My Silver Fox Boss (Bossily Ever After #2)

Chapter 1

Jasmine

Deciding to cross the line with Nathaniel Grayson—my billionaire boss and my best friend Sophie’s stepdad—is the scariest choice I’ve ever made.

That includes turning what started as a joke—reading erotic short stories alone in my bedroom—into an actual audio narration gig over the past eighteen months.

September sunlight slants across the quartz countertop in the penthouse kitchen. Past the French doors, Lake Washington sparkles in that hazy, soft-focus way Seattle has this time of year.

I pull out the zucchini and feta egg bake out of the oven—Sophie’s latest craving—and set it on the counter to cool. From the stove, I slide a perfectly folded omelet onto a warm plate and add a blueberry muffin on the side. For Mr. Grayson.

My half-eaten breakfast—toast slathered in my favorite spicy jalapeno jelly—sits on a plate.

Sweet, sharp, fiery. Could be me, if I had any bite at all.

I can be that woman, I remind myself.

This kitchen—the heart of my boss’s sleek, high-rise penthouse—has become the center of my life. It’s where I laugh with Sophie late into the night, where I listen back to the day’s steamy chapters I narrated on my phone, where I pretend that I belong here.

That I belong in his penthouse.

In his life.

When Mr. Grayson asked me to move in nearly four years ago, to help Sophie through her chronic health spiral, it was like being offered a life raft when you’re drowning.

After Mom’s sudden death—heart attack—I had nowhere else to go. No way could I even think of staying at our condo. Not with my stepdad Clive barely tolerating me when she was alive.

Mr. Grayson offered me safety and stability in those grief-stricken days when Sophie dragged me to the penthouse. Later, he made it official by drawing up an employment contract.

And now, I have to prepare myself to lose it all.

Just last night, I saw Sophie’s college applications open on her laptop. The invoice from her private college counselor was still on the printer tray. I stared at it for way too long, like it would rewrite itself if I blinked hard enough.

She hasn’t told me that she’s begun applying to college. Hasn’t told Mr. Grayson either.

But she’s serious this time. Restless in a way I’ve never seen.

Something happened over the summer that changed her. And now, she’s clawing for independence.

Which means my orbit around the man I’ve been low-key obsessed with is almost over.

I adore Nathaniel Grayson with every cell in my body. But he might as well be the blazing sun to my plain skinny Venus, forever orbiting and never allowed to land.

He’s nearly twenty years older than me.

A powerful CEO. A caring stepdad. A silver fox with piercing gray eyes and a mouth that could ruin me in one kiss. And I’m... me.

Twenty-three. A skinny nothing with a giant birthmark the shape of Texas splashed across my left cheek.

It either earns me pity, horror, or really creative cruelty.

I’m hyper-aware of it, always. And the idea of Mr. Grayson seeing me as something that deserves his pity has been grating on me in the last few months.

The whispering swish of the elevator makes me stiffen. I know the weight of his footsteps, the way the room changes when he enters.

But today, instead of sneaking glances at him, I turn fully and face him.

Mr. Grayson walks into the kitchen in a sleeveless black tee, sweat slicking the edges of his silver-streaked hair. There’s a damp sheen across his arms, a bead of sweat clinging to his collarbone I want to chase with my tongue.

His gray sweatpants hang low, clinging to his tapered hips.

I can’t breathe for long seconds, like the sight alone demands reverence. And then it hits me—my half-baked plan to get him to notice me.

I plan to be chattier with him, maybe even flirty. To engage him in real conversation instead of staring like a lovesick fool. To make him notice me as more than his stepdaughter’s plain friend who cooks his breakfast and keeps his house clean.

I could even ask him to be my date to my cousin’s wedding in a week. The idea grips me, spinning out dizzy possibilities.

A whole day with Mr. Grayson—his gray eyes, his charisma, the force of his personality—all focused on me. Only me.

“Jasmine? You okay?” he says, stilling on the other side of the giant quartz island.

I nod, then clear my throat. “Good workout?” I want to kick myself for the inane question.

“Something smells incredible,” he says, voice still rough with post-workout rasp.

The atoms in the space around us seem to rearrange themselves as he walks toward me with that slow, easy gait.

His silver eyes shine as they fall on the spread I’ve laid out.

“You’re ruining me, Jasmine. For any other woman. ”

The words land between us like heat missiles, shifting the balance in the expansive, sun-streaked room.

I jerk my head up.

His gaze finds mine, a shocked glint in it. I hold it, awareness pooling like molten liquid in my lower belly. I want to say something provocative. At least remotely banter-y. Nothing rises to my lips.

A dark flush streaks his sharp cheekbones before he cuts eye contact.

“I mean that you spoil me and Sophie endlessly, and we shamelessly take advantage of you. Please tell me I pay you enough for all the things you do around here.” The shift to casual is jarring, but he pushes on, as if determined to ignore what he said.

As if he will put those words, and me, back into the box where I should be.

“Remind me, did we ever renew your employment contract at the beginning of the year?”

As if his steel-trap mind could ever forget. As if his innate sense of honor would let him sleep a wink if he wasn’t paying me more than I deserve.

“Yes, Mr. Grayson,” I say robotically, a spark of anger in my belly. “You pay me more than enough. Along with free food and shelter and the transportation allowance you give me. If anything, the world might claim I’m the one taking advantage of you.”

His head jerks up, and again, his gaze holds mine. This time, it drills into me, as if he’s noted the sarcasm in my words. As if he means to peel away the layers to see the heart of me—the core of me that burns for his touch.

