Page 34 of Jealous Boss

And why are you even thinking of doing such a thing?

She’s Philip’s niece. Your intern.Temporary.

“You’re still frowning.”

I look up, and the light has gone out of her smile and she’s sporting the tiniest pout while her eyes seem concerned.

Something new and unfamiliar kicks in my chest again, and I shake my head. “Just trying to remember a good Vietnamese place,” I lie smoothly.

The worry lingers for a few more seconds, then she nods. “I can call Susan and ask her if you like?”

Who the fuck is Susan? Ah… the colleague. I shake my head again. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

You better have. You don’t want to disappoint her.

I grit my teeth at the stupid voice and breathe in relief when the elevator doors open on the executive parking level. Since most of the senior partners are still upstairs, the garage is empty of people.

I walk Pia over to my car and help her inside, struggling not to drop my head to the curve of her neck and breathe in that insanely addictive and sweet scent.

God, even the way she smells is far too sweet and innocent.

Like fresh flowers on a spring morning where I’m used to fire and ice on a winter’s night.

Yeah, keep spouting crap like that and you’ll definitely qualify for the loony bin.

I slide behind the wheel of my McLaren and gun the engine too enthusiastically, hoping the noise will clear my brain of the madness.

Pia’s hands fly to her mouth and she looks goggle-eyed at me.

“Oh my God, it sounds like an angry bear.”

I grin. “Yup. It’s just the right amount of don’t-mess-with-me I need on the road.”

She drops her hand and flashes me a grin of her own. “I don’t think anyone would want to mess with you, Ethan. You’re too intense for that.”

My grin drops a shade. “You think I’m intense?”

She nods. “Everyone in the office does.”

I throw the gear into reverse, not sure I like that assessment from my staff. But then I shrug. If it gets the results I need, what the fuck does it matter?

I accelerate out of the underground garage and hit a familiar button on my phone when we reach street level.

“My man. You calling for a table? It’s gonna cost ya,” a deep voice answers.

“Not tonight, Lorenzo. I need recs for a good Vietnamese.”

An affronted grunt echoes in the car. “What the fuck, man? You call an Italian chef at his own restaurant to ask him for a rec for another joint?”

I throw a frown at my phone, as if he can see me through the device.

“Watch your language, man. I’ve got a lady with me. And I called a friend to ask for a solid. There’s a Macallan 18 in there for you if that helps.”

“Make it a Mac 25 and you’ve got a deal. Hell, I’ll even throw in an apology to your girlfriend.”

Pia’s eyes grow wider and a deep blush stains her cheeks.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I grit out, then snap, “You got a name for me or what?”

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