Happily Stuck with my Grumpy Boss

Chapter 1

Sparks

Kate

My alarm goes off at six-thirty. For once, I don't hit snooze.

I bounce out of bed with a smile on my face. No scrambling for mismatched shoes. No phone on my face. No running through my apartment with a toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, searching for my keys.

This morning, I'm organized. Prepared. Ready to surprise the entire Evervolt Technologies team with the best idea I've ever had.

Which is exactly how I know something terrible is about to happen.

Good intentions and I have a complicated relationship. Last time I felt this confident, I accidentally scheduled the CEO's dental cleaning during a board meeting.

But today will be different.

What could possibly go wrong?

My messy brunette hair refuses to cooperate. I twist it into what I optimistically call a bun. It starts falling apart immediately. My hazel eyes stare back at me from the bathroom mirror, bright with caffeine and bad ideas.

"Today's going to be great," I tell my reflection.

My reflection looks skeptical.

By the time I reach Evervolt Technologies at eight forty-five, I'm practically vibrating with excitement.

I'm Kate Morgan—twenty-nine, executive assistant, and the person who keeps this place running.

Calendars, contracts, making sure our executives eat lunch instead of surviving on coffee and bad decisions.

Today, I'm about to become a hero.

The industrial espresso machine sits in its crate in the breakroom. I found it online last week during a late-night shopping spiral.

The team is going to love it.

I slice open the box, practically bouncing on my toes. The machine is gorgeous—all chrome and shiny buttons and professional-looking steam wands. Heavier than expected, but I wrestle it onto the counter.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and admire my work.

"Welcome to the big leagues, Evervolt," I whisper.

The outlet is right there behind the counter. I grab the plug, my heart doing a little happy dance.

I don't check the voltage requirements.

I don't read the instruction manual sitting in the bottom of the box.

These oversights will matter in about five seconds.

I plug it in.

For three glorious seconds, nothing happens. The machine hums. I smile, already imagining the praise.

Then the world explodes.

Not literally. But sparks shoot out from the outlet like an angry fireworks show. There's a sound like a dragon choking on lightning. Every light in the building flickers once, twice, and dies.

Complete darkness.

"No, no, no!" I yank the plug out. More sparks. The smell of burning plastic fills the air—mixed with what I can only describe as the scent of my career going up in flames.

Someone screams down the hall.

"WHAT HAPPENED TO MY ZOOM CALL?" Marcus from Sales.

"My presentation just disappeared!" Sarah from Accounting sounds close to tears.

Then comes the voice that makes my blood run cold.

"THE SERVERS!" Brad from IT hits a pitch that could shatter glass. "THREE MONTHS OF BACKUP DATA JUST VANISHED!"

Emergency lights flicker on, bathing everything in creepy red. The espresso machine sits there looking innocent. Like it didn't just commit corporate murder.

My hands shake as I grab the fire extinguisher off the wall. Smoke curls from the outlet. Actual smoke.

"This feels like treason," I mutter. "Can you commit treason against a building?"

"Usually treason involves a country," a calm voice says from the doorway. "Not a coffee maker."

I spin around so fast I nearly spray him with foam.

Maxwell Jameson stands there holding his travel mug.

Because of course he brought his own coffee.

White button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Light brown hair perfectly styled even at this hour.

Those sharp blue eyes sweep over the scene with the kind of calm that makes everyone else look like they're overreacting.

He's the acting CEO. Technically still the VP, but running the whole company while our actual CEO recovers "forever" from hip surgery in Florida, which I'm not sure I believe. He’s thirty-two, brilliant, sarcastic, and completely calm in the middle of chaos.

Even when the building is literally smoking.

"I can explain," I start.

"I'm sure you can." He steps into the room, hands in his pockets, completely unbothered. "Let me guess. You plugged in the new espresso machine. The one you emailed us about. Twice. With enough exclamation points to qualify as a security threat."

"I was excited about the coffee."

"I noticed." He tilts his head at the machine. "Industrial model."

"I didn't—" I wince. "Yes."

"Industrial machines are built for restaurants and large buildings. They pull more power. If you plug them into a standard outlet, the wiring can’t handle the load. The extra electricity has nowhere to go. It is two hundred and forty volts. Our building runs on one twenty."

I open my mouth, then close it.

In my defense, I had read the product description. It said ‘professional’ and ‘high performance.’ It did not say, ‘Will destroy your workplace.’ I assumed modern offices could handle modern machines. I did not think about wiring. I thought about coffee. And maybe impressing everyone.

My stomach drops. "Oh."

"'Oh,'" he echoes.

From somewhere in the building, Brad screams again. "WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO REBUILD EVERYTHING FROM SCRATCH!"

Maxwell sighs. The kind of sigh that contains multitudes. Disappointment. Resignation. The beginnings of a headache.

