Page 1 of Older Hotter Grumpier
1
ELLA
By twenty-three, some people already have babies, houses with cute gardens, jobs with humorous bosses, and loving alien husbands.
I’m not jealous. Much.
Wait, mostly not the alien thing.
I click around on my computer screen, totally unable to focus on work. My severe and gorgeous billionaire boss is out for the whole afternoon, as he is every Wednesday. In his absence, my brain is refusing to do anything but think about the book I was reading. Which isn’t normal for me. I know it’s pathetic, but I’m desperate to please my grumpy boss.
When he’s here, as his assistant I ensure everything is perfect, in the hopes that one day I will earn a smile from him. Sure, a little bit because he’s demanding, but also because I adore him, surly temper, grey morals, and all.
I guess it’s because sometimes when he looks out of the window of this skyscraper office, he seems so lonely. Like he’s the only person on this planet.
I get that. Every day of the week and literally all of Sundays. Well, except the weekends when Mr Blackwood sends me a terse email asking if I can work overtime, and I leave my tiny room in a shared apartment and weekend to-be-read pile with tragic speed.
But this afternoon? I’m alone in this echoey office and I’ve stuffed the gap with the only thing—other than Mr Blackwood—that comforts me: reading.
The book I started at lunchtime is rioting in my head. It hooked me good. The story is that the curvy heroine is selected for an alien breeding program, and the seven-foot-tall blue alien with a special peen turns up at her workplace—she’s an office bunny like me—and drags her away to his spaceship for a week of bonding. They’ve just had the first day, when he gets to lick her wherever he likes. And he does like, believe me. They’ve had the sweet scene where he charms her despite being massive and grumpy and, well. Blue.
But, plot twist, another group of aliens is trying to steal her because human women are so desirable, so she and her blue hero are on the run across a desert planet.
I’m absolutely desperate to read the next part, which has been teased as when they’ll get it on. It’s going to be hot.
I just know there will be the cutest baby epilogue and I cannot wait for that either.
But can I? Nooooo.
Born to read, forced to work.
I wish an alien who wanted to breed and adore and comfort me would select me as his mate. Why do all the best things happen to fictional characters, and not me?
I glance up at my boss’ closed door, empty behind it. My appreciation for the blue alien romance hero has nothing to do with him. Nothing.
Mr Blackwood has these bubble-gum blue eyes, so bright you’d think they were fake, but I’ve studied them. They’re not contacts or anything like that, he’s just ludicrously genetically blessed. He has soft-looking dark brown hair with a slight curl and a hint of silver at his temples. He always wears a crisp navy suit and a silk tie. He’s not seven feet tall, but he might as well be. He towers above me and makes me feel as dainty as a fairy.
When he’s not being a growly bear, that is.
Mr Blackwood is the terror of the company, and not just because we all know this firm cleans money for his mafia. It’s an open secret since he threatened to dump his previous assistant in a canal. Which was fine until he actually was discovered drowned in a river. Sudden interest in cold water swimming. Apparently.
Though that has never scared me.
Nope. Mr Blackwood is perfect, so it’s understandable that he’s the most demanding boss and intolerant of failure.
Why he keeps me as his secretary, god only knows, because all he ever does is criticise my spelling and make me stay late to redo things.
But Mr Blackwood has a sweet side. He insists on driving me home when I have to work into the evening, which is most days. And when he emails me on the weekend asking me to do overtime, he gives me a lift to the office. I always spot him waiting in a luxurious car outside my apartment after I say I’m available. I’ve decided it is him being protective of me as a member of his staff, but there are other interpretations.
Like, I hope I don’t suddenly find an interest in cold water swimming.
But Mr Blackwood is out for his weekly Wednesday afternoon mystery outing. He won’t return until after five or tomorrow morning, and won’t say where he was.
I screwed up my courage and asked once, and received a terse, “None of your business”, in reply.
Probably he just plays golf, but I can’t help thinking that the discipline with which he keeps this appointment makes it something more. He’s so intense and work focused the rest of the time that Wednesday afternoon feels out of character to be a hobby.
My curiosity about my hot boss’ activities aside, he’ll never know I wasn’t staring at spreadsheets, but words about spread legs on silk sheets.
