Chapter One
Seraphina
Ten Days Later…
"Seraphina!" Stone shouts through his closed office door. "Get in here."
I stab the save button on my keyboard like it's his eye, sighing heavily. "I need to quit my job."
It's a pervasive fantasy. I march into his office, choke him out with his whistle, and while he's gasping for breath on the floor, I step over his twitching body and peace out. Forever.
Best. Fantasy. Ever.
It's even better than the ones where I march into his office, he bends me over his desk, and then works out all that frustration with his tongue. Let's be honest, though. The statistical odds of me getting murdered by a serial killer are higher than the odds of my boss trying to sleep with me.
They're also probably higher than the odds of me actually quitting. I actually love my job, even if Stone does drive me nuts some days. Everyone here feels like family.
"Now!" he growls.
I swear, even with the door closed between us, I can see the way his jaw pulses with irritation beneath the stubble because I'm not moving fast enough to please him. The man has no chill. I'm not sure he even knows the definition of the word.
I haul myself out of my seat, snatch his schedule off the edge of my desk, smooth down my skirt, and march into his office.
"What the fuck?"
He's naked. Half-naked. Whatever. Where there should be a starched shirt, there's a wall of rippling, golden muscle and wiry hair.
Sweet merciful Jesus.
Stop staring.
My brain gives the command, but my eyes refuse to move away from him. He's sex on legs with his shirt on. Without it, I'm pretty sure there are entire volumes of poetry written about his physique.
Jesus Christ.
"I need a new shirt," he growls.
"Clearly." I make no move to go find him one. I'm busy not ogling him. "Uh, why do you need a new shirt?"
"Spilled my goddamn coffee," he grunts, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair. His cerulean eyes lock on me. "Can you find me something suitable for this meeting with the athletic department?"
"Uh-huh. Sure can." My feet aren't moving.
"Now, Seraphina," he says, his eyes boring into me like he can drill the command into my brain.
I move so fast, I lose my balance, tripping into the side of his desk. A stack of files topples over, sliding toward the floor.
"Shit. I'm so sorry." I immediately hit my knees in front of him to scoop them up, my cheeks burning. Why am I always such a mess around him? He looks at me, and I turn into a one-woman tornado.
I refuse to consider precisely why he makes me feel so out of sorts. I'd rather choke myself out with his whistle.
"Shirt," he growls, jerking away when my hand bumps his rock-hard thigh. His jaw pulses again. "Now, Seraphina. Just leave the fucking files."
My shoulders droop, frustration churning through me. I swear, everything I do pisses him off.
The feeling is entirely mutual, though probably not for the same reasons. Mine is equal parts sexual frustration and pure annoyance. His is all annoyance. I've gotten on his last damn nerve since I started as his executive assistant six months ago, for reasons that still remain a mystery to me.
"Shirt, right," I mutter, scrambling to my feet. I bump into the desk again, sending another file raining down to the floor.
His sigh is loud enough to vibrate my bones.
I hurry out into the main office without looking back. I do not need to see the irritation carving grooves around his mouth. I can feel it burning holes in my back, thank you very much.
I find a shirt for him in the supply closet, wedged between extra uniforms and a jock strap that looks like it's probably been used. There's a suspicious stain right in the center of the crotch. Could be sweat. Might be jizz. Who knows?
I carry the shirt back to his office, mentally steeling myself for the sight of him without one again.
It hits just as hard the second time.
I swear to God, it should be illegal for a man as grouchy as him to be that damn hot.
"Here." I shove the shirt toward him, already turning on my heel.
"And your schedule is…" I freeze, my gaze darting toward the mess of files he's trying to reorganize.
His schedule is in there. Somewhere. There's no stopping the heavy sigh that removes every atom of air from my lungs. "I'll reprint it."
"Already got it." He holds it up between two fingers.
"Oh. Cool. Um…then I'm going back to my desk."
"Wait."
I stop, twitching where I stand.
He grabs another sheet of paper, lifting it. "What the fuck is MASH?"
No.
No, no, no.
"What?" I ask like I don't already know, my mouth suddenly bone-dry.
"MASH," he says, looking at me over the top of the sickeningly familiar sheet of paper that is absolutely not supposed to be in his hands. It's supposed to be on my desk.
Why isn't it on my desk?
I think I'm going to pass out when I remember grabbing his schedule off the corner of my desk…from the exact same place I put the ridiculous MASH game I played almost two weeks ago, while wine drunk with my closest friends.
To my utter humiliation, his name is on that fucking paper. I almost cried tears of joy when I got to cross it off, saving myself from a future married to his hot, grumpy ass. I wasn't even a little bit sad.
At least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
"Is this the kid's game?" he asks, glancing at the paper again.
"I…I don't…" There is no lying my way out of this one.
There just isn't. "Yes," I whisper, desperately hoping for an earthquake right under the very spot I'm standing.
I don't even need it to damage the rest of the city.
I just need it to split this floor open beneath my feet and swallow me whole. It's a tiny ask, honestly.
"I see," he murmurs.
"I can exp—"
"Who is Ashton?"
My mouth snaps shut. That isn't what I was expecting him to ask.
I fully expected him to ask why his name is written on there.
I absolutely expected a lecture about appropriate behavior.
I was even prepared for my inevitable termination for sexual harassment or gross misconduct or whatever they call it when you try to MASH your way into a delusional future with your boss.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"No." I swallow hard. "I made him up."
"I see." His gaze flicks to mine, his blue eyes burning. "Liam?"
"Hemsworth brother."
"Who?"
"Thor's little brother."
"Ah."
"Tony?"
"Stark." Why the fuck can't I stop talking? This is not leading anywhere good. This path leads straight to hell. I already feel the flames licking at my soul.
"Hudson?"
"Um…"
"Made up?" he guesses.
I nod, my heart in my throat. It's choking me. I can't breathe.
His eyes lock on mine. "And the last name on the list? Stone?"
Please, let there be an earthquake. Please, let there be an earthquake. Please, let there be an—
"Seraphina?"
"Earthquake."
His brows furrow. "What?"
Jesus Christ. I'm never living this down. When the girls find out, they're going to tease me until we're in the nursing home together.
"Um, I mean…I…" My mind is in panic mode. I can't think of a single suitable lie to explain why his name is on that damn list. Not one.
"Also made up?" he asks after a full minute of panic-induced silence.
"Yes," I squeak, nodding so vigorously that strands of hair slip free of the bun I tamed it into earlier.
"I see," he murmurs again. "That's all, Seraphina."
I don't walk. I fucking flee like the hounds of hell are nipping at my heels. They basically are. My boss—my hot as hell, grumpy as sin boss—just found his name on my goddamn MASH game board.
My life is officially over.