Page 3 of Older Hotter Grumpier
“Mr Blackwood,” I squawk at a pitch so high it’s probably only audible to dogs, and scramble to hide my activities, bumping my mouse to get my screen on, knocking my phone flat. So doing, my elbow catches the pot full of bright glitter pens and they clatter all over the desk, cascading onto the floor.
I throw myself after them, banging my knees in my haste. The plush carpet softens my fall, and I grab at the pens blindly. I was so focused on people coming through the elevator door, it never occurred to me to check whether my boss wasin.
Silent as a shadow, he’s immediately there, kneeling beside me, a solid rock of calm in my messy sea. He reaches for a blue pen as I flush even redder and try to snatch it up. With the inevitability of a train crash, I grab his hand then retract as though burnt.
Oh my god, those are the fingers I was using to touch myself. I just put my girl come onto my billionaire mafia boss’ knuckles.
“Sorry,” I blurt.
I’m going to die. He might have me murdered, but it’s far more likely I will spontaneously combust with humiliation. My skin flames.
I’m in actual hell. Only explanation. I’ve already died, I died of shock the second Mr Blackwood said my name. My cheeks are being toasted by some snide little devil of the underworld, saying like, “You fancied your boss, didn’t you? And now he’s seen you reading smut and revealing your virginal white knickers. You died with your V-card, ha!”
I sneak a look at Mr Blackwood when he doesn’t reply. He’s looking at me strangely, his blue eyes dark as a late summer evening.
But as he rises, he adjusts his trousers.
Is he…? Surely not.
“Miss Button, you’re flushed,” he says, and his voice is at its coldest.
Oh no. I’m going to be sacked for sure.
I think I might cry. My bottom lip is legit wobbling as I get to my feet, keeping my gaze lowered like I’m a toddler denied a sweet treat for being naughty. Except, I’m twenty-three, and the indulgence is seeing my boss every day, and the bad behaviour isflicking the bean at work while reading alien smut.
How have I never noticed how much better this thick blue carpet is than anything else in the room? Good carpet. Nice carpet. My friend. Gah.
“Look at me.”
With the reluctance of a cat going outside in the rain, I lift my head to my boss’ face.
I’m drowning in his eyes. Like. Dying. Surrounded and pressurised by the blue. Sinking under the water and unable to breathe.
“We need to discuss this, Miss Button. My office. Now.”
2
RAFE
If I’d known all I had to do was remain quietly in the office to see my sweet little young assistant slipping her fingers into her knickers, I’d have fucking slept here for the past eighteen months. I’d have never left.
I thought I had no honour remaining after being a mafia boss of Sutton for twenty years. My brothers and I competed and fought and supported each other to the top of two of London’s mafias and another in Milan. I sold my soul to money and power long ago. But apparently even I cannot watch a woman seventeen years younger than me, and my employee, touch herself and not announce my presence.
Fucking honour. I should have just enjoyed the show. It’s all I’ll ever get.
She’s going to want to leave. It’s baffling she’s remained as my secretary since I’ve been painfully obvious I cannot stand even twenty-four hours without seeing her. Talking with her. Simply being near her and knowing she’s safe is enough some nights when I stay in my SUV outside her building.
My excuses are thin at the best of times. I’ve portrayed myself as an entitled bastard, demanding that she type my emails and read my memos aloud. I think she assumes I’m dyslexic, when in actual fact the world is bleak without her. And now I’ve made it uncomfortable, which makes me want to roar and tear shit up, because she has never been awkward with me.
I sink into my black leather chair and Miss Button slinks into the office, hovering by the exit as though she might bolt. She’s still flushed, but she’s also scared.
My little sunshine dragon. She doesn’t need to be afraid of me. She certainly isn’t of anyone else. Where every assistant before her has been happy to let me deal with any annoyances, Miss Button understood from the start.
I heard her first. Her voice is upbeat, chirpy. But when any of my useless previous assistants would have phoned through and asked if I would see the visitor, she stood firm, repeating that if I had blocked out time without meetings with “do not disturb”, that she wouldn’t allow me to be disturbed for less than a life-or-death crisis.
Admittedly, they’re more common than she imagines in my line of work, but I appreciated the gesture.
And she did it all with a sweet smile.