He looks at me. Then at the machine. Then back at me.

"I should fire you."

My heart stops.

"Or send you far away."

"Maxwell, I'm so sorry." The words pour out. "I'll pay for everything. Work weekends. I'll never touch another electrical appliance again. I'll—"

He holds up one hand.

I shut up immediately.

"To be fair," he says, glancing at the ceiling, "we really should've updated this building's wiring. Place is from the eighties. This was bound to happen eventually."

Hope flickers in my chest. Tiny. Fragile. Probably misguided.

"So you're not firing me?"

"No." His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Exile it is."

"I'm sorry—what?"

"Mandatory off-site assignment." He pulls out his phone. "Our partner law firm up in Maple Glen needs help organizing legal files. Three weeks. Maybe longer."

"Maple Glen? Where's that?"

"Four hours north. Small town. Very small. You'll have a cabin to yourself… or not. You will love the place. Peace and quiet." He takes a sip of his coffee. "No electrical grids to destroy."

"But—"

"You leave Friday. My assistant will send you the details." He turns to walk away, then pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. "Try to pack light. The roads up there are terrible."

And just like that, I'm exiled.

—

Three days later, I'm regretting every life choice that led me here.

My car bumps along a dirt road that barely qualifies as one. Trees tower on both sides, blocking out most of the afternoon sun. My phone lost signal twenty minutes ago.

I'm navigating by printed directions that are getting increasingly suspicious.

I'd imagined Maple Glen as a cozy mountain retreat. Charming cabins with fairy lights. A cute general store with a bell over the door. Pine and cinnamon. Fuzzy socks and hot chocolate.

The cabin that appears through the trees destroys every single one of those dreams.

It's lopsided. Actually tilted to one side, as if someone built it without a level or any understanding of physics.

The logs are weathered gray-brown. One shutter hangs at an angle. The porch sags in the middle like a tired smile.

And right there on the doormat, in faded letters: Go Away.

"No," I tell the universe. "Absolutely not."

The universe doesn't care.

I park in what might generously be called a driveway. My neon-pink suitcase looks ridiculous against the backdrop, which pretty much sums up my entire situation.

The moment I step out, my heel sinks into mud.

Of course it does.

"Perfect," I mutter, tugging my foot free with a squelch. "This is fine. Everything is fine."

Dragging my suitcase toward the cabin becomes a full-contact sport. There's grunting. There's sweating. There are words my mother would wash my mouth out for.

"Kate Morgan, twenty-nine, executive assistant and electrical hazard, arrives at her temporary home," I narrate in my best dramatic voice. "She has hope. She has optimism. She has made terrible choices involving espresso machines and Maxwell Jameson's patience."

The front door creaks when I reach it. The key turns with a grinding sound that suggests the lock is held together by hope and rust.

I push it open.

One main room. Living area and kitchen combined. Sparse furniture that looks salvaged from a yard sale in 1987.

The whole place smells like old wood, dust, and broken dreams.

No fairy lights. No fuzzy socks. Just cold, empty space.

I drop my suitcase with a thud. There's a door on the far wall—probably a bedroom. The kitchen is a sink, a mini-fridge, and what looks like a hot plate from the Stone Age.

My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since breakfast, six hours ago.

I open the fridge. Empty, except for a bottle of water and something that might have been a condiment once. The cabinets aren't better—a couple of mismatched plates, crackers, ancient tea bags, flours, a few grocery items and absolutely nothing readily edible.

"Great," I mutter. "Exile with a side of starvation."

I grab my phone. One bar. Enough to text Maxwell.

Arrived. Place is... rustic.

Three dots appear immediately.

You're alive. That's what matters.

Barely. There's no food. No lightbulbs. Nothing.

The dots take longer this time.

There's a general store in town. About a mile walk. Good exercise.

I stare at my phone in disbelief.

You're enjoying this, aren't you?

Immensely. Try not to blow anything up. And by the way—I'm heading up there soon.

I'm about to type a sarcastic response when I hear it.

Footsteps above me.

Heavy. Deliberate. Definitely not my imagination.

My heart stops. I freeze, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the ceiling.

Someone is upstairs.

In my supposedly empty, isolated, middle-of-nowhere cabin.

Am I in the wrong cabin? Maxwell said I’ll be alone here.

The footsteps move across what sounds like a bedroom floor. Then stop.

I approach the stairs. Narrow and steep, leading up to a loft.

"Hello?" My voice comes out squeaky. "Is someone there?"

No answer.

The footsteps start again.

I climb slowly. Mind racing. My heart hammers. This is it. This is how I die. Exiled to a creepy cabin and murdered by a mountain hermit.

The stairs creak under me. I reach the top. A narrow hallway. Two closed doors, one on each side.

The footsteps are coming from the right.

I inhale and push open the door.

And gasp.