Page 13 of Falling for Her Grumpy Boss

I follow the direction of her gesture, then look back at her and nod once. “Thank you.”

I turn and walk away, aware of the brief pause behind me and the muttered, “good luck,” before she looks back down at her screen.

The elevator doors slide open as I approach. I step inside and press the button for the top floor. The doors close with a soft hiss, shutting out the lobby noise, and a moment later the numbers begin to shift one by one as the elevator carries me upward.

Dylan

I don’t do impulsive decisions. I agreed to this anyway.

The leather of my chair shifts under me as I lean back, the faint creak barely audible over the steady pull of air moving through the vents.

The air carries the dry scent of paper and toner, something the cleaning crew never quite manages to erase, and the sharper note of my coffee gone cold at my elbow. Everything in here sits exactly where it should. The desk is clear except for the file in front of me, the edges aligned, the corner squared with the grain of the wood.

My thumb presses along the edge of the paper, dragging just enough to feel it catch against my skin. Tess Ramirez. The name sits at the top of the page, crisp black ink that doesn’t shift no matter how long I look at it. Jeremy said it once, casual, like it didn’t matter. I knew it did. I knew it then, felt it settle somewhere that doesn’t get ignored, and still I signed off.

I smooth the page flat again, though it doesn’t need it.

The screen in front of me glows with numbers I’ve already gone over twice. They don’t change. They never do. My attention slides away from them, drifts toward the door before I pull it back. The movement repeats itself a second later, smaller this time, like I can catch it early enough to stop it.

Doesn’t work.

Jeremy’s voice lingers, easy, amused in a way that suggests he knows exactly what he handed me. Don’t scare this one off.

I breathe out through my nose, slow, controlled, and shift forward, my fingertips brushing the edge of the desk. The wood is smooth, worn just enough along the corner where I tend to rest my hands, a familiar line beneath my skin. I follow it absently, focusing on the texture instead of the thoughts circling through my head.

Assistants don’t last here.

They come in eager, full of good intentions and polished resumes, and then the work starts. Deadlines tighten. Priorities shift. Things stop being neat and start being real. Most of them don’t hold up when that happens.

I don’t need someone who nods and smiles.

I need someone who keeps up.

My fingers press harder into the desk before I ease the pressure, flexing them once as I sit back again. The chair gives a quiet sound beneath me, the leather warm where it meets my shoulders.

Jeremy thinks she can handle it.

That’s the only reason she’s sitting on my schedule this morning.

The file rests where I left it, and I don’t reach for it again. I don’t need to. Strong references. No gaps. No noise around her name. Everything about her reads clean. Efficient. Easy to place.

On paper.

I’ve seen how little that means once someone walks through that door.

My gaze drifts to the door before I can stop it. I pull it back to the screen, force myself to focus on the numbers in front of me, the steady logic of them. It doesn’t hold. Because this isn’t just another hire. I’ve built a life on discipline. On knowing exactly where the line is and staying on the right side of it. My friends joke about it. About me. About the other side of things. The one I pretend doesn’t exist. Women come and go. I don’t lie to them. Don’t promise anything I’m not willing to give. No drawn-out endings, no blurred expectations. It’s clean. Predictable. Controlled. I know how it works, and so do they.

Tess Ramirez doesn’t fit into any part of the life I keep carefully separated from everything else, and from what Jeremy’s told me, she won’t fit neatly into the rules I live by. A sharp knock cuts through the quiet.

“Come in.”

Tess steps into my office, quietly shutting the door behind her before walking toward my desk. She moves with deliberate restraint, every inch of her focused on professionalism instead of attention. Heat pulls low through me as I shift in the chair, the space behind my zipper tightening with unwelcome interest while my gaze tracks her.

I take her in the way I always do, starting at the ground and working my way up, letting the details settle into place before I decide what they mean. Her shoes are low-heeled and practical, the kind you wear when you expect to be moving all day instead of sitting behind a desk. The suit fits her without drawing the eye, structured but unremarkable, the lines clean in a way that blends in rather than stands out. Her blouse is buttoned to the collar, professional to the point of severity, and her hair is pulled back into a bun so precise it doesn’t shift when she moves.

She’s stripped it all down.

There’s no ounce of softness or invitation.