I lift my chin, ready to face whatever he throws at me.

“Why did I not know that you hide all this sass?” he says softly, dispersing the tension with his smile.

It’s like looking at the glorious sun.

I blink and stare more, frustration and desire vying for attention.

There’s curiosity in his question, but he’s hidden it beneath teasing. I latch onto it like a lifeline, refusing to lose another round to his charm or my lack of femme-fatale skills.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

I fold my arms under my suddenly achy breasts just as his gaze glides over my mouth before jerking up.

He rounds the island and casually steals a muffin.

And just like that, he’s close. Too close.

Heat radiates off his skin, and my own prickles in response. His scent—clean sweat, pine, and something darker, distinctly him—wraps around me like a trap.

My belly does a traitorous little slosh, low and needy, and I swear I can feel my pulse in places I shouldn’t think of in front of him.

I want to press my lips to the corded column of his throat and lick him up, to wrap my arms around his neck and grind against him. To bury my face in his chest and whisper all the words I say to myself in the night.

“What I know is already dangerous enough for me,” he says, patting his abs with a dramatic sigh. “If I’m not careful, you’ll turn me into a paunchy old geezer with all these sweet treats.”

I tap his knuckles with the spatula. “Hardly. You’re the sexiest man I know.

” My face ignites. “For a man approaching mid-forties, I mean. Some of my professors at the community college are your age—one has a stained tie collection, another coughs like a dying car engine. Compared to them, you are like a—”

His arms fold onto the cool island, inches from where I grip it. “What?”

“A sophisticated silver fox,” I say, blood humming in my ears. “Some girls even go for that kind of thing.”

The air thickens between us. The radio hums a sultry ballad, something acoustic and aching.

He’s standing just a breath away, our bodies nearly brushing. If I leaned forward half an inch, I’d feel his chest against mine. And for a second, I imagine what it would feel like if he held me against that rock-hard chest. Stole a sweaty, morning kiss from me.

“Tell me, Jasmine, are you one of those girls—”

The hard slam of Sophie’s bedroom door across the corridor snaps the tension in one go.

Mr. Grayson steps back like he’s been burned.

The heat rushes out of me all at once, leaving a shaky hollowness behind.

I laugh—or something like it. It comes out choked and weird. Frantically, I search for something to say so I don’t lose the few inches of ground I’ve gained.

“Actually,” I can’t help running my hand over my belly, “I have a reason to butter you up this morning.”

Mr. Grayson considers me, something flitting in his gaze. Then, with a dramatic flair, he presses a palm to his chest. “I knew it. You with your nefarious ulterior motives.”

I smirk, but my pulse is still in my throat. That unspoken thread between us? Tighter now. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s always just me, reading into crumbs. A breath. A glance.

“There’s a family event in a few days. My cousin Sonia—do you remember me telling you about her?”

“The ER nurse who lives on Whidbey Island?”

I blink. Warmth uncurls in my belly. I didn’t fall for my powerful, billionaire boss just because he’s gorgeous.

I fell for the kind, attentive, honorable man who remembers every little thing I’ve told him. The man who’s always made me feel seen.

It’s a high unlike anything I’ll ever know. And I want more.

“Jasmine?”

“Yeah, that’s Sonia,” I say, now clear on what I need to do. “One of the few relatives on my mom’s side who lives close. She’s getting married in a civil ceremony, but the reception is Friday night.”

“You need a car for the weekend? Cash for the gift?” he asks. Like he hasn’t looked out for me in a hundred quiet ways over the years.

I smile and shake my head, my heart overflowing with tenderness and gratitude.

Outside the four walls of this penthouse, I’m all on my own. I pay my bills, take care of my health, make choices for my future. And I do it well, because Mom raised me to be strong and independent.

But inside these walls, under his roof, I become this needy, craving thing that wants to surrender to him. That wants to belong to him in every possible way.

His gaze hitches for a second on my mouth. “Why don’t you ask Sophie to bring you to one of those designer boutiques and pick a dress for the wedding? You girls could make a day out of it.”

“Oh, I already bought a dress,” I say. “But thank you. This is more along the lines of...” I hesitate, the fear of being rejected twisting my belly in a tight knot.

As he moves, he’s cast in shadows. His voice sounds distant but demanding at the same time. “You’re not quitting on me, are you, Jasmine?”

My heart drops—he’s voicing the same thought that’s been haunting me of late. And there’s real worry in his voice.

It makes something hot and reckless unfurl inside me. And something else too—guilt.

He’s the one who pays me. Who gives me this cushy life.

I don’t pay rent or for groceries or even for new clothes most times. Everything I make on this job, and my slow but steady paychecks as the erotic audiobook narrator, go into my savings account for a rainy day.

I owe him my loyalty and, as Sophie’s caretaker, the truth about her plans.

But she’s my best friend—the girl who befriended the shy, plain girl back in fifth grade and never let go. She’s fragile in health and bold in spirit, and I want her to find her way.

She hasn’t told him about the college plans, and I can’t be the one to betray her confidence. Especially since I know how much her decision will hurt him too. I’m caught between them.

“Jasmine?” Mr. Grayson’s tone is sharp in the silence.

“I’m not quitting,” I say softly. “I mean, not immediately. But eventually, I’ll have to find my own way.”

His brows draw down hard. “I don’t see why.”

“My job is to be with Sophie,” I say gently. “When she moves on”—I lick my lips, forcing the words to form— “I won’t have a job here. We’re not going to live with you forever, Mr. Grayson.”

“Sophie’s not going anywhere,” he says, instantly rejecting the very idea. “And neither are you.”