the rain carving sharp lines down his jacket as if the night itself is holding its breath.

He gives no explanation, no reassurance, not even a grunt. He just turns away from me, boots splashing through a shallow puddle as he walks straight back to his motorcycle. For a horrifying second, I think he’s about to leave me here.

But he stops beside the bike, glances over his shoulder, and jerks his chin.

“You coming or not?”

That’s it. No context. No instructions. Just get on.

My survival instinct makes the decision for me.

“Yes! Wait. My bag.” I yank open the passenger door and grab my floral canvas tote. The rain pelts me sideways as I slam the door shut and hurry before he can change his mind and ride off into the night like some leather-clad phantom.

He’s already mounted, one gloved hand gripping the handlebar, the other resting impatiently on his thigh. The bike rumbles beneath him, alive, dangerous, vibrating through the soles of my shoes.

I swallow hard. This is insane. This is absolutely how horror movies begin. But freezing alone in a dead car is worse, so I force my trembling legs forward.

“Where do I…um…where do I hold on?” I shout over the engine and storm, feeling like an idiot. He turns his head toward me. Even without seeing his eyes, I feel it, an intensity, a weight. Then, in that same gravel-low voice, he says.

“To me.”

Two words. Simple, and devastatingly confident.

My fingers feel numb. I grab his shoulders and lean my weight on him to swing my leg over the seat, awkwardly, because I’m wearing a skirt on the one night I have to climb onto a motorcycle.

I manage it somehow, settling in behind him because I have been making reckless life choices. What can go wrong?

The seat is cold and slick beneath me. My knees brush the sides of his jacket, and heat radiates through him in shocking contrast to the icy rain.

I plant my feet on the pegs, no time to feel embarrassed over my torn skirt, and my hands tremble as I reach forward, hesitating because holding a stranger feels wrong and dangerously intimate.

He stiffens the moment my arms circle his waist. Allegedly, I’ve just committed the crime of making him uncomfortable.

The bike surges forward.

Wind slams against us as he accelerates, the road blurring beneath the spinning tires. I cling tighter, my cheek brushing the back of his jacket, his breathing steady and controlled while mine feels as if my heart will explode.

Fear mixes with something else, exhilaration, wild and electric, sparking through my chest. This is the wildest, most reckless thing I’ve ever done, and my pulse has never felt more alive.

As the bike roars through the storm, a new panic hits me. He never actually confirmed he knows where the Rexon Mansion is. The thought punches through my adrenaline. What if he’s taking me somewhere else? What if he has no idea where I’m supposed to be?

I lean forward, practically pressing myself against his back, and yell near his helmet, “Do you even know where the Rexon Mansion is?”

He doesn’t respond. Not a nod. Not a hand gesture. Nothing. Either the wind swallowed my voice, or he’s deliberately ignoring me. Both possibilities are equally terrifying.

But then the road curves, and through the sheets of rain, I see it, an enormous silhouette perched on a hill, glowing against the storm like something out of a gothic movie. A mansion, massive and elegant.

As he slows, his hand closes over mine where it’s clinging to his waist. He pulls it forward and presses my palm flat against the motorbike’s tank—firm, deliberate, holding it in place.

My body jolts, momentum carrying me closer, as I press against his solid back. Recovering from my shock, I realize he was steadying me, keeping me from slamming into him when the bike comes to a stop.

We reach a towering iron gate. Without removing his helmet, without saying a single word, he reaches out and punches in a code. The gate unlocks with a heavy clank.

He didn’t just know where the mansion was. He belongs here.

We glide up the long, winding driveway, rain streaking off us as the mansion comes into full view, grand, lit from within, utterly surreal. My heart slams against my ribs.

This is… my new workplace. The bike rolls to a stop in front of a grand stone staircase. I slide off the seat, unsteady on my feet, legs wobbly from adrenaline and clinging for dear life. The rain seems to slow.

Something in my gut tells me this moment is about to change everything.

Before I can catch my breath, he reaches up and unclips his helmet. The moment it lifts, dark hair falls messily into place. And his gray eyes, intense, unreadable, locking onto me.

He’s still seated on the bike, but somehow he feels taller, broader, impossible to ignore. The air between us hums with something I don’t have a name for.

He extends a hand. “Hunter Rexon.”

The name hits me like a shock.

Rexon. My new boss.

My mouth goes dry. He waits, expression unreadable in the mansion’s glow.

“Jane Rexon’s nephew,” he says. “You must be Adaline Miller.”

I stand frozen, drenched, shivering, staring at the man who just storm-rescued me on his motorcycle and realizing with a jolt of disbelief that I’ve spent the past twenty minutes clinging to the waist of my new boss.