Page 1 of Boss's Red Glare

1

Maisie

Today, the universe and I are officially at war.

My morning spirals into chaos exactly twelve minutes after my alarm fails to go off, ensuring I'm running precisely twenty-four minutes behind schedule. I don’t even know how that math checks out, but trust me—it does. While most mornings are slightly frenetic on a good day, today has catapulted me directly into a full-blown, frantic dash across town, spilling coffee as I go and muttering curses at every red light that dares slow my progress.

By the time I swing into the parking lot of Bradford Enterprises, my heart is hammering in my chest. I slam my tiny Honda Civic into a parking spot marked "Visitor Only"—a gamble, but today calls for risks—and sprint across the parking lot in heels that are far too optimistic for this kind of cardiovascular activity.

"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late," I chant breathlessly, dodging an elderly couple strolling leisurely along the sidewalk. They shoot me startled glances, clutching their morning pastries tighter, clearly believing I'm either insane or late for my own wedding.

Neither. I'm late for something far more terrifying: my boss.

I dash into the building's lobby, skid across the polished marble floor, and nearly collide with Henry, the ever-chipper security guard.

"Morning, Maisie!" He tips his hat, seemingly unfazed by my panicked state. “You look especially frantic today.”

"Good eye, Henry. I overslept. Coffee exploded. Cat stole my keys—long story," I gasp, breezing past him. "Wish me luck!"

"You're gonna need more than luck," Henry calls after me cheerfully, clearly familiar with the situation I'm barreling toward. "He’s already looking for you!"

Great.

I practically dive into the elevator, jabbing the button for the fifth floor repeatedly as if it'll magically make the doors close faster.

The elevator music—a jazzy rendition of something meant to calm nerves—does nothing but heighten my anxiety. By the time the doors ping open, I'm sweating slightly, my hair resembles the aftermath of an electric shock, and the coffee stain decorating my white blouse has expanded like some kind of caffeinated Rorschach test.

Bradford Enterprises—a sleek, intimidating office lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and filled with people who drink oat milk lattes and use words like “synergy” and “bandwidth”—is eerily quiet this morning. Of course, they’re probably all hiding from the storm brewing at my desk.

Because there he is. Connor Bradford, my boss. CEO extraordinaire. King of the Grumps. Six-foot-three inchesof tightly wound tension currently drumming his fingers impatiently on my desk while glaring at his watch.

I approach slowly, like one might approach a wild animal. "Good morning, Mr. Bradford," I attempt cheerfully, giving my best please-forgive-me smile. It feels more like a grimace.

Connor lifts his gaze to meet mine. His eyes—so blue and piercing they should be illegal—narrow slightly. "Is it?"

Oh, we're off to a splendid start.

I toss my purse beneath my desk, narrowly missing my foot, and hurry to straighten the papers that scatter across my workspace. “Sorry, I’m late. My morning got…interesting.”

His eyebrow lifts ever-so-slightly. “Interesting is an adjective people use when they mean ‘disastrous,’ isn’t it?”

“Disastrous seems a bit dramatic,” I counter, smoothing my hands down my skirt and taking a deep breath. “Chaotic feels more appropriate. Spirited, even.”

“Spirited.” His voice drips sarcasm. “Yes, that seems about right.”

I sneak another glance at him. It’s truly unfortunate how someone so permanently irritated can look this good. The man is carved from granite with just the right amount of stubble framing a jawline strong enough to cut diamonds. Dark hair, perpetually tousled as though even it rebels against his controlling nature, frames a face that inspires everything from swooning sighs to panicked hives, depending on your day.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,” Connor says flatly, interrupting my internal monologue about his annoyingly perfect face.

I gesture weakly at the space around us. “Your name’s on the building, sir. I assumed you were allowed.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “I mean, why am I standing at your desk at precisely”—he checks his watch again, purely for emphasis, I’m sure—“eight thirty-eight in the morning, Maisie?”

“I’m guessing it’s not to compliment my work ethic,” I quip.

“Hardly.” His lips twitch just slightly, and my pulse stutters. Was that…amusement? “We have an important day ahead, as I’m sure you remember?”

I blink. Important day…oh. Right.

